The sound of the soft, soothing droplets landing against the balcony doors was the only thing Christine could hear. Yawning, she sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around her waist as she drew her legs up to her chest. Her eyes closed to savour the peaceful morning and opened again at the realisation that this would be the last time she would wake up alone. The thought teased a bashful smile to her lips and she fell back against her pillow in a state of relaxation.

Mme Dumas had been given the weekend off, she recalled, and so she was very much alone until the Girys arrived to help her ready herself for the ceremony. As much as she had come to loathe the silence during her time underground, Christine was appreciative of the lack of noise around her now. With only the drone of raindrops beating down outside, she allowed her sleep laden mind to think of nothing as she lay there contently.

The revelations of the previous night had shook her to her core and though she wanted to weep for Erik, she knew that would not do anything to help him. For now, she would smother him with the love he never had and she would face whatever may come their way as his wife and as his equal.

The early morning passed fairly quickly and it was not long before there was a knock at the front door, signalling the arrival of her friends—or rather, just Mme Giry, to Christine's surprise.

"Is Meg not coming?" she asked as the woman removed her outdoor wear and shook the wetness from her cloak.

"Yes, yes, she is, my dear. Do not worry yourself." Wasting no time at all, Mme Giry then shooed Christine up the stairs before she could even have a chance to reply.

Idle chatter was exchanged as the older woman watched over the ablutions, faltering only briefly when Christine first saw herself in the dress of white lace and satin. Smiling kindly, Mme Giry guided the young bride to her vanity table where she began to brush out her tangled curls until each one was as smooth as the silk she wore. Her expert fingers combed through the young woman's hair as she began to hum, her mind taking her back to a time when she did this with Meg.

"How are we feeling today?" she asked, busy in her work, pinning and braiding.

When she did not hear an answer, she flickered her gaze up to the mirror to see Christine appraising herself quietly. Her gown complemented her complexion well, and though she appeared quite drained in some lights, the rosiness on her cheeks was in full bloom. Good, Mme Giry thought, that is a good sign.

Up until that very day, Mme Giry had not denied that she still held some doubts over the forthcoming marriage. When she had first heard of their intentions, she had not stayed silent, which resulted in a very regrettable argument. But as the girl showed no sign of hesitation or that she had been goaded into such an arrangement, Mme Giry began to ease into the idea of their marriage.

An embarrassed smile reached Christine's lips as she spoke and pulled the older woman out of her musings. "Terribly nervous. Does it show?"

"Yes," Mme Giry admitted, but with an air of maternal fondness. "You shall be every bit the blushing bride."

Christine lowered her head a little at these words, only for her to be scolded for moving so suddenly when her hair was still not in place. She murmured an apology before continuing, "Thank you, Madame, for your support, especially during this past month. I know you did not immediately warm to my engagement, but I am so glad that you did. I do not think I could have soldiered on without a kind word from you."

It warmed the Mme Giry's heart to hear her say this, to know that her presence and aid had not been in vain. Now that Christine was without a motherly figure to guide her, she had taken it upon herself to see to the girl's needs, whether that be support of any kind or even a simple answer to a question. She had been such a shy thing when she had first arrived at the Opéra, Mme Giry remembered, and through performance, and his tutelage, she had seen her grow into the woman sitting before her now. Yes, she was a woman, Mme Giry added to herself. Perhaps she should start referring to her as that more often, but with her own daughter engaged to be married, she could not help but feel a surge of motherly love and want again when Christine had turned to her for guidance.

"I cannot imagine being in your place, dear," she told her honestly, "but I wish you happiness all the same. It is the least you deserve, and I am certain that those above us are wishing this for you, too."

A sigh escaped Christine's parted lips as she looked up at the woman behind her and smiled bravely. She prayed with all that was within her that it was true, that her dear, departed loved ones were indeed watching over her and were happy with the decisions she had made. She wished only to make them proud.

"I hope he is good to you," Mme Giry then added, finishing her work on her hair and stepping back to view it on all sides.

"He is, and he will be," Christine told her confidently. "Thank you."

A brisk knock at the front door redirected the attentions of both women behind them. Mme Giry smiled and laid a hand on Christine's shoulder. "That will be Meg. I will answer it."

For a moment, the young bride was left alone and she tilted her head to see the fine job Mme Giry had done, but as the sound of footsteps faded away, she was left again in that peaceful silence. Here sat a bride, she mused, a wife. She had thought that never again would she bear the ring of another man on her finger, but here she was, about to take the first steps towards the rest of her life.

"Christine?" Meg's quiet call echoed from the front door and soon she heard her heavy steps plodding up the stairs. "Christine, are you decent?" She rounded the corner to her bedchamber. "Are... Oh, Maman, does she not look beautiful?" A small smile coming to her lips as she saw her friend. "Did you style her hair?" she asked her mother somewhat sourly as she appeared beside her. "I confess, Christine, I am a little jealous of you. Maman has never taken the trouble with me before."

"You have never stayed still before," Mme Giry reminded her, looking back over her shoulder to throw a teasing grin at her daughter.

"You may laugh," Meg said, narrowing her eyes, "but I see it as my call to dance shining through."

"Is that so?" her mother answered brightly before looking down at Christine, whose gaze had fallen on her friend. The smile fell slowly from Mme Giry's face as she saw something troubling pass between them. "Do you need a minute alone together?" she offered. Christine nodded, smiling faintly though she now stared into her lap. Mme Giry looked at Meg, who also appeared to take more interest in her hands than anything else, and said, "I'll take my leave, then."

Once the door shut behind her, Meg sheepishly glanced up at her friend and said, "You really do look beautiful."

"Your mother is the one to thank for that miracle," she replied, lowering her gaze to the scent bottle in front of her. She reached out tentatively before grasping it and applying a small dab of the liquid onto her skin.

"You are happy?" Christine heard her ask as she rubbed her wrists together.

"Should I not be?" she answered quietly before sighing and laying her palms flat out against the vanity table. "Meg, what is it? You have been acting strangely these past weeks. I can't help but feel as though you have been distancing yourself from me."

"Oh, Christine. I'm sorry you felt that way, I didn't know... I..." She sat down on the chair by the cold fireplace and gazed off to the side. "I do not mean to trouble you, not on today of all days."

"If you have something you need to say, then please, say it." Christine turned around on the seat to face her friend expectantly. Her vacant expression was not new to her and dread began to settle in her stomach as she waited.

"I have not been distancing myself," Meg at least told her, "at least, not intentionally. I did not see it that way, you see, but I apologise if you did. You know I want only the best for you, and it is because of that that I say this now." Her eyes met Christine's with an uncharacteristic steeliness. "I do not like the idea of my friend marrying a man such as... well... him."

Christine did not know whether to laugh in relief or chide her on her timing. Sighing, she merely softened her words to a murmur and said, "I had an inkling to your disapproval, but quite frankly, I do not care. I know of your worries, Meg, but I am of age and I do not need to concern myself with anybody's permission or approval but my own."

"I'm sorry," she told her truthfully, threading her fingers together on her lap, "but I had to speak my mind. A year ago, there was no question of whom you wished to marry."

"And there is none now," Christine defended quietly, looking away for she knew the unfavourable features on Meg's face would surely act like flint to her sparking fire.

"Yes, but you told me the Vicomte is still in love with you."

"I told you that in confidence," she reminded her sharply. "Why should that make a difference?"

"Because you are still in love with him!" she cried.

And just like that, the fire inside her began to rage. Christine snapped her head back around to face Meg with wild eyes. "I will always love Raoul, but do not dare suggest that I am settling for someone else or that I am willing to tie myself to a man whom I do not love! I love Erik very much. Do not forget that."

Exasperated, Meg shook her head. "You are mad."

Christine rose to her feet, her hands clenched and cried back, "Then perhaps it is fitting that I am marrying a madman!"

Meg stared wide-eyed at her friend and the transformation that had come over her. At the very first sound of that rage induced tone, she had flinched, immediately regretting her choice of words. And indeed, she did regret it. She had never thought ill of Christine, but her rejection of the Vicomte continued to baffle her. With her head hung low, Meg swallowed her pride and earnestly apologised.

The meek words uttered from her friend's lips began to make her anger ebb away, yet Christine could not simply forgive Meg for her attempts to dampen her wedding day with injected doubts and regrets.

"You apologise for your words, but you still choose my wedding day to tell me your true thoughts," Christine said, her tone still as sharp as her glare. "Did you think you could get me to change my mind?"

Meg's mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a fish out of water, gasping for another chance at life. Ultimately, she sighed and looked up. "I never wanted to do that. Christine, you must believe that I would never... But you would not believe me, would you? I wish for you to be happy—"

"Am I not capable of being happy with Erik?" Christine interrupted, suddenly growing weary from their bitter exchange.

"I never said that—"

"Perhaps not, but you have said quite enough already." With a long sigh, Christine pressed her fingers to her temples and found Meg's cautious gaze. It would not do to argue like this. "If you will not attend for my sake, then please," she said softly, "will you not attend the wedding of the man who helped to arrange yours?"

The expression on Meg's face was something Christine would never forget. "What?"

"It is true," Christine admitted, "Erik knew, somehow. He knew of your betrothal before it was ever announced, before you even came to know the Baron, I dare say."

In a fit of disbelief, Meg began to shake her head again. "But... how?"

"I never asked," Christine answered, walking over to her slowly.

Meg seemed to understand this, the flicker of doubt and suspicion alight across her face. "How can you be sure it is not a lie?" she asked finally, not wishing to provoke a response other than a soothing answer to this burning question.

"Why on earth would he have cause to lie about it?" Laying a guarded hand on her shoulder, Christine looked down at her companion sadly. "You do not know him as I do, Meg. No one does... You cannot understand my devotion to him and my want to make him happy, Lord knows he deserves it. Sometimes I weep when I think of how accomplished he could have been, had he been handsome... Is it selfish to be glad of this? Had he been handsome, I would surely not be marrying him."

Meg had watched her as she spoke, had seen the haze that had glassed over her eyes and though she was still uncomfortable with the whole arrangement, she knew that what she had attempted was foolish. Her friend's words were threaded with nothing other than loyalty. "You will truly be content with him?"

"I believe so," Christine said, smiling. "More so, in fact."

Meg reflected that smile, one corner of her lip curling up into a knowing smirk. "Then I shall appear quite the hellcat if I leave you with nothing more than spiteful words."

Christine's face lit up and she gave a breathy gasp of relief. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes," she said, standing up. "However, I will understand if you do not want me there."

"Oh, Meg," she whispered, taking her in her arms and embracing her fiercely. "Dear Meg, of course you must come. I would not dream of it any other way."

Meg pulled back to look at her incredulously. "How could you still want me to attend after what I have said?"

Simply, Christine smiled and raised a hand to cup her cheek. "Because you're my friend and I want you there. I would be grateful for your smiling face."

After a few more sentimental words, Meg left to ready the carriage with her mother and to allow Christine her final moments of privacy.

Looking down at the opened boxes on her bed and at the array of white material, Christine ran her fingers over her folded veil before picking it up. She held it carefully as she sat back down at the mirror, her heart leaping when she pressed the garment to her lips. Her reverent kiss spoke for her and any words she had thought to voice became obsolete. With great care, she then placed the veil upon her head, her hands sliding down the edges before coming to rest in her lap.

"I will make you a good wife, my love. I promise you this," she whispered before rising and making her way down the stairs.

The Girys were waiting for her at the bottom and they each began to fuss over her appearance, a hand reaching out to straighten her train, fingers curling around an escaped strand of hair to pin it back in its place. Christine at first felt like a doll, the way she was being handled and treated, but she merely smiled and allowed the women to flap about until they deemed her truly presentable. Mme Giry gently took her arm and guided her towards the door, murmuring to her all the while to not be nervous.

Outside, the carriage awaited. At the sight of it, Christine came to a halt, her smile falling from her face, but it was the symbolic touch of a hand on her wrist that made her come to her senses. She looked to her side and saw Meg, standing there with her fingers entwined with hers. Christine's heart soared at her support and knew, just by that reassuring gesture, that she had the strength to tackle anything this day might throw at her.

With one last shared look, all three of them entered the carriage.

o0o

It was not yet late afternoon when the party quietly exited the chapel, but darkness had already descended upon them. They had agreed that they would not be travelling back together for a celebration and though no one opened their mouth to voice such a thing, everyone was thankful to go their separate ways.

In the light of the chapel, Christine stood, her hands outstretched and entwined with Meg's as the two women silently said their goodbyes. Mme Giry and Nadir embraced her in turn, murmuring words into her ear that she did not entirely register. Her mind was elsewhere and during their parting, Christine's gaze would continuously stray down the pathway to where the carriage waited to whisk her away. Before she would turn her attention back to her friends, however, her eyes would then remain on the moving shadow that lingered just beyond the threshold of the chapel and beyond the light. The penetrable glints from those two black eyes never failed to make her shiver.

Her heartbeat slowed and her chest felt as though it would cave in when she stepped from that light and into the darkness. Towards the shadow, she then drifted, her arm blindly reaching out for him and his touch. The ring on her extended hand gleamed like a beacon as his gloved fingers found her at last, pulling her gently along with path beside him.

His tentative touch burned through her thick layers and she had half a mind to tear herself away from him, but all her thoughts and doubts vanished as she peered up at his face, his sharp chin more visible now, and instinctively leaned closer to him.

His head turned towards her and he raised her captured hand to his mouth, his lips hovering over her ring. His actions made her stop walking momentarily, as did he, and when their eyes met, she again felt that irrefutable pull towards him. Seconds later, her lips were pressed against his, a gentle reminder of their joining.

"My wife," Erik whispered, his voice a deep rumble that pierced her body easily, as if it were a knife.

Bewitched, she allowed her husband to then guide her through the darkness and to their carriage, not once stopping to look over her shoulder at their party, who was surely watching them.

Only once she was seated and they were on their way did Christine realise just how nervous she still was. Her fingers rubbed the lined lace of her sleeve as the confinement of the carriage began to creep in on her, making her very aware of herself and of Erik. He sat stiffly opposite her—a suitable, far enough distance from her, and yet for an instant she wanted not a jot of space between them.

Her blood raced under her collar and when she thought that she would combust from the inside, his endearing touch to her hand felt like a relief. And yet her nerves did not desist. She was carried into the household by them on shaking legs and as she removed her veil, she bit her lip in thought.

"Come into the parlour," her husband's dulcet voice sounded from behind her and she whirled around on the spot, startled.

With cheeks flushed, she was quite simply the most beautiful bride Erik had ever seen—and she was his. He still expected to awaken any second and find out that it was all a despicable hope-provoking dream. But as his eyes filled with the sight of his Christine, his wife, he knew that he was awake.

"Come," he said again, ushering her forward with a flick of his finger.

Inside the parlour, he motioned for Christine to sit whilst he went about lighting the oil lamps. Her hands folded neatly together as she watched him, her expression as vague and as wondering as that of a statue's. She remained in this stoic manner until she saw him reach for something tucked away beside a chair, something she had not noticed until now.

Erik glanced between her and the case before laying it down on the small table beside her. He then removed the contents and sat opposite her, his violin balancing on his lap and his bow in hand. Christine watched him prepare the instrument carefully and when he began to apply the rosin, his hand gliding up and down in a slow hypnotic motion, she knew that this night would not be rushed.

When he finally looked up at her, he offered her a small smile and her heart fluttered unexpectedly. "Is there anything in particular you wish to hear?" he asked as he rose to his feet and positioned the violin under his chin.

Christine thought for a moment before shaking her head and allowing him to close his eyes as he transported her to a world where nothing but music mattered. He played with such raw emotion quivering on those strings that the violin seemed to sing under his touch and Christine nearly wept upon hearing it. But through his woven melodies, she began to relax, her nerves disappearing with ease as she slumped against the back of the settee, her eyes growing heavy with fatigue.

Erik sighed when he saw her smile to his music, but did not stop playing, not until she fell deep into the realms of sleep.

Good, he thought adoringly. Her nerves had been apparent to him from the start, but nothing she did once their vows had been exchanged had made Erik doubt her love or her decision to marry him. And it was with a final sigh that his eyes slipped closed and he succumbed to the knowledge that he was a wedded man. Oh, what joy! What bliss! It was everything he had dreamt of and more. But, without a shred of reluctance, he decided that he would not ask her for anything this night. His darling girl's vows had been more than enough for him, and so to bed, she would go. Alone.

Lowering the violin to its case, he walked over to his sleeping bride and gently scooped her up into his arms. As he began to carry her up the stairs, she shifted her head against his shoulder and he looked down at her with a softness in his eyes. "Sleep, my little love," he whispered to her. "Sleep."

A/N: Thank you to my reviewers and to everyone who is continuing to enjoy this story! :)