Fear Can Turn to Love

"Have you decided?" Erik asks, propping himself up on his elbow, toying with Christine's curls spread across her pillow.

The couple lie on their bed in the Eyrie, the sun's rays stream through the skylights. The fireplace adding an additional glow and warmth enough to belie the snow banked on the window sills. Enough so neither feels the need to hunker beneath the down duvet. Still warm from one of what they laughingly call their illicit trysts.

Brief respites from the curiosity of a ten-year-old boy and the whispers of the Phantasma staff – all good-natured as the couple is beloved by everyone in their world. Erik always commanded respect and goodwill – he is a generous employer with an understanding most never received from the other carny owners who employed them in the past. Becoming beloved is thanks to Christine's presence – the once tortured man who bore a sorrow no mask could hide is now happy.

Happiness being happiness, the energy draws everyone to them. A day seldom passes when someone does not appear at Christine's door with a desire to know if "everything is all right and do they need anything."

Then there is the issue of their unmarried state – cohabitation unacceptable to both of them – primarily due to the ten-year-old boy and the whispers of the Phantasma staff. The Eyrie provides the privacy they desire, but after so many months, this situation is feeling not wrong, but not right either.

The arrival of the day's mail broke this uncomfortable situation with the long awaited confirmation of Christine's divorce from Raoul. With the papers in hand – it took them less than fifteen minutes to make their way to the hideaway – ostensibly to plan the next step. First though, a celebration would be had.

Erik hums as his fingers glissando the length of her– to caper on her mons.

"What are you doing?" she giggles. "I feel as though I am a substitute for your piano."

"Diddling, just diddling," he whispers in her ear.

A hitch in her breathing alters his fingering increasing the tempo of his ditty.

"What of this?" he asks, gently carding the soft cloud of pubic hair.

"Sssss." Shifting her position, she digs her heels into the featherbed. Was there ever a time she was not thrilled by his touch? Back to that first time he took her hand, guiding her through the mirror, his passion imprinted itself on her. Perhaps this intensity of feeling he radiated was the reason for her fear of him, the suspicion he was not truly an angel, but a man, who could hold sway over her. Any fear present in those days so long ago were gone. The awareness her effect is equally intense, bringing them to parity, only increases her desire for him.

"As I thought," he says. Locating her slit…sliding his middle finger along her slick folds into her private place, still moist from their earlier love-making. Stroking her briefly, he resumes his rhythmic fingering – focused intently on her clit – the sweet bud of her sex.

"Nice, very nice." Her legs spread wide, seemingly of their own volition responding to his touch. "I like this diddling." She squirms at the sensation created by the gentle, yet incredible stimulation, all of a piece with his voice and the wordless melody. As her hips thrust upward, she takes his hand, pressing it against her source, guiding him until she reaches her crisis – her ragged panting settling into a soft whimper.

"You are so wonderfully sensitive – an artist in all things," he says, holding her close as he pulls the covers over them.

"It was all so fast – it seems hardly fair to you. Once again you enchanted me," she says, holding her face up for a kiss, smoothing the patches of fine gray hair covering most of his skull. Sparse still, despite her best efforts to encourage the fine strands to thicken and grow. "Diddling, indeed."

"You looked so delectable, I could not resist – I never believed there could be such bliss in just watching you blossom," he says, bending to kiss her, stroking her thick locks.

"What was the piece you were humming?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Your breathing. Your sighs. The little moans and groans you make when you are pleased or not so pleased. I was humming Christine."

"Oh." Tears fill her eyes. "That is so lovely." Snuggling closer to him, she buries her head in the crook of his neck. Pappa promised her an angel – little did he know how the angel would manifest. A man so perfect in his love for her – the ability to make her both laugh and cry within fragments of time.

"So, what is the answer to my question?"

"What question is that? I was distracted."

"The wedding," he says. "Should we go to Pennsylvania and exchange our vows without a minister or justice?"*

"While that sounds an appealing idea – I do like the idea of pledging our troth to one another privately, without a lot of fuss. My mother told me the minister says what God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. If that is so, why is an officiant needed?"

"But, then, Nadir, because of his position with the police department, can acquire the credentials to marry us here at home – among our friends and family such as we have."

"So the choice breaks down to traveling to another state…being alone. Or celebrating with Gustave and our friends – and those who have looked to you as their master for all these years."

"When you put it that way," Erik laughs.

"The idea of visiting a quiet hamlet in another state seems so appealing," she says, nuzzling deeper into his embrace. "I have yet to see this city, much less this new country."

"It could be a destination for our honeymoon – Gustave in care here…we would have all our time to ourselves."

"You are finding him a nuisance…already?"

"Surely you jest – I adore him – however…"

Her laughter reveals the joke. "But you would like to spend some time alone with me that does not include sneaking around for us to be intimate."

"You do not?"

"I do. Very much. Most of all, I want us to be sharing a home – to be a family."

"So it is settled?"

"Yes – wedding here – honeymoon elsewhere – perhaps someplace warm. I assume Pennsylvania will have much the same weather as we have here – so somewhere south?"

Comfortable in their decision and cozy in their bed – each retreats to their own thoughts.

Christine is the first to break the silence. "Now that we have the divorce papers, I suggest we set the date – sooner rather than later."

"I feel I must ask – am I correct in suspecting we are to be parents again?" he says, stroking her belly.

Resting her hand on his, she says, "I did not realize I was showing so much."

"Not so much," he says, nibbling on her ear lobe. "Your breasts are more sensitive – delectably responsive to my touch. Everything about you is rounding, seeming to make room for another life."

"I am getting fat."

"You are blooming…a flower fulfilling her purpose in life."

"Listen to you – waxing poetic."

"I listen to you – as I said, my song is Christine. Your moods have changed. Your fragrance is different – the scent of you is ripe and voluptuous."

"Now you are embarrassing me," she says, pulling the covers up to her chin.

"Then there was your desire for pickled herring. I seem to recall you telling me it was your food of choice when carrying Gustave – who carries the addiction for that food to this day. Pickled herring and root beer," he groans.

"The taste for root beer he acquired on his own," she laughs and sighs. "Perhaps that is why I smell ripe to you."

"If that is the case, I shall be certain you are never without an adequate supply of the fish."

"Were we cohabiting, you might have witnessed my morning sickness."

"I would be honored to hold your head over the commode."

Swatting him lightly, she says, "You idiot." The times when she feels the worst with her discovery are when she misses him the most. His humor now, alleviating some of her fears, enabling to share her discomfort without criticism. This would not be a lonely pregnancy, left to her own devices in dealing with her shifts in moods and concerns about the health of the child she carries.

Taking her hand, he presses her palm to his mouth, then kisses the tip of each finger. "I am a man in love," he says.

"I love you, too – more than I ever dreamed."

Gathering her close, his tone grown serious. "But, I am also a man concerned. I am sorry I did not think to prevent another child. Is that why you have not said anything?"

"Whatever are you talking about – you are a wonderful father," Christine exclaims, sitting up to face him. "If anything, this child will have the benefit of a father's love from conception – not missing the sort of love only a father can give a child."

"Gustave's deformity is mild – and relatively easy to disguise and hide. What if this child is not so fortunate?" The golden glow of his eyes darken, his mouth grim.

"He or she will have a bounty of love to draw from. She will live in a world where people are judged for themselves not how they look."

"If only that were entirely possible," he says. "Whether you admit it or not, you must be concerned."

"I am more concerned about your feelings – which is why I wanted to be certain. Knowing you would worry, I hoped to reduce the time you might spend cursing yourself." Lying back down, spooning his hip, she presses her hand against his chest, tracing the physical scars that only hint at the deeper pain he carries – still unable to fully grasp the horror he reveals in a word here, a story there.

"You would not want me to lie. I never thought I would be a father…Gustave is…Gustave fills my heart with such joy," he says, voice breaking forcing him to swallow the heaviness in his throat. "Having another being born of my flesh is even more amazing. These past months make up for all the stigmata marking this body. I am grateful the child will not have to carry a similar burden. Still, there is this," he says, waving a hand at his face.

"Let us cross that bridge when we come to it," Christine says, pressing herself into him. "Take each day as it comes."

Cupping her chin in his hand, he presses a kiss on her forehead. "You are correct, of course. At the moment, we have a wedding to plan," he says. "Much as I would like to stay here…"

"We must relieve Miss Fleck of our son and have our dinner," she says.

With that, they share another kiss and leave the comfort of the bed and prepare to face the world again.

"I shall speak to Nadir tomorrow about securing our marriage license," Erik says, pulling on his frock coat.

Garments in place – the bed made, she walks into his open arms. "I cannot wait for us to have our home."

"Soon, my love. Soon."

**The State of Pennsylvania allows what is known as a Friend's Marriage, whereby a couple can exchange vows without the need for an officiant. This manner of getting married was set up to address the religious beliefs of the large population of Quakers in the state. People from other states can also be married under this ruling after fulfilling certain residency rules – which are quite easy to fulfill.