Part XIV: Christine

Christine's bowl of soup had been empty for some time. She had drifted the conversation away from delicate topics a while back -she was satisfied with knowing that her husband was not closed to the idea of receiving her offering nor the Lord in his heart. It tranquilized her, for even if she knew nothing of him, she could at least trust that he was a man of faith, and faith, above at else, could clean souls- and was now commenting on a book that The Voice had recommended a few weeks ago and that she had finished reading recently, while absently pinching with her fingers pieces of the bread on her plate and occasionally sipping from her cup.

She was not truly minding any of that. Her true attention, as much as she was trying to dissimulate, was on him, sitting at the other end of the table. On the way he turned his head away from her, blocking her sight with his gloved palm and the cloth of the mask so she wouldn't be able to see a single inch of skin. On the way his hand had an awkward grip on the spoon, as if it were unaccustomed to it, although it never shook. On the way his head tilted ever so slightly up every time he presumably started chewing the pieces of vegetables in the soup. On the way she could at times hear the clank, clank of his teeth against the silver. On the way the mask moved slightly with the way his muscles worked to chew on his food, and for the first time she realized that, if the mask moved every time he moved his jaw, then he must surely speak without opening his mouth, because the cloth never once moved before! He must use his ventriloquism every time they spoke!

Oh, this man was going to be the end of her! Her curiosity was consuming her alive! But so was her shame.

Christine told herself she had not allowed Erik to go for his other mask -the one with which she first saw him; the one that covered it all and only had a nearly invisible opening as a mouth- because she truly wanted him to eat; the poor man must be starving after eating nothing the whole day!... but deep down, she knew her actions had not been out of a true desire for him to share a meal with her, but rather, out of the selfish wish to see a little, just a small peek, of his face. A simple inch of skin would calm her, just an inch! She knew she had had the choice to see him back in the kitchen -she could have kept her hand over her eyes, opening her fingers just slightly to see for a mere second his face!- but it had felt... dirty. Cruel, even, to take advantage of the poor man who was crouching over the sink in the most vulnerable of states, trembling like a leaf on the wind.

And when he took the mask from her hands, she nearly succumbed to the urge to peek... until she heard his choked sob. He was holding back tears, and she didn't understand why, until he thanked her for not betraying him. It made her feel miserable to think that she had been moments away from shattering that poor man's trust.

Yet, she could not avoid wondering what could possibly lay beneath that mask that could make a grown man weep in desperation. She wondered, but she never allowed herself to truly ponder on it, because, truth be told, she feared the answer. His eyes were too black, too amber; his hands too skinny, his presence too macabre, his skin too…-

When Erik finally finished his soup, after she had eaten three pieces of bread already, he cleaned the table and the dishes. He continued to insist on doing all the work, and although she recognized it was a kind gesture, it made her feel like a guest merely coming over for dinner, which, in turn, raised ambivalent feelings within her: was she comfortable with the idea of being a mere visitor, a stranger, in the place that was likely to be her house for the rest of her life? It was... both comforting and disturbing to think that she would remain living in the depths of the earth, as the wife-only-in-name of a faceless man, for all her years to come. It sounded and felt so surreal that at times it was almost as if it were all a make-pretend. A safe make-pretend, but it still left her with such a strange feeling, that she at times had to look around the room, down to her hands, gripping her skirts; feeling as if she were in a dream, as if she observed herself from the outside.

If she was alone, she would take her ring and glove out, and would touch it directly, turning it around her hand and feeling its hard edges. She'd look down at her clock, and would count the seconds in the clock under her breath.

But Christine would rather not think too much of that, either, because otherwise she would surely go mad, so every time he insisted on her not cooperating with any domestic task, she insisted out of mere courtesy, but quickly dropped the subject. It made it all less real in a safe way, and she felt more like a close friend visiting than a wife attending her house.

It had been different when the Persian had come to visit. When he had been there, with them, they were all three friends sharing tea. A little play, a harmless game, but when Erik and Christine were alone... it was real… and yet such a farce!

"Are you tired, my dear?" Erik asked coming out of the kitchen. He had already put his gloves back on –he took them off so rarely; only for the most strictly necessary- after washing the dishes, and once again all that she could see of him was his black, combed hair and mismatched ears. The skin was so frightfully yellowish, she had realized today after finally seeing him in the complete exposure of the sunlight, that she wondered if perhaps he was sick. Had his skin been that shade since they met? She hardly ever saw his hands, and his neck was nearly all covered with the collar of his shirt and the cloth of his mask, and not to mention how much she avoided to look at him during the first days. They were also barely ever as physically close as they had been today. She always avoided it, perhaps in fear that their touch would wake her up from the delusion of it all being nothing but a little game, but today she had found that their closeness was not at all as terrible as she had thought. If she allowed herself to think of it, there was even a moment in which she was truly enjoying their day, as well as their proximity... as brief as it had been. "You slept for a while when we got home, but it is getting late. Perhaps it was slightly imprudent of me to have prepared such heavy meal at this hour of the night."

Christine looked down at her little, heart-shaped clock -that sometimes seemed her only window to reality-, and saw that it was nearly midnight. Days and nights could truly blend so easily inside that house…

"You're right, it's getting late," she answered, "perhaps it is best for us to retire. Goodnight, Er-"

"Not yet!" Erik blurted out suddenly, and there was something in his tone that immediately raised an alert in her. He sounded… uneasy, and this, in turn, made her uneasy as well. His hand at his side was slightly moving its fingers, as if they instinctively looked for the piano. He cleared his throat, and added, evidently making an effort to control his voice: "Allow me to escort you to your room, Christine."

"…Of course," answered Christine, hoping that she had been convincing enough at masking her suspicions. Erik signaled for her to go, and it would have been a polite thing if it were not for that tight sound in his voice still lingering.

Their relationship had always been partially anonymous, so she had had to learn to read his emotions through his voice, and now that they'd spent so much time together with no one but the other to fill the emptiness of the silence, she could recognize the very change on his breathing… and something had been different in that request. It made the muscles of her neck unconsciously tense in wariness.

"I hope your day was as delightful as mine," Erik said once they reached her door. His voice now sounded more relaxed, more normal, and for a second Christine thought that she had perhaps overreacted. "With the exception of our unfortunate misunderstanding, it was truly a divine experience."

Christine's day had been too... agitated. She had gone trough a lot in such a short span of time, that she couldn't tell whether the overall experience had been more positive or negative. But she smiled slightly anyways.

There was a brief moment of silence in which Erik observed her intently. In the light of the hallway, all Christine cold see was the bottomless pits he had for eyes at the other side of the mask and, although she was getting used to the unnerving sight of the nothingness, it still troubled her. It was not an easy thing to look at.

True, the heavy stare behind the mask was better than its absence, as she had learned that day… but that did not mean she planned on staying under it for too long. She could not handle that, either.

She was about to wish him goodnight once again, uncomfortable in the strange silence between the two, but without warning and seemingly out of nowhere, Erik took a step forward, and, in a movement too quick to be convincingly natural, grabbed her hand between his, and awkwardly inclined his head and body before bringing her hand to his covered face. Once again Erik angled his head before Christine felt the quick kiss of his lips at the other side of the barbed mask against her knuckles.

This all occurred so fast –and perhaps slightly brusquely in its nervousness- that it took Christine completely by surprise. The kiss was also extremely brief, barely a brush of the cloth of his mask against her.

It was the strangest kiss on the hand she had ever received from a man, and, had she not been so surprised, perhaps she would have found something strangely tender in its awkwardness. Not even little boys were that ill at ease while kissing a woman's hand!

"It is a goodnight kiss. From now on, Erik shall kiss Christine each night," Erik said, his rigid hand still taking hers, with his tone as uneasy as his body language. His other hand had remained awkwardly at his side, clenching and unclenching in a likely act of anxiousness. "That way we can both rest with the other's presence still as fresh on our bodies as in our hearts."

And as soon as he had finished talking, he let go of her hand, crossed the hallway, and locked himself in his room. It was only then, when he turned so quickly and rigidly, that she caught a brief glimpse of his neck, and in the light of the gaslamps, she saw tears gleaming on his skin as they rolled down until they lost themselves in the collar of his shirt.

Speechless, all Christine could do was follow his lead.

Once inside her room and with the locks on, she stood in the silence of the room, still dimly illuminated by a single candle.

She could still feel the electric tingling his lips had left on her skin, and the image of his uncomfortable pose, his stiff posture, his nervous movement of the fingers, his quick pace while retiring as soon as he finished talking still fresh in her mind, and the more she thought about it the more abundantly clear it seemed that he had, in fact, feared her reject and refused any chance for objections so much that he had rather fled than faced her polite rejection. She realized then that that uneasiness she had detected before was due to his plan of kissing her hand, and he probably feared her reaction so much it had driven him to tears. How could she always end up creeped out when this man never had any impure nor harmful intention?

Erik's reactions were so unpredictable, that was how. Earlier, they had held hands, embraced, dined together, and even kissed, but yet he still feared her reject to the point of tears… She felt a pang of guilt for having conditioned him to be wary of her reject like that in such a brief time, but this was just as hard on her as well… his doubts and hesitance over any small advance were completely earned, she knew as she recalled how she had slipped away as soon as she was able before dinner, when they had locked eyes and hands for a moment too long, and although she never saw anything behind his mask, she had felt the exact moment when something in the air, between their bodies and around them, had changed. She couldn't place the exact nature of said change, but she did not care for that, either. All she had known was that, suddenly, the air had been too tight and she had needed to scape now.

And that thought, inevitably, led to the memory of his body so near hers; of a single one of his ghastly fingers touching ever so gently, following down the path of her jaw, awakening unknown sensations all over her; of his unsure and trembling lips at the other side of the cloth as they pressed a single touch upon her forehead; of the way her skin had begged for more…-

Perhaps Erik was not the only one with unpredictable reactions, it seemed.

Christine sighted, scandalized, trying to brush the sensation off. She passed her hand over the areas he had kissed, as if cleaning a spot of ink. She refused to think about it for a second longer.

But, as she finished praying and slipped into the bedsheets, Christine realized that she truly could not.

Because the truth was that, regardless of what she had tried to convince herself of in their first days of marriage, they were now husband and wife. Little demonstrations of affection were to be expected, at the very least.

And she was having less of an issue being by his side as the days went on, but it would never stop being challenging: His mood changes were strange, his empty gaze always stayed a little too long on her, his laugh chilled her to the bone, his whole being carried with him a macabre aura, and yet... and yet she knew that it was not so bad. Erik's words at the table had remained ringing in her head; how her spark had brightened after befriending The Voice... the Voice had eased her solitude. Erik had eased her solitude by filling the void her father's death had left in her mind with glorious music, thrilling stories, and unconditional support.

Christine rolled over on the bed, with the quilt covering her up to the chin as she stared at a wall in the pitch black of the room, as she realized that, even before their marriage and the money her poor mamma was receiving from Erik's pocket, he had already been her savior. She had known this since the moment he first offered to cover the costs of her mamma's treatment, but she had never understood why he had offered such a thing, even if he claimed to love her. But now, after a day by his side and under the unforgiving light of the sun, she felt like she could see a little more from Erik's perspective. She now understood the judgment he went through on a daily basis, for she had felt it upon herself her whole life as well. It was the same scorn people from higher social status had had with her and her father, back when they were still wandering around the world with nothing on their hands but her pappa's old violin and dirt under their nails.

Even though Erik's appearance was complete opposite to how her and her father's had been –his clothes were impeccable, with all their silver buttons shining and his golden pocketwatch visible; not a single hole in his clothes or knots in his hair-, people still saw him as if he were somehow inferior to them, as if he did not belong.

She also understood that he had a twisted sense of humor –those damned flowers had scared her to death!- but that he somehow was also extremely naïve in other aspects, such as his complete ignorance to the way people frowned upon them. What she did not understand, nor she thought she would ever understand fully, was his struggle to live with a mask; all she would ever understand of that, she thought, was the effect it produced on people... even if she refused to think of the reason for it.

The way he angled his head, how he turned away from her, the sickening appearance of his skin, the smell of death, the skeletal hands... it all made her remember the voices of those infernal women in the cafeteria: "maybe he's wrong," "maybe he's not an honest man."

Christine blocked the thought as soon as it came, and forced her mind to think of something else, like her music, or her mamma, or the book she had been reading, anything but the thought of what laid beneath… but the seed of doubt had been planted a long time ago, and she knew it wouldn't stop growing until it were ripped off from its root. It was a disturbing thought that always wanted to drag her to the worst scenarios imaginable.

But even more disturbing was that she had felt a genuine… magnetism towards him, towards his touch. She had felt her stomach knotting and a pleasant shiver run through her skin as he had taken her hand –glove against skin, never caring for etiquette at all- and left tender kisses upon her.

Christine fell asleep still tiptoeing around all her doubts. What had truly predominated that day? Happiness, surprise, anger, distress? It was too much to think about it, and the last she remembered thinking about that night was that, to be certain, she would have to wait for their next Sunday.

She found out that she was strangely looking forward to it, and would now be ready to face whatever challenge it might present.

: :

Christine woke up around mid-morning, having over slept after having gone to bed too late the night before. By the time she had prepared for the day, it was nearly a quarter past ten o'clock.

She went to the music room, expecting to find Erik there, only to find the surprise of all the boxes and bags of shopping they had left the day before in the carriage now in the room. She looked both sides of the hallway before entering, still looking for the phantasmagorical figure of her husband, but saw nothing.

The numerous boxes filled a considerable portion of the floor, much like in their wedding night with the flowers –Erik had bought everything that her eyes had laid upon for longer than a second-; however, it was the white box of Swedish chocolates they had purchased the day before, along with a thornless rose delicately tied with a black bow and gently resting on top of the box what first caught her attention. She took the enchanting flower, remembering how he had given her a similar one the night of their wedding. This time, she did not think of the disturbing image of blood against snow, but rather, found the delicate object rather stunning, and could not stop the urge to run the tips of her fingers through the petals.

Still holding the flower, she opened the box, finding inside chocolates of all shapes and forms. She took one and bit it, not minding how it had begun to melt slightly, and feeling the delicious, sweet taste awaken a swirl of memories from years past; the taste so magnificently familiar and warm that Christine could not avoid to close her eyes in delight, bringing a pretty rouge color to her cheeks as she finished the wonderful sweet.

When she once again opened her eyes, the scrawny figure of her husband was standing at the threshold, silent, observing her. His eternally moving hands were still, holding each other in front of him, and his back was slightly hunched, as it tended to be when they stood alone in a room. He was impeccably dressed, as always.

"I apologize if the chocolates have begun to melt," came Erik's voice, as sweet as the chocolate that she was still savoring.

"They are perfect," Christine said, and smiled to him. Behind the mask and without her knowledge, Erik smiled too, for there was a piece of chocolate on the corner of her lip, and, to Erik's eyes, she looked beyond enchanting; care-free and truly enjoying herself.

"Do they remind you much of Sweden?" Asked Erik, causing the smile to widen on Christine's face.

"Ironically, they don't," she answered, "They remind me of my father. Before he became ill, he used to prepare them for me and my dear friend, Raoul, when we were children playing in the attic."

"That is the boy who fetched your red scarf from the sea," Erik stated, as if trying to join together the pieces of memories that Christine had shared before. He always remembered little details like those. She nodded with a tender smile on her face because he always listened to every silly anecdote she told. "It must have been lovely."

"It truly was. My father was the most kind-hearted man. May God always bless his soul, and give him the peace he always looked for," Christine said, and took another one of the chocolates.

As she bit the chocolate, she suddenly had the thought that the most polite thing to do would be to offer Erik some, for it had been him the one who brought them, after all... but it would have been a lie if she said she wanted to, so, selfishly, she did not offer. Instead, she covered the box with the lid and put it aside.

"Thank you for the flower, Erik," Christine said, as she left the chocolate box behind her, out of his sight, as if he were to ask for some. She brought the rose to her nose, and once again it was odorless, just like the one of the day they met.

"It is my greatest pleasure to make you happy, my dear," he said, and he finally entered the room. He took seat on the chaise lounge, in the only cleared area that was not covered in the bags and boxes of shoppings from the day before. "I did not prepare you breakfast, for I did not know how late you would be sleeping and I did not want to present you a cold meal."

Christine smiled at the sentiment, while at the same time felt a slight embarrassment at the idea of having left him waiting for her to awaken.

"Thank you, Erik, but I am not hungry today," she said, "I think I'll just have some tea, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, dear," he answered and stood up, "I'll bring you a cup."

Erik left the room, leaving Christine once again alone. Erik was truly a helpful man, always looking eager to lend a hand to her even in the simplest things. Overall, she knew she had to thank God for having found such a loving husband, even if he was extremely difficult to handle at times and sometimes still upset her. Many young women who married for money or status –like she herself had done, trading her life for economic support- did not run with the same luck, and instead ended up marrying truly monstrous men that only seemed gentlemanly on the outside, but once alone behind closed doors…

Christine shivered at the thought. She really had ran with luck… although she often forgot it.

She erased the thought by getting another chocolate, now that she was alone, licking the tips of her fingers in that manner that always made Mamma Valérius angry when she was a little kid, claiming it was inappropriate and disgusting to do that and that one should never make a mess while eating. Professor Valérius merely used to nod his head in agreement, while smoking from that black tobacco pipe he always had with him, and tell little Christine to listen to her. What Mamma never knew was that, as soon as she left the room, Professor Valérius, who had an even greater sweet tooth than Christine, always took out one of the many boxes of candy that he had hidden around the house, and they both ate the whole box, with little Christine sitting on his knee. They'd both lick the tips of their fingers, not caring when chocolate would dirty their fingers and teeth, giggling in complicity as if they both were children.

"Just don't tell mamma," used to say Prof. Valérius, with his index finger over his lips and over that scarce, grey mustache her Mamma always said used to make him look so handsome, signaling silence as he gave her the last chocolate. He always did.

"Tell her what?"used to answer little Christine as she took the last sweet with a complicity grin on her face, showing the last hole left by the missing baby teeth.

"Well said," Prof. Valérius used to reply, patting her head as she ate the last chocolate and he returned to smoke from his pipe.

The memory made her smile in nostalgia.

Erik returned then with her cup along with a small biscuit, and as he gave it to her, his gloved fingers lightly brushed hers. Christine saw how he tensed and flinched, repressing the urge to jerk his hand away. He no longer apologized, nor took his hand as far away from her as possible as if he feared his touch would burn her, because that was a barrier that they had already taken down, but Christine suspected it would be a long while before he was truly capable of brushing hands casually without flinching. She wondered what could have possibly happen in this poor man's life that he reacted so sadly to every single innocent touch.

"My dear, I'm afraid we must start practicing today for the upcoming Opera," Erik said, his tone sounding slightly uneasy still, "we cannot afford to waste a single day anymore. This week it shall be only you and me, but starting next week you'll return to regular rehearsals with the rest of the cast, and I want you to be well prepared and familiarized with the script by then. Finish your breakfast, and we shall begin."

Christine didn't answer, and instead just started drinking her tea as her eyes lowered, avoiding him. The last time they had sang together it had led to a near catastrophe, in which she had been too close to discover what truly laid under that mask and the dangers it represented. After that incident, however, they hadn't taken the risk of losing themselves in the music again, and Christine suspected that Erik was probably as scared she herself was, because in the only other occasion in which they had once again tried to sing –the night of his nightmare, when she had woken up to find him in the music room screaming in his sleep-, it had been a mere hum in the back of their throats; something calming and soft and gentle that barely floated in the air between them, timidly weaving a melody with the delicacy and precision of a butterfly's wings. It had been so… harmless and subtle even to their own tired ears; nothing powerful enough to engulf her and numb her mind and make her act on her subconscious desires.

But if they sang, if they truly sang with all the power of their souls as their practices often required, she knew there would be nothing stopping her from losing herself.

Christine continued to drink her tea in silence, trying to prolong the inevitable. It was not that she did not like –or rather, loved- to sing with him. All those grey days back when they were a mere Voice and a chorus girl, living in their own little world for a moment while their songs mixed together as one, had become brighter just because of him. Their music had been, at times, the only things that Christine had truly looked forward to in life just a few weeks back… but after the incident with the mask, she knew she could never again let herself fall in the sweet arms of the welcoming melody as easily. She had to keep her guard up if she did not want to lose sight again… but she was not sure that she had the strength to fight the sweet charm of music, and so she shielded herself behind her cup, giving slow, little sips.

But the cup of tea was not infinite, and too soon it went empty. They started the warm-up exercises soon after, with Erik quickly falling back to his instructor roll with the absolute professionalism that had characterized the Voice back during their lessons, now finally putting a body –for lack of a face- to all those lessons: his spine straightened, his shoulders squared, his feet separated slightly, and Christine knew it was no longer Erik the Husband, but rather Erik the Maestro. She, however, refused to let herself become the docile student, and so she went through the exercises with a palpable tension in her muscles that Erik more than once had to reprimand.

As the warm-up finished and the practice started, she could feel herself wanting to let go. His voice, embodying commands that seemed to go straight to her soul and wanted to rip it out from her heart in the form of music, was so enticing and intoxicating, and her whole being begged to obey his orders; to let her soul soar, as she had so often done in her dressing room with her angel… but she couldn't let herself be lost, and Erik quickly noticed.

"No, let's try again," instructed Erik, his tone gentle but firm, as he stood up from his position at the piano. It was the fourth time he had stopped her.

"I made no mistake," she tried to argue, lowering the script she held in her hands before her to look at him, but even she knew it was not about that.

"You're not feeling it, either," he said, his tone now becoming dry, and she could feel his intense gaze falling over her. He took three steps forward and cocked his head slightly, observing her through those empty pools of nothing behind the mask, analyzing her, before saying: "You're singing, but the words come out empty. Why?"

Christine then lowered her eyes, not wanting to look at those scratch marks over the leather of his mask.

"Tell me. You must tell me why," Erik commanded, and took another step forward, with now at only an arm's length of distance from her. His full height was intimidating as his shadow consumed her. "I know you can sing, Christine. So sing."

Christine then looked at Erik, as if wanting to answer him with nothing but her gaze, but the expression on the mask remained dead and unmoving, possibly unaware of the message.

"I just…" began Christine, with her voice soft and quiet, "I am just afraid of-"

"Are you afraid of Erik? Is Erik what is bothering you? Is Erik causing Christine distress?" Erik quickly asked, interrupting her, cringing as he took a step back and away from her. His whole frame seemed to tense under the baggy clothes as his spine hunched slightly, although she could never be truly sure of that considering how badly his clothes fitted. It was as if the illusion of the Maestro had shattered with the mere suggestion.

"No, no, no, wait, Erik, no, that is not what I meant," she quickly corrected, her hands coming up, as if trying to stop him from reaching untrue conclusions. "I just meant that… well, last time we sang together I… made a mistake, and I fear to commit it again."

"You mean taking Erik's masks and making Erik lose control again. Christine fears that Erik will act cruelly towards her again," he stated, but, contrary to what she had expected, he didn't sound… wrecked by the implications. His voice had returned to normal, and his shoulders had seemed to relax. "That is a reasonable fear, although unnecessary: Erik shall not sing with you but the strictly necessary, and even then, he'll make sure to keep himself in check. It was his voice what drove you to act recklessly, therefore, he won't sing like that ever again in your presence. Fear not."

That was… fantastic. Truly, it was… or at least, it should be. If Erik no longer sang, there wouldn't be a risk for an incident like the one from a week ago repeating itself. Yet, it was devastating to think about it. His voice, his marvelous, divine, angelic voice; that same voice that had brushed away the darkness in her heart and had cleaned away her tears with its promises of a better tomorrow, no longer singing for her. No longer caressing her heart. No longer making her soul soar…

His promise seemed to leave her strangely empty inside.

"Shall we continue, then?" asked Erik, returning to the piano bench, unaware of the sadness that suddenly hung over her shoulders. He probably believed that the issue had been solved.

Christine had no other choice but to smile slightly before reassuming her position, waiting for the notes of the piano to signal her entrance.

The rest of the day flashed before her eyes, all consumed by the beautiful and potent music that resonated on the walls of the house on the lake that had been so silent for so long. The house had seemed to return to life, flooded with the sound of her voice and the occasional –but oh, so treasured!- contribution of Erik's own voice. Sooner than expected, lunch time came and went, followed by dinner, and finally nighttime. In none of those times did he join her again to truly eat, limiting himself to sit across her sipping the cup and spoon, as if the meal they had previously shared had never happened, and she did not dare to invite him again.

"It was a very productive day, my dear, you should be proud of yourself," Erik said, still sitting at the bench, as he picked and accommodated the music sheets that were perpetually scattered on the lid of the grand piano. He closed the lid and left the stack of sheets on top, neatly organized, and Christine knew that they would remain as such a few hours at most. For such a clean, pristine man, he always seemed to make a mess when it came to his music. "We made great advances."

Christine smiled, the gentle gesture coming from genuine joy. She did not know how much the man before her loved seeing that smile, surrounded by the red color of her flushed cheeks after the long note with which she had finalized the piece they had been practicing. She also did not know how much he craved to kiss every single one of the tender wrinkles that appeared on her face and the dimple at the corner of her mouth.

All she knew was that her maestro was complimenting her talent and effort, and for that, she was immensely happy.

"It is all thanks to you, maestro," she answered, "you gave me back my voice."

Erik then stood and fixed his vest, and left out a soft chuckle. It no longer made the hairs on her nape stand with its disturbing sound, but it did surprise her slightly. One could never get completely used to such a strange, dark noise!

"I gave you nothing, child," he said, "it was always within you."

"Yet, without you, I would have never found it," she replied, half a smile forming on her face.

"And that would have been a true tragedy," he said, and his voice sounded so gentle, so sweet, that she imagined that he might have been smiling under the mask. "You should rest now, dear. Tomorrow, we shall continue practicing."

Christine smiled lightly, and Erik gestured with his hand for her to exit the room. She was surprised to see that he followed closely behind her, as silent as ever, until they reached her room.

She then turned to face him, once again both of them awkwardly standing in the hallway before her closed door.

"It was lovely," Christine said, truthfully but unsure of what to say now, "I had missed our lessons."

"I had, as well," he answered, and added: "but I saw that you were unsatisfied, Christine. You did excellent, my dear; I assure you that, at this rate, you shall be ready on time."

So Erik had noticed. Most of the time he did not seem to notice nor understand what she really felt, and thus his comment took her with her guard down. Christine shifted her weight from one foot to the other, awkwardly, because she had not expected having to explain anything to him, but finally responded:

"It is not that," she answered, and lowered her eyes before adding: "you'll think it's rather silly of me-"

"Nothing that bothers you can be silly in my eyes, Christine," Erik said, interrupting her. She saw, from the corner of her eye, how his hand moved slightly, as if it had wanted to look for hers without his consent and he had barely had the time to stop it before it did.

"It's just… I suppose I missed your voice," she said quietly.

"I see," he answered, equally quiet, and Christine could not tell what could possibly be running in his mind. "Erik shall fix that. Do not worry. For now, rest well, my dear."

Erik once again took her hand, glove against skin and ring against ring, and lightly brought it to his masked face, before depositing a light kiss on her knuckles. He left as quickly as the last time, and once again she did nothing but return to her own room.

Those simple and yet so… earth-shaking little gestures left her head empty.

Christine followed her nighttime routine, closing her door with both locks as always, but right before her eyes closed and with her cheeks still feeling hot from the embarrassment, the soft melody of a violin flooded her room, enfolding her, followed by The Voice's singing, sounding as if he stood there, laying right behind her in the bed and whispering in her ear.

Perhaps, in that moment more than any other, Christine should have been shaken right into full awareness, her red alerts all activated at once… and yet, the sound brought nothing but peace. The thought that he could be there, in the room –perhaps spying through a crack in the wall, perhaps with a copy of the keys to her door- never even crossed her mind. Christine just smiled tenderly as she snuggled deeper under the covers, letting the Voice's sweet lullaby take her to sleep, silently thanking Erik for it all.

The next morning, she would blame her completely naïve and trusting behavior on the tiredness of the day.

: :

The rest of the week was spent among music sheets, notes, commands, and scripts. Erik, to Christine's delight, was true to his word and was more lenient with her, making their new routine much more palatable. It started early in the morning, right after breakfast, and took small breaks until lunch, when they took another meal –for which Erik no longer joined her, and merely sat and pretended to do so, but Christine did not mind… although the image of the smiling white mask raising an empty spoon to the false lips would never be considered pleasant- before returning for a short while to practice and once again stopping at exactly four p.m. for them to enjoy a cup of tea before the roaring fire, talking occasionally as she embroidered and he read. They'd then resume lessons, and would finish with dinner before their goodnight kiss on her knuckles and his gentle voice singing at the other side of her door, away from her treacherous hands.

Erik never spoke of the new additions to their nighttime routines –the kiss on her knuckles and his singing voice- and Christine was glad for it. She did not wish to discuss either, because although neither were necessarily… unpleasant for her, they did make her feel… uncertain. They were simply two more elements to add to her imaginary lists of Things to Never Think About. Things to Just Accept. Things That Make Me Uncomfortable Because I do not Know How to Feel About Them and Neither do I Wish to Know. Things that-

Christine pinched her finger with the embroidery needle, taking her hand away in a reflex. She observed the tiny droplet of blood form on her index, and, as she got her handkerchief and cleaned it away, with her sight fixed on the fire before her and her peripheral vision on the man sitting at the armchair, silently turning the next page of his volume of Round the Moon, all she could do was wonder how it'd be from tomorrow onwards.

Tomorrow, the honeymoon was over. Tomorrow, she'd return to the Opera. Tomorrow, she'd be… free.

-0-

A/N: Okay, new Holidays game: every time you read that Christine or Erik smile at each other, you take a shot. Alternatively, every time Christine's in denial, you take a shot. You'll be wasted by the time you reach half the chapter, and I take absolutely no responsibility, lol.

Anyway, hopefully the waiting was worth it, because this was technically the last chapter of honeymoon "bliss!" Now it's time to see how our fav couple will do back at "normal" life, and hopefully all the advances they've done with their relationship will be sufficient for… all that's coming.

Anyways, thanks for reading and please be sure to leave a comment with your thoughts3! They're greatly appreciated and my motivation to continue!

P.D.: this year was a freaking rollercoaster. I moved out of my house to an apartment with my best friend, got my heart broken (and fixed! All good now), went through a pandemic, and became addicted to Yo soy Betty, la Fea and watched all of its 300+ episodes three times already since May (and I'll do it again, because Reasons). This is definitely not how I pictured this year.