Christine often took to spending her spare time in his house. It wasn't often that it was feasible, but whenever it was possible she found herself crossing the lake in her little boat and pulling the key out of the neckline of her dress and calling out to him as she entered.

Sometimes he wasn't doing much of anything, and he would sit and talk with her or even play music for her. Sometimes he wasn't in the house at all, and she simply waited there for him to get back, or, if she had to return above before he returned, she'd write a little note for him and leave it on the kitchen counter, informing him of her visit. When that happened, she often drew a little animal in a silly pose on the note, such a cat doing ballet or her best approximation of an elephant rowing a boat - for no other reason than it amused her - and she was completely unaware that he kept each and every one of these notes in a box in his bedroom. Sometimes, however, he would be there when she arrived but he would be busy with something.

"Erik?" she called out, standing in the entryway. She could hear the organ music and had waited until it paused.

In a moment he appeared, looking surprised.

"How are you, my dear?"

"Good, how are you? Do you mind if I stay a while?"

"Of course you can stay. Ah, I am afraid I'm quite busy composing at the moment, though. I hope you do not mind entertaining yourself?"

He hated not being there to spend time with her, but he was making good progress on his opera, something he hadn't been able to do for ages, and he was afraid if he stopped for too long he would lose the muse.

"Oh, I don't mind."

It was always a pleasure just to sit and listen to him play, even if during composing he tended to play the same few notes over and over until he found something he liked - which he'd then play over and over just be certain he truly like it before writing it down.

He left for his bedroom again, closing the door, and soon organ music was pouring through the house once more. She settled in the sitting room, laying down across the couch and staring at the ceiling. Erik's home always felt so much more peaceful than nearly anywhere else in the opera house, and it was nice to be able to get away from the constant chatter and gossip and physical proximity with others that all got on her nerves after a time.

She dozed off in a little nap, her dreams starting out nice enough but soon turning to a muddle fright. She woke up a bit later, a little dazed, and suddenly she realized why.

Erik's music had turned dark, sometimes brooding, sometimes crashing, and she shuddered. She'd never heard him play like that before - she'd never even heard music like that before. All hopes of continuing her nap abandoned, she tried to fall into a book but still the music haunted her, set her teeth on edge and made her fidget. She could only imagine what this piece would sound like finished - a wonderful, horrible, song the likes of which had never been heard before. She paced the room a little, unsure of what to do next.

Then the music shifted, and thought it as just as strange as the previous song, it was less bitter. She sighed in relief and the tension left her shoulders. With her mind a little more clear, she realized she hadn't eaten in a while, and headed to his kitchen. While there, she began to wonder when he had eaten last, and had an idea.

Erik was always so good to her, always made certain her needs were met. Perhaps she, too, could do something nice for him, to look out for his needs as well. She hesitated just a moment, but forged ahead in her plan - how many times had he told her that she was welcome to anything and everything in his home?

She searched the pantry and pulled out the ingredients, delighted that they were all there. She knew he had been keeping it better stocked since she had started coming by more often.

It was a recipe she had often made before in the past, needing very few ingredients but still tasting lovely. He didn't have any cookie cutters, which didn't truly surprise her, so she took one of the glasses from a cupboard and used the rim to cut out circle after circle from the spiced dough, placing them on metal trays before placing the trays in the oven.

It wasn't long before she was sprinkling powder sugar over the freshly baked cookies and placing them on a platter. She was terribly pleased with how they had turned out, and she couldn't wait to show them to Erik.

She took a number of cookies from the platter, placing them on a smaller plate, and went to his room. She waited outside his door until the organ music stopped, then counted to ten (just in case he was writing something down) before knocking lightly.

"Erik?"

A pause.

"Come in, my dear," he called out, but sounded distracted.

She pushed the door open, a little grin already forming on her face as she prepared to present to him the results of her baking. She took a step inside the room and looked up from the plate of cookies, seeing him at the other end, seated in front of a small pipe organ. Her eyes took in the rest of the room and her smile vanished.

The room was painted black, which was perhaps a little morbid, but paled in comparison to what else was in the room. The pipe organ was an odd choice for a bedroom, but nothing too strange, comparably. There was an armoire, and a chest of drawers, and a few other pieces of furniture that were to be expected.

And there was a coffin.

She stared at it, her face blank, and her mind swirling.

It was open.

Her eyes sought him out, seeking understanding. He had turned from his work to glance back at her, and suddenly turned all the way around when he saw where she was looking before her gaze turned to him. He watched her cautiously as she took a deep breath, then another before squaring her shoulders.

"I made you something," she was proud of how she managed to keep the tremble from her voice.

She began to stride forward with a confidence she hardly felt, trying to keep her gaze on him as she did so. As she walked the past the coffin, her eyes darted down to look at it, defying her will to not look.

There was a blanket inside. Did he- oh no, please no- did he sleep in this? There was certainly no bed in the room, not even a chair. Did he sleep in the guest room, perhaps? Why he even had a guest room was beyond her - she was his first guest, as far as she knew.

But that guilty, guarded look on his face as she approached him told her all she needed to know. Her heart sank.

"These are for you," she held the plate of cookies out to him.

She made no comment on the topic he feared she might, and he relaxed just a little.

Her eyes fell on the organ, on the sheet music held there and the little jar of red ink - and on the little wooden Dala horse she had carved for him on that Christmas so long ago. Her lips quirked into a smile. Had he kept it there on his organ this whole time?

She cleared her throat.

"Try one," she motioned to the cookies.

"Oh, Christine - you made these?" he asked, feeling a little stupid - it was obvious she had made them (hasn't she just said so?), but he was still surprised that she done so.

He was rattled, too, by how easily he had forgotten what horrors his room held. He had been so consumed with composing he hadn't even thought twice about letting her come into the room he otherwise tried to keep her out of.

It was perhaps the only time he wished that she wasn't in his house - he regretted that she had to hear the score of Don Juan Triumphant (such harsh music for such a pure soul to endure), regretted that he had let her see the coffin which had clearly upset her.

He reached out and took a cookie. It tasted spicy and sweet.

"My Christine is too good to me," he murmured, his mind still far away.

Her eyes snapped up to his face, away from that awful coffin she had been staring at once more. He hadn't even seemed to notice the words he had let slip, those two little words that set her pulse racing and made her feel warm all over.

My Christine

"Do you like them?" her mouth felt dry all of a sudden, and the realization that she was in his bedroom dawning on her did not help.

"You are a marvel, Christine. They are delicious," he took a second one, and she smiled warmly.

"How is your composing going?" she placed the plate on top the organ and tried to glance at the name across the tops of the staves was he working on, but he quickly turned the sheets around so she couldn't see what was written there and fussed with them nervously.

"Just fine. I do apologize if it is not to your liking. I know it is... different."

"I wouldn't say I don't like it," she turned her head to look at another page he had neglected to turn over.

"Oh!" she said suddenly. "That's in my key, isn't it? Is it for me?"

He hastily grabbed the paper and turned it over.

"Hmm? Whatever do you mean, silly girl? Not everything I write is for you, you know," he hoped his teasing tone would hide the sweat crawling down his neck.

"Well, who's Aminta?"

Her voice was full of such inquisitive innocence he didn't think he could stand it. The fact of the matter was he had written the role of Aminta for her - for her to play opposite his Don Juan. His Don Juan, a fiendish cad, a lecherous deviant, and Aminta, the woman he doggedly pursued and wooed and conquered - Erik felt ashamed that she might discover this. After all, it had only been after he realized he was in love with her that his work on the damned opera had truly taken off - he had been working on it since Persia, a project he had poured his bitterness and rage into, and now - now also a project he infused with newfound feelings. Feelings that added to it what it had been missing all those years. Passion. Desire. Lust.

But this was music! It was just words on a page! He'd never-! Surely Christine must know he would never treat her like how Don Juan treated Aminta!

He shifted uncomfortably, his hand on the back of his neck. At least he hadn't been working on the more lewd parts of the music while she was there...

"She is a character in my opera," he raised an eyebrow. "Surely that much was clear."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He was being dodgy about the whole thing and it made her suspicious.

He grabbed another cookie and hurriedly shoved the entire thing in his mouth.

"This really is quite good," he said with his mouth full. "What is this in it, is that nutmeg?"

His voice (what she could hear of it through the cookie) bordered on desperate, and the look of near panic in his eyes as he looked at her caused her to feel something towards him. If he didn't want to talk about his opera, she supposed she wouldn't push the subject.

"Nutmeg, yes," she nodded. "And cinnamon, too."

"It truly is delicious," he rose and began to usher her out of the room, an arm widespread as though to keep her from darting around the side of him and stealing a look at those mysterious, forbidden staves.

She started for the door, giving one last, long glance at the terrible coffin before looking up at his golden eyes. Her lips were pressed together, and she looked like she both disapproved and was hurt by the coffin's existence. His gaze softened and he paused.

"One has to get used to all parts of life, Christine," he said gently, and glanced at the coffin himself. "Even to that."

She turned her head away, frowning.

"But come now, sweet, let's go in the kitchen and find ourselves a lovely drink to go with these wonderful cookies."

She nodded and went with him, arms crossed about herself as though she were chilled.

Christine did not go in his room again. Any curiosity about that strange opera was overshadowed by the morbid furnishings inside.

Erik often daydreamed about an alternate reality for him and Christine, often pretended to himself that they were, in fact, something more to each other. To temper these fantasies, to keep from getting lost in a world of his own creation, he would remind himself most viciously that he was nothing to her, that she only kept near him because she liked his teaching. The truth of the matter, he supposed, lay somewhere in between. They were not married, obviously. She didn't love him (she didn't even love the boy that way, with all his handsome charms). But it didn't seem logical that she actually hated him, either. He supposed, in those times he felt a little more clarity of mind, that they were friends of sorts.

How much of that odd friendship sprang from her feeling obligated to give him something in exchange for years of free lessons? He didn't know. But he certainly couldn't be loved for himself, at least he didn't believe so. It was safest, in his mind, to error on the side of caution - she didn't hate him, but she didn't love him, not in any way. He knew it would be so easy to get caught up in the thought of her loving him, knew how easily he could slip into that trap. He could just picture some day in the future when he'd entirely lost it, insisting to her that she had to love him. He'd probably string up the boy for being competition. It would be awful. No, it was much better all around if he remembered that she could never love one like him, not truly anyway. It would spare them all from any... unpleasantness, down the line.

Christine didn't love him. But there were times, every so often, that he let himself believe. Times like right then, standing in the kitchen, looking at the plate of cookies she had baked for him. She didn't love him, but... Perhaps she did care for him, just a little. How could he not think so in the face of such evidence?

He took a little break from writing his inappropriate opera and poured them each a glass of sparkling water to drink while they shared a small meal of cookies.