He expected to find his wife asleep upon opening their chamber door; instead she was sitting in front of the open drawers of his night stand wrapped in her warmest night gown and robe. A few of his personal notebooks were spread open.
"If you were looking for something ask. I don't keep secrets anymore," He poked at the fire stirring the embers.
Christine pushed her down curls over her shoulder as she looked up, "But you do. We do."
"What were you hoping to find in my journals, Angel?" Erik sat down on the edge of the bed. "It clearly wasn't there."
"It's foolish, it doesn't matter," Christine put the notebooks back into the drawer and closed it.
"Tell me, Christine," His voice deepened and firmed sounding once again like The Angel of Music.
Christine sighed as she twirled the tie of her robe around her fingers, "Edith heard stories of how The Opera Ghost murdered people while she was in Paris. And she knows you were The Opera Ghost."
He tilted his head back and groaned.
"I assured her such rumors were just part of having such an intriguing life and husband…"
"But we know they aren't rumors," Erik rubbed his temples.
"You told me they were accidents, but what you did to Raoul was not," Christine looked up at her husband and held his gaze. "You intended to kill him."
The Opera Ghost's chest tightened, "Is there a good reason to dig this up?"
"Our children might find out someday. Gustave might find out someday soon if these women gossip like this. Daisy tried to speak up to defend me, but if Rose hears any of this you know it will get back to Gustave." She placed her hand on her husband's knee. "My sweet boy has already been through so much; the neglect from Raoul, learning how you were his real father, uprooting our life to be with you. He doesn't deserve this."
The Angel of Music placed his hand over his wife's, "What do you want me to do? Sit down and tell him his father is still technically a wanted murderer in France? That he almost killed The Viscount in a desperate attempt to keep your mother with him and that was more than valid reason for The Viscount to despise me? Ruin the relationship we have?"
"You don't have to word that way!" Christine stood and paced back and forth in front of the fire. "He just needs to hear it from you; not secondhand from his girlfriend."
He nodded, "Yes Angel." Christine stopped pacing, wrapped her arms around her chest and stared into the fire, tears pooling in her eyes.
"And what about you?" She heard the bed squeak before being swiftly engulfed in his arms. "What do you need to hear from me? You clearly didn't discover it in my notebooks."
"I did find it in a way," The Soprano rested her head against the good side of his face. "I was looking for some sign of remorse but there were only the writings of the man you are now: daily notes about Charlotte's music lessons, Matilda's growth, observations of the city…" Heavy lids lifted, "How I tasted on my menses! Terrible man! Was doing that not enough?"
Laughing he pulled her tighter, "I wanted notes for comparison shall you allow me to trespass again."
"Oh Erik!"
He kissed her cheek, "So writing 'I was expecting a stronger copper note but instead…'"
"Erik! Stop!" Christine pulled away her cheeks warm not just from the fire. She sat down on her side of the bed.
"Do not tell me those damned women made you feel being wanton was wrong again because if so, I will be tasting your every menses until…"
Cheeks rounded with a coy smile, "They only dream their husbands would make such threats."
"You know I carry through with threats. I can start tonight," He arched his good eyebrow as his coat was tossed to the floor.
"You would have to take different notes tonight, Mister."
"That can be arranged, My Angel."
Christine giggled.
"I see we're in a better mood," Erik held one of the foot posts and smiled wide at his wife. "Anything else you wish to discuss while we are switching the dynamic of our relationship?"
"May we stop trying to be part of society? I thought being part of society here would be different but it's worse than it was in Paris."
He lifted his hand and ran it through those luscious curls, "How so?"
"In Paris I knew I wasn't their equals. Here I thought I was coming in with a fresh start; that some of these women were my friends. I thought being in Manhattan near them would change some of the dynamic. I am tired of being an object of curiosity without the cost of admission."
"So put an end to it. You have a house in Manhattan; host your own teas and dinners. Christmas proved you are quite the hostess. You're the Met's newest star. People are paying top dollar admission to be enthralled by you. You are more than a curiosity, Christine," Mr. Y sat down next to her. With one finger under her chin, he used his old trick to turn her head towards him. "Let this murdering husband of yours spread your lascivious thighs so he can taste you pure and unadulterated all night bringing you pleasure that would turn those women red. It's going to be a show for which they would gladly pay admission."
Christine giggled and slapped his chest, "You're just being ridiculous now."
"I might be but it's working. Just as I'm sure a paroxysm or two will round this all out. Now do you want me to remove your pantalettes before or after you lie down?"
