They did their lesson the next day as though nothing had changed.
He sat down at the piano and began to play the scales for her warm ups. He glanced at her every now and then, his mind barely registering what his hands were playing. She looked so happy there, her eyes shining as she warmed up her voice - her beautiful, heavenly voice - and her hands were clasped over her midsection. His brow furrowed. In just a few short months that area would grow, and then- and then-
What if something went wrong? There were so very many things that could go wrong!
It wasn't fair. She was still in the flower of her youth, perfectly healthy if you didn't include what he had done to her. He had always assumed that she would always be there, that he would be the one to go first. But now-
How could he live in a world without Christine? How could he go on knowing that the sweetest songbird had been silenced forever?
Hot tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over. He paused his playing to wipe them away.
Christine's eyes went wide. Before he had a chance to begin playing again, she leaned forward and put her hands on his shoulders, stooping to kiss his cheek.
"It's alright, Erik," she murmured. "It's going to be alright."
He tried his best to power through the rest of her lesson, though he really only managed to play for her. Words - especially of critique - were too hard to come by.
He sulked in his office afterwards, glaring at his piles of work but lacking the attention span to actually make any progress with them.
That night, as had been the case each night since she'd told him the news, they retired to their shared bedchamber. But yet again, though it was almost never the case previously when sharing a bed, he refused to take anything farther than a hug before getting in bed and a kiss placed on her forehead, as though being chaste with her now would somehow make her less pregnant. Unwilling to take it farther yet unable to bear being parted from her, it seemed, so she didn't comment on it.
He made it nearly five days before he paused after kissing her forehead, his eyes full of regret as he leaned down once more to kiss the side of her neck before guiding her with gentle hands to the bed, where he made love to her with all the tenderness in the world. She would have considered it a definite step in the right direction, had it not been for the fact that not only was crying throughout it, he was trying to pretend that he wasn't. She chose not to comment on this, either. She had enough to occupy her mind with.
"I still don't know how to tell the managers," Christine said one afternoon as they sat in the solarium.
Erik shifted uncomfortably in his wicker chair. He still couldn't help but feel, at times, that her condition was a searing brand that advertised that he'd done something to her that he shouldn't have, that people, once they knew, would judge her for what she'd allowed him to do, that he would be publicly outed as the monster he always knew he was.
"I hope that later on I can get as good of a contract as I have right now," she added.
He made a noise of recognition.
Her contract at the moment promised her equal stage time as Carlotta - an almost unheard of arrangement with two stars, but nearly a necessity considering how popular both singers were. Christine's contract was only halfway through. If she broke it now, would they offer her another one as good as it ever again? Would they offer her any contract at all? The only reason outlined in the document was if something happened to the opera house - all other reasons for taking off would be considered a breach of contract and grounds for dismissal.
"Carlotta will finally get the spotlight all back to herself," she said weakly, and Erik glanced up, noticing for the first time the very real anxiety in her eyes despite how light she was trying to keep her tone.
"Christine," he said soothingly, taking both her hands in his and kissing them. "My dear Christine... Don't feet, sweet."
"I have to bring it up to them sometime, Erik," she reminded him. "They're going to realize sooner or later."
He squeezed her hand just a little.
"Not just yet, my dear. Let Erik be the one to worry about this."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he mere shushed her, standing up from his chair and coming to stoop over her. He took her head between his hands and kissed her forehead.
"Stress is bad for the baby," he murmured against her hair.
A smile crossed her face - he so rarely directly acknowledged that she was having a baby - and she left it at that.
As far as she was aware, it was a night like any other, with him cooking dinner for her after he was finished with his work, then later falling asleep in his arms as he cuddled her.
She was fast asleep by the time he slipped out of bed, and too deeply slumbering to notice his absence.
She did not know that he left the house that night. Neither did she notice when he returned hours later, only slightly before dawn, or how he changed out of his clothing in the hopes of airing the smell of smoke out of them. When she walked down to the kitchen to get breakfast that morning, she had no reason to suspect that Erik had not spent the night by her side.
Until there came a knock at the door.
Erik, sitting at the table in his robe and cap, drinking a cup of hot tea, looked entirely uninterested in anything happening at the front door, instead fully focused on reading the newspaper.
Christine answered the door in his stead, and found that it was a telegram for her. She took it back to the kitchen, reading as she walked, and by the time she had returned to Erik's side - and the end of the telegram - she gasped.
"Erik!"
"Hm."
"The opera house caught fire!"
"Oh?" he said absently.
She looked at her husband, still reading his paper. He glanced nonchalantly up at her, eyes full of innocence. She narrowed her eyes at him.
In any other man, his reaction would have been typical - any other man than Erik, who became giddy the mere mention of fire.
There was no greater sign of his guilt than his apparent innocence.
"Erik," she said evenly. "What did you do?"
He blinked owlishly at her.
"What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean!" she huffed. "Did you burn down the opera house?"
"It didn't burn down," he said dismissively. "It's still there. Don't be dramatic."
She pointed an accusing finger at him, mouth gaping.
"You did! You did burn it down! Erik-!"
"Give it here," he commanded, reaching for the telegram. "Let me see it."
She stared in shock and indignation as he took and read the telegram.
"Burn down-" he scoffed. "Look - it says 'fire damage to the stage', not 'it all durnt down', there is a difference, Christine, I assure you. And, ah- your contract is on hold, I see."
She grabbed the telegram from him.
"This is too much, Erik, I swear-"
"How long is it on hold for?"
"Do you realize how reckless-"
"How long, Christine?"
She looked down, unwilling to admit he was correct.
"Until the damage is repaired."
"Which will be?"
"Seven months," she grit out.
"Ah, well. How fortuitous, then," he said, waving a hand vaguely in the the direction of her stomach.
"You could have been hurt, Erik."
"I fixed your problem for you, Christine," he told her. "I was very, very careful."
She opened her mouth to say something when there came another knock on the door.
"What did you do this time," she sighed, going to answer it.
It was another telegram. A smile formed on her face as she read it.
"Who is it from?" Erik asked.
"Carlotta."
"What's that old bat want?" Erik grumbled.
"She wants to meet me for lunch to discuss the opera fire," she said as she read it.
"Christine!" he cried. "No!"
"Oh, don't worry dear," she told him, grinning. "I'll be very, very careful!"
She dressed up to go out, picking a dress that hid any very noticeable changes, and that afternoon she met Carlotta at a little cafe for lunch.
"Ah, the little toad is here!" Carlotta said affectionately. "Have you heard the news?"
"I have," Christine said as she sat across from her at the table. "It's so strange, isn't it?"
"Seven months! What will I do with myself?"
Carlotta flagged down the waiter and ordered slices of cake for them both.
"You know," she said smugly after ordering. "The managers put my contract on hold. They want me to come back when it's all finished."
Christine smiled sweetly.
"My contract got put on hold, too," she said, and Carlotta raised an eyebrow at her.
"Hmm," she said, thinking. "Hmph. Well. That is... Good."
She stirred her teacup vigorously.
"I am thinking of going on vacation," Carlotta said presently. "So many months, no work to worry about - why not? What about you? How will you fill the time?"
Christine ducked her head, her cheeks pink.
"Actually," she hesitated, then leaned in closely. Carlotta leaned in as well, not wanting to miss any whispered gossip.
"I'm very lucky my contract is on hold," Christine said. "I'm- I'm having a baby, you see."
"A baby!" Carlotta gasped, her eyes going wide. "Oh!"
"It will be old enough to leave with a nanny once the opera house is open again," she rushed to add. "My husband is my vocal teacher, you know - I think everything will work out just fine, really. I won't even get rusty during this break."
"A baby," Carlotta breathed, looking out the window.
"I'm very excited," she admitted with a little smile.
Carlotta turned to her, with an odd look in her eyes.
"Enjoy this time right now, Christine," she said, and her voice was warm. "Enjoy being with your little one. Enjoy your silence before it arrives!"
They both laughed a little, and Carlotta's expression turned wistful.
"You are lucky," she sighed. "Very lucky."
"I know," Christine said sincerely.
"You know," Carlotta started, her lips smiling but her eyes slightly sad. "I have a daughter, too."
Christines eyebrows flew up.
"You do?"
She nodded.
"She lives in Spain. My cousin is raising her. Isabella. She must be sixteen by now!"
"Oh, Carlotta - I had no idea!"
"I think, sometimes, about a different life for me... for both of us. But no. I would not change it. The stage requires sacrifices, and I have no regrets. Had my cousin not taken Isabella, I would not have become the great diva you see before you."
Christine was surprised to hear this. She placed her hands over her own middle, wondering if she would have had it in her to make the same sacrifice Carlotta had made all those years ago. Her dedication to her art was unparalleled, it seemed, and Christine had to admire that even as the thought of her daughter growing up in Spain and away from her mother made her heart ache.
"Don't be sad for me," Carlotta said, waving her hand. "I am happy with my choice. My cousin is a better mother to her than I would ever be. And I would not trade the stage for anything."
Christine nodded thoughtfully. It was such a human way to think of Carlotta, the long-time star of the opera house. Not many people knew very much about her, Christine supposed, especially her life before Paris. She wondered how many people even knew about this.
"Thank you for telling me," she said softly, and Carlotta smiled.
"Ah, I was so young back then. And no husband. Men! I tell you. Not worth it," she shook her head.
Christine giggled.
"You know what my cousin says? Isabella does not want to marry. You know what she wants to do? University! Can you imagine? A girl in university?"
Christine smiled wryly.
"She must be very smart, I suppose."
"Oh, she is. Stubborn, too. If ever a girl will go to university, it will be her! Everyone tells her girls are not allowed to do so, but she will not take no for an answer. It is her dream!"
"She gets that from you," Christine said.
Carlotta smiled proudly.
"Yes," she said. "I suppose she does!"
Carlotta gave Christine all of her advice for pregnancy during the rest of their lunch. At the end of it, Christine thought she might honestly consider this woman a close friend. When they were about to part and go their separate ways, Carlotta pulled her into a big hug and bid her a fond farewell.
Christine hugged Erik tightly when she got back home.
"What'd that awful woman do to you?" he asked immediately, hugging her in return.
She laughed.
"Erik! Nothing. She's nice. Sometimes."
He muttered something under his breath, but she ignored it, focusing instead on how lucky she really was. Her career was established. She had a loving husband. She had a home and plenty of food and security. She was so excited to step into this new chapter of her life with Erik by her side.
Erik, however, was having other thoughts. Thoughts that kept him up at night. He'd never been one for sleeping much, but whereas his mind during the night was normally filled with melodies pure and unearthly, now it was filled with thoughts.
Erik stared at the ceiling, listening to the soft sound of Christine breathing.
It still seemed oddly unreal even as it was all too real - a foreign concept, but one that was pressing in all around him. Christine. Christine, with child.
His child.
It wasn't that he had been unaware of the possibility - far from it. He had known it could happen, and it was the reason had he tried to take precautions, but still - it was one thing to be aware it could happen and quite another now that it actually had.
And after so long together, he had sort of assumed that it simply wouldn't. Who would have thought life would be so ironic as to let him be the cause of this? That after so many years of being the one whose purpose was to snuff out life, he would now have a hand in creating a life instead.
It felt wrong.
He rolled over to face Christine, her pile of golden curls on the pillow next to him. She slept on, undisturbed by the thoughts that were haunting him.
The midwife had given her a book the last time she saw her, and unbeknownst to Christine, Erik had read it. More than read it - he had studied it.
He placed a careful hand on her arm, but she didn't stir.
There were so very many things that could go wrong, but surely - weren't there hundreds of women who did this safely every day? The human race would die out otherwise!
Christine's book had mentioned that women with wider hips often had an easier time giving birth. He scooted a little closer to her. Did she have particularly wide hips? He wasn't certain. He had no complaint about ample soft flesh found there, and while she had never seemed noticeably bigger than the other ballet rats, she also didn't seem very much smaller. But from the diagrams in the book he could tell it was the bone structure that counted - what if her bones were very small and she merely had more muscle and fat to hide this fact?
He let his arm run down her side and come to rest on her hip. She slumbered on. He paused only a moment before slipping his other arm underneath of her. It would ease his mind to know, he thought.
He pulled her back just a little, getting her to lay at an angle so he could touch both of her hips at the same time time. He bit his tongue as he focused on his work, trying to find the right amount of pressure. He wouldn't be able to feel the actual size of the pelvic cavity, of course, but he felt he could make an educated guess if he could tell the distance between where both of her hip sockets were.
He had to press harder than he would have thought - her body was softer now, a little more plump in a way that wasn't directly caused by what was growing in her womb. He found it rather endearing - he would love Christine no matter shape she took, it seemed. Still, it was a slight challenge to find her hip joints, those slightly round feeling bones capped with cartilage and nestled into her pubic bones.
She blinked awake, frowning. She wasn't surprised to wake and find him already in the midst of touching her - she'd long ago given him permission to do so while she slept, and it wouldn't be the first time he had inadvertently woken her with his hands on her - but she was baffled as to what, exactly, he was trying to do. The way he was jabbing and pressing his long fingers into her bones was decidedly un-erotic.
"Erik-" her voice was confused and sleepy. "Erik what are you doing?"
"Shh-shhh, go back to sleep, sweet," he murmured, his hands ceasing their strange pressure and instead moving up to pat her arm.
"But-"
"Don't worry about it, Christine, it's alright."
Her hip sockets were approximately one octave apart from each other, if compared with his piano. It was interesting knowledge about his little wife, but he swiftly realized that he had no comparison of what was considered normal to know where she fell on the scale. Perhaps he could find another book that might tell him...
She rolled to face him, putting her arms around his neck.
"Are you sure you don't want to keep going?" she murmured, already half asleep again. "You can if you want, just not so hard, please."
She didn't know what he had been doing, but he was clearly too shy to continue now that she was awake.
He chuckled softly, petting her hair. How lucky he was to have such an understanding wife.
"No, love, that's okay. It wasn't like that."
Her brow furrowed. What had he been doing, then, if not-?
"What were you trying to-"
"Go to sleep, Christine," there was a hint of firmness to his voice that she found difficult to disobey, and with a little sigh she finally fell back asleep.
He held her for a while after she was asleep, then held his hands up in front of him, stretching his fingers to span the width of an octave on his keyboard. He stared at his fingers for a long moment, then raised a single eyebrow. Just how big was a baby's skull, anyway?
It dawned on him that he couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen a baby - or if he had seen a baby.
He rolled over and buried his face in Christine's hair, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.
He was going to be terrible at this fatherhood thing, he could tell.
If it even got that far.
But she seemed certain it would. Whether this was from denial or perhaps some woman's instinct about these things, she seemed intent on bringing up their future together as parents.
She found him in the solarium one day, sitting on one of the wicker chairs and sketching plants.
She settled herself in the chair next to him, watching him. He glanced up at her as she did so, never stopping his drawing. They sat in silence for a few moments.
"What do you hope it'll be?" she asked presently. "A boy, or a girl?"
He hesitated, his eyes warily landing on her growing middle.
"Anything will be fine, Christine," he said stiltedly. "As long as it's-"
normal
"As long as it's healthy, and as long as you are healthy... That's all I care about."
She shook her head, smiling.
"But beyond that, Erik - surely you must have thought of it a little? Don't you have a preference?"
Erik stared at the plants. He had, in fact, considered whether he would prefer the child be a boy or a girl, but probably not in the context that Christine was thinking.
If his child had to inherit his face, would it be crueler if the child was a boy or a girl? It turned his stomach to think of either scenario. He had managed, eventually, to gain a mostly normal life - surely there was a chance that his child could do the same.
It was tempting to wish for a little girl, one just like Christine. But what if she took after him instead? What if instead of bouncy golden curls she had dull mousy brown hair that turned grey and brittle and fell out in patches before she turned twenty? What if instead of a cute button nose and rosy cheeks she had a ruined and twisted face - sunken cheeks and no nose at all?
Life had been very hard for Erik. How much harder would it have been if he was a woman? If his daughter looked like him, what would her life be like? Would she ever find someone who loved her? Men could be excused from not being terribly handsome, but he knew there was pressure on the less-than-lovely young women to either find a way to improve their appearance or else settle for a mediocre man or for a life of spinsterhood. Any daughter of his would certainly be less than lovely. He would make certain, of course, that he had enough saved up that she wouldn't have to marry an unsavory man just to survive, but the fact remained that the world was cruel to unlovely women.
Although it hardly seemed much less cruel to hideous men. His own life showed that. But when he was gone, a son could look after Christine better. He knew, of course, that Christine would manage just fine on her own, that she didn't need to be looked after, but more respect would be afforded her if there was a man in the family and not just herself or herself and a disfigured daughter.
Didn't every normal man wish for a son, anyway? Someone to carry on the family name? If only he hadn't chosen the family name at random a few years ago.
"A boy," he murmured, and returned to his sketching.
Christine smiled.
"I hope so too," she said softly.
Change in Christine was impossible not to notice, and it seemed nearly every time he looked at her he was reminded of what was going to happen. Sometimes it was easy to think about, in a theoretical way. Sometimes it was difficult in a way that took his breath away. But as time went on, he began to grow slightly used to thinking about the idea.
It helped, too, that soon there were other things to focus on.
"Erik, are we out of jam?" she asked one morning as she set about getting her breakfast to join Erik at the table.
He stared silently.
"Erik? Jam?"
Annoyed by his silence, she followed his line of sight and huffed, pulling her dressing gown around her more closely.
"Are we out of jam?" she asked firmly, giving him a glare.
He guiltily tore his eyes from her now hidden breasts, finally registering that he'd been asked a question.
"No, there's some in the pantry," he said.
She went to get some, and came back to sit at the able with him to eat her toast and jam and tea.
"It looks like it might rain today," she offered, spreading butter on her toast.
Erik was silent. She glanced up to find him staring again. She threw the knife down on the table with a clatter. Erik looked away, pointedly turning his head.
It was honestly the bright spot in this otherwise guilt ridden time for him. If asked, before all of this, if he would change anything about Christine, he would have said no. And that was true - he would love her no matter how she looked. But he would admit, seeing what was before him now, he might have considered making one slight - or not so slight - request.
The only issue that stood in the way of his absolute bliss was the fact she didn't like him touching them. He did his best to abide by this - he wanted to respect her boundaries, did not want to cause her any pain when she was overly sore. In truth she hadn't had to tell him very many times, and he assumed that she wouldn't be relenting in how she felt about it. So he refrained from any of the touches he had once lavished on those breasts, instead content - mostly content - to merely look.
Old habits, however, die hard, and he found this out the difficult way in the middle of the night once.
Both of them were already asleep, her more so than him. He rolled over, unconsciously seeking her out. As often was the case, he put his arm around her, snuggling close to her, his chest against her back. And, as was also often the case, his hand reached up to cup her breast, intent on giving it a gentle squeeze, which it did.
He was immediately awakened by her elbow forcefully driving itself into the middle of his ribcage.
He rolled over to his back and wheezed.
"Oh! Erik! I'm so sorry!" Christine cried as she tried to turn to face him. "I didn't mean to!"
"That's alright, my dear," he rasped, still seeing stars.
"I was asleep and you startled me," she explained, concerned.
"That's fair," he said weakly and brought his hands up to place over where she'd elbowed him, trying to catch his breath.
"My poor Erik," she sighed, placing her small hand on top of both of his.
Still, he would much rather deal with the physical pain than the mental anguish that her condition was bringing.
He would never forget the night she shook him awake and he'd blinked in the darkness, suddenly concerned.
"What is it? What?"
"The baby's kicking," she whispered eagerly, taking his hand and placing it against her stomach before he was awake enough to protest.
She held her breath, waiting, and the movement came again under Erik's hand. She laughed softly.
Erik's breath caught in his throat, his brow furrowing. He could feel it, and he didn't like it.
"Oh, isn't it wonderful?"
He pulled his hand away as soon as she let go, clenching and unclenching it in the darkness, trying to erase the lingering feeling on his palm. Wonderful was the last way he would describe it.
"Our baby," she murmured sleepily.
A baby. His baby. It could only be disgusting, and he couldn't understand how she didn't see that yet. Well. She'd see soon enough, he supposed.
Christine seemed quite set on believing it would all turn out well, that the child was something she was happy about. Sometimes the midwife would make visits to the house, and Christine was always beaming after these. Erik always made certain to be in his office when the woman was there, so he wasn't certain exactly what she was telling Christine, but his darling wife always saw fit to try to fill him in on what was happening, usually after dinner in the evening when they sat in their living room.
"The midwife says it's important to talk to the baby, so that it'll recognize us after it's born," Christine told him, her hands resting on her midsection.
He looked at her a moment, his eyes falling from her face to her middle.
"Oh?" he said stiffly.
She nodded eagerly.
"You should talk to it, too, Erik!"
He inwardly cringed, darting another look at the swollen bulge under her hands. It could hear them? The thought - and the implications - unsettled him greatly.
"I'm talking right now, aren't I?" he tried.
She huffed and rolled her eyes.
"That's not what I meant, Erik... Tell it about your day," she was nearly pleading.
He swallowed hard, not looking at her.
"I'm working on a new contract," he said awkwardly. "It's going to be a department store, but they want it to be fancy..."
He trailed off, daring a glance in her - their direction.
"Did you hear that, little one?" Christine addressed the baby. "Your Papa designs all kinds of buildings!"
"It has two stories..." he added lamely.
He stood from his chair and began to fidget before finally kneeling next to the end of the chase lounge she was on, leaning his face to Christine's.
"Christine, I feel like a fool, doing this," he whispered, as though he were trying to keep the baby from eavesdropping. "I don't want to talk to your- your womb."
She sighed heavily.
"That's fine, Erik," she primly. "If you don't want your child to even know who you are, that's entirely up to you."
"I don't think it even knows anything about architecture," he glanced at her stomach again, worry highlighted in his voice.
He didn't add that he thought perhaps it really would be better if the child didn't know him. It was a thought Christine could never be told, but one that, once her unrealistic fantasies were reasoned with, she would surely agree with.
Nights turned to days turned to weeks. Before long, a letter arrived in the post for Christine.
"Erik look - the opera house is holding a benefit fundraiser - it's going to be a masquerade."
"Hm."
"They invited me to be there," she continued. "Guests pay to mingle with the stars, and the funds go towards rebuilding the stage."
Erik was silent.
"The stage that you burnt down," she added curtly.
He sighed.
"I think I should go," she said.
"Well, then, by all means - go."
"I think you should go, too," she pressed. "Pay them back a little, for what you did."
"I did it for you."
"I didn't ask you to!"
Erik stifled a groan and wiped a hand over his face.
"Fine," he grumbled.
He would go, but he certainly would not enjoy it. That seemed, he thought, the overarching theme of his life.