I had very little intention of posting any sort of follow up to A Stroll on Sunday, as I strongly feel that the story proper ends with chapter thirty-seven. However, I had a few requests to see this particular part of Erik and Nora's story and the scene was already half-written. It's just a bit of fluff sans plot. There may be other little vignettes posted over time, but they do not make up a proper story. For all that, enjoy! :)
For the first time in many years, Erik woke up and thought about Christine. She no longer haunted him—even the seemingly permanent mixture of guilt and regret that had surrounding Erik's memories of her had faded with time. Strange that he should think of her now— strange and even somewhat annoying. Erik did not want to think of Christine. He wanted to sleep, and when he awoke, he wanted this thoughts to be absorbed with a different woman altogether.
But he was awake now, and Christine refused to leave him be. He grumbled loudly into the dark and deserted hotel room, and at last gave in.
He thought about the preparations he had made for his wedding to Christine. The Madeline Church and the blind priest, the white dress and the grandiose wedding march he had composed.
Kyrie eleison, indeed.
What sort of life would have resulted from such a union, he wondered. The old ideal flooded back to him—an ordinary house, an ordinary wife with an extraordinary voice, someone to walk with, talk with…
All fine desires, he supposed, but very… small. That was what he had wanted so dearly, then. A small life, because he had confused small with safe. It was a misprision he no longer suffered under.
That knowledge thrilled him even now, and waved away the thought of Christine with only a glimmer of effort. How far he had come! From skulking ghost to—to—to what? Co-manager of one of the greatest opera companies on earth? Composer of ground-breaking works, in constant demand across the musical world? A man of note, of consequence, of worth—a man who could afford to ignore slights and prejudice because he was worth much more than the sum of his features.
Oh, yes, all these things—more than these things—more than he could have dreamed—and above all else, today and today alone, he was a bridegroom.
With that, he shot out of bed. Just hours ago, Nora had laughed at him, kissed his mask, and made him promise to sleep. Erik had vowed to do so, most solemnly and with the best intentions. But it was useless now, as his heart ricocheted around his chest.
Did all men feel this way, when they were about to take their greatest love to wife? Erik thought not—such would imply that other men had brides as fine as Nora Farley, and this Erik could not believe.
Morning, true morning, complete with dawn and daytime bustle, came soon enough.
Erik fumbled with his suit. In his guise as Honoré Siamo, he had gained a certain notoriety for antiquated, even eccentric, dress. It had been part ploy—disguising his mask as nothing more than the final note to carnival dress—and part being hopelessly out of touch with practical fashion and falling back on the vague memories he had of gentlemen from his childhood. But today's outfit was in latest style for morning dress—striped grey trousers, a buff waistcoat, and dark swallow-tail coat. It struck his eye as austere for the occasion, especially when paired with his white mask, but this was what one wore to one's wedding.
He tugged at the collar, at the coat, his kidskin gloves, at his mask. The final touch was the flower Nora had sent over the evening before.
I've never seen you wear a buttonhole before, her note read. It was signed with a flourishing capital N and nothing else. It had taken Erik a moment to realize that she intended for him to wear the silly little thing on his lapel and he had nearly sent back a note that said Ghosts do not wear flowers, but decided against it. If Nora wanted him to put on an entire bouquet as a boutonnière, he would.
The flower was aster, he discovered, an inane looking thing with petals sitting somewhere between white and periwinkle. He had hunted down someone who was familiar with the genteel pastime of flower language—something a lady like Nora was sure to know— and demanded to know just what it symbolized.
At last, one of the hotel maids had been able to enlighten him.
"Aster for fidelity," she had said with only the slightest tremor in her voice, "and as a talisman for love." She had made her escape in quick order, leaving Erik to stare dumb at the little flower. Leave it to Nora to hit the perfect note, the most touching nuance. Not a trite rose that proclaimed the love of the lover—but a talisman, a charm to protect and bestow a blessing on the wearer.
And, unsurprisingly, the color looked very nice against the charcoal of his tailcoat.
He left his hotel room at half-past seven and procured his witness. The fair-haired New Yorker had been assigned by the management of the Metropolitan Opera to serve as Erik's attaché. He had taken Erik's sudden shift in attention from music to matrimony in stride, and could prove extremely useful if anyone was to question Erik's identity.
He was even ready to accompany Erik to the courthouse, though it was nearly an hour before the agreed upon time. He was a silent carriage companion, which Erik found to be a blessing. He could not have held a coherent conversation, even if he had wanted to.
They arrived at the steps of the Office of the City Clerk a full hour before Nora was due to arrive and Erik took to pacing the length of the building face. Surely, this was all a touch of madness—a dream brought on by the thrill of hearing his La Vie Nouvelle performed for the first time. He had not watched her, sparkling in diamonds and tears, as she recognized the opera as the only love letter Erik had ever composed. He had not walked with her for hours after the fact, speaking of everything and nothing. He had not asked for her hand, she had not given it. She had not said let's not wait, why not Monday—it was all smoke and mirrors and illusion and oh-so-very Nora-like—
"Ah—Monsieur Siamo-" his assistant caught Erik in the middle of one of his laps and pointed out into the street.
For a moment, Erik could only see a carriage, like any of the other dozens of carriages already rolling down the busy New York streets. Then, he caught sight of the grim Mr. Carey, and then—
She was dressed in ivory, understated and elegant, and ever so much like a dream. She locked gazes with Erik has she alighted from the carriage and walked up to him in a hurry. She captured his hand with a strength that surprised him.
"You're early," she said.
"As are you," Erik replied. He searched her face, looking for signs of the doubt she must have been feeling. There were fresh white roses and asters poking out of the tulle of her portrait hat. She met his examination with one of her own.
"I was afraid," she whispered, "I was so terribly afraid that you might slip through my fingers again."
Erik's laughter sounded strangled and hollow in his own ears. "My silly Nora."
Her other hand came up and rested on the cheek of his mask. "Don't you mean, your silly wife?"
"Do I?" Erik finally realized why she was whispering. It was just shy of the reality of a voice, and this entire situation did not belong to reality. "I do."
She smiled at that, a wide smile that covered the wide world, and took Erik's arm. "Shall we see if they'll take us early?"
There had been some grief over the marriage of a Frenchman and a Canadian in a Manhattan courthouse, but nothing that the combined Farley – Siamo reputation could not overcome.
There were words said that Erik could not remember, promises he had meant even more than he had understood them, and moments he would take with him to his grave. All Nora's doing, of course. When the time had come to stand before the judge, she had paused and pulled her hands away from Erik's. He was convinced that it would be the moment he lost her for good. Instead, she had stripped off her gloves and handed them off to Carey, regardless of the rules of propriety, and then returned to Erik's grasp, skin to skin. She had quirked a smile and once the judge had returned his attention to his papers, winked at Erik.
She was obviously trying to kill him, and if the beating of his heart was any indication, she was succeeding.
At last, they signed the license. Erik had practiced for hours until his 'Honoré E. Siamo' was half-way legible and even a touch elegant. Nora had spent a long moment staring at the signature before beginning on her own. She managed a business-like Eleanor and then paused. Well, she couldn't back out now, after making her vows, could she? Could she? The moment passed after she made a face and put down a sweepingly graceful Siamo.
As they sat in the carriage afterwards, without either assistant or manservant to intrude, Erik brought her attention to the pause.
"Second thoughts, Nora?" he asked. He had her hand trapped in his, continually running his thumb over her gold wedding band. Rings were the one type of ornament Erik had never seen her wear, and he was absurdly pleased to see his ring on her hand.
She smiled slightly. "I must confess—yes."
Erik was silent for a long moment, letting the statement sink in. "Oh, Nora—"
"It's the name," she cut in.
"What?"
"Siamo. I'm now Madame Siamo," she snorted, "that gave me pause."
She was joking with him, Erik realized, and he huffed in bemusement. "I chose the name in your honor. Don't tell me you've forgotten our little interlude during Pari siamo!"
"'Little interlude?'" She laughed at him, "no, I haven't forgotten."
"You do like the song, yes?"
"Out of all of Rigoletto, yes," she said. On a whim, she removed her oversized hat and leaned her head against Erik's shoulder. "You never did ask if I liked Rigoletto."
"Well, do you?"
"As a matter of fact, I love Rigoletto," Nora replied. "After all, if it wasn't for Rigoletto, I wouldn't have you now. And because of that, I can live with being called Madame Siamo, because it's really just a way of being called Erik's Wife." She nodded, more to herself than to him, Erik thought. "I can most definitely live with that."
"Can you?"
She laughed again. "Didn't you hear the judge, Erik? And the two shall become one flesh." She held up her free hand and crossed her fingers. "How much more in the spirit of pari siamo can one be?"
Nights had been awkward in the extreme for some time, but Erik could not quite remember why. He could vaguely recall tears and bouts of modesty and crippling self-doubts besetting the both of them. It all seemed terribly distant now, tucked into the bed of a dark steamship cabin, Nora's head resting on his chest.
"Is the house on the lake still there?" She asked.
"It is," Erik replied. He wove his fingers in and out of her hair, something he had never quite imagined doing. "I rarely use it now, but it is still there."
"I only ever saw the parlor and the Louis-Philippe room," she commented, and Erik could swear he could feel her smile.
"I suppose we could rectify that. The cellar is fascinating."
"I think you are the only person who could say such a thing and I would honestly believe it. What do you think that says?"
Erik pressed a kiss into her hair. "That I married a madwoman. But I already knew this."
"What a terrible fate! I would that I could save you from it, but I am afraid that I've always been a selfish creature. I couldn't possibly let you go, no matter how much I love you."
Erik had to laugh, to hear all of the things that had caused them so much pain and perhaps wasted time bandied about like a joke. And, God help him, he actually found it funny. "Will it always be like this, my dear?"
"Hmm? Oh, no. I'll grow old and persnickety and you'll tire of me and retreat into your work. But before that happens, we shall have a good run."
Erik had to agree with that. He was keenly familiar with the fancies and favors of theater—and everything he knew told him that they would have a very fine run, indeed.