Well, A Stroll on Sunday is now officially ten years old. The first chapter was posted on October 24th, 2011 (and the last of the story proper on December 27th of the same year.) I originally had an awfully pretentious introduction for this small handful of chapters meant to commemorate the occasion, but have mercifully deleted it. After all, what is there to say beyond—thank you for reading.

To start with: glimpses into ten wedding anniversaries with Erik and Nora.

I

"You may not say it much, but I know you are fond of flowers."

"…yes," Nora replied carefully. Her slight hesitation did not diminished Erik's peacock pride, which was, she thought, a good sign. A year of marriage, and he no longer saw a warning in every slow agreement. "Indeed I am."

Nora did like flowers, and she thought she liked a lot of them— lush displays on the dining table, at her vanity, in the entryway. But Erik had an entirely different concept of 'a lot.' There were flowers lining the hallways, winding up the banister, on every free surface in the parlor. She suspected their bedroom was a veritable hothouse.

"It's beautiful, Erik," she said sincerely. "But you must have cleared out every supplier in the region! Do I even want to know how you managed that?"

Erik remained suspiciously silent.

.

II

"This is a terrible anniversary!" Erik lamented.

Nora lifted her head just enough to cast a chary eye his way. "Your opinion is noted," she commented icily before her distressed stomach rebelled for what seemed to Erik to be the thousandth time this morning.

"Have you ever been seasick before?" He asked, wringing out a handkerchief he had trust into a bowl of cold water before handing it to her.

"No, I have not!" She replied. The ice had been replaced by acid, and she flopped back into bed. "And don't find some twisty way of making this your fault, for we have been at sea together before without incident!" She closed her eyes, and Erik dared to move a little closer. He hummed something soothing under his breath, and before too long, was rewarded with her relaxing, just a bit. After a minute, she cracked open one eye. "I'm sorry I'm rotten company, Erik. I'm the worst patient imaginable. You should escape up to the deck for a while."

"Certainly not," he settled into an armchair near the bed. "Do you think it was the oysters?"

"If you had any feelings at all, you would not even mention oysters right now," she said, but with less bite. He ventured a look and found that her expression had turned thoughtful. She was still a little green, and had her hands lightly laced over her stomach, almost protective. She sighed. "Well. It's a terrible way to start an anniversary, as you say. …but let's see if I feel any better once the morning passes."

She did not.

.

III

"Close your eyes!"

Nora obliged, though not before pointing out she knew exactly where this road led.

"Spoilsport," Erik declared her somewhat childishly. But then he was almost childish at the moment— fairly vibrating with excitement, hands gripping the bench of the carriage to help keep him still. "You think you know where this road leads."

The road led to her uncle's old estate in Burgundy. It had been years since Nora had seen the place. It had proved difficult to sell, and in the end Daniel had gifted it to Erik upon request and acted like Erik was the one doing the favor. That had been some years ago now, and Nora did not pay the estate any mind.

"Keep them closed!" Erik instructed as the carriage halted. He helped her out, one arm snuggling around her waist so she would not fall. "All right— now look."

She did. All of its faded neoclassical glory had been restored and more. She thought of the first draughty night she had spent here, Erik as her guest. She had felt like a tremendously bad hostess at the time… but look where they ended up. She found herself laughing, eyes dancing over the sunlit vineyard, the bright windows set into clean stone, and the curious cock of Erik's head.

"I never met my uncle," she said, after the laughter died down. "By all accounts, he never did anyone a good turn in the whole course of his life. And yet, I find myself ever more grateful to him. He set me on the road that led to all my happiness." She started laughing again. "Oh, my mother would have hated that!"

.

IV

"You have brought be to Sodom and Gomorrah!"

"No, I have brought you to Vienna." Nora was sitting in the very prim, very controlled way that told Erik she was very, very drunk. She went a little cross eyed when the carriage lurched to a stop outside of their hotel. Neither of them were lightweights with their liquor, but the club had been very smoky, the drinks very strong, and the patrons somewhat shocking even to Erik's jaundiced eye.

It was not how the evening started. They had taken in a truly magnificent Die Zauberflöte, and had been intent on departing the opera for a romantic moonlit stroll. But in the last intermission, they had fallen in with a handful of Nora's old acquaintances. It was a varied and cosmopolitan set, and no one so much as blinked at Erik and his mask. He had grown better at passing time in company, and thought it might be nice for Nora. He had been wrong.

It was not that they were not pleasant enough people, and a few had a decided bent towards the intellectual or artistic that Erik could appreciate. But it baffled him that any of them had been Nora's friends.

"Friends might be overstating the fact," she said, as she had Erik fumble with the lacings of her corset and dropped hairpins willy-nilly to the floor: "I never bothered keeping a friend I met on my travels until I met you."

"And now I know why," he said dryly.

"Well, to be fair, they weren't quite so dissolute back then. Or maybe they were, but I was still a respectable unmarried lady, so no one told me."

"And now you're just a scandalous married lady," Erik said. They managed to divest themselves of most of their evening wear. Erik thought he had found his nightshirt, but wasn't sure he put it on the right direction. Half-dressed and entwined on a bed they might have ended up, but Erik knew there was certainly nothing 'scandalous' to be done. Not with the room gently spinning. Still, the smell of tobacco and whatever else had comprised the smoke that had been so off putting in the club smelt mellow and enticing in Nora's hair. He thought he might've drifted off to sleep, until Nora's voice cut through the slumber.

"Erik?"

"Mrph?"

"Next year, let's stay home."

Erik couldn't recall if he said anything in reply, but he held her closer and all his dreams were sweet.

.

V

For the First Time Ever

The Great Composer

Honoré E Siamo

will conduct his Master Work

La Vie Nouvelle

At his Home Theater

Le Palais Garnier

The Nineteenth of May

Erik had been ruthless during rehearsals. On the day of the performance, Moncharmin had ambled backstage. He looked around the orchestra members that dared to stay within throwing distance of their conductor between exercises.

"Really put the fear of God into them, haven't you, Erik?"

In reply, Erik glowered at Moncharmin and his cigar, and proceeded put the fear of God into him. Alas, after so many years working together, Moncharmin did not cower in quite the same satisfying way he used to. But he did dutifully snuff out the cigar.

"The sooner your wife arrives," he declared, "the better."

Erik could certainly agree with that, and was, in fact, deeply relieved when Nora appeared. She kissed the angled cheek of his mask, and he leaned down to whisper, "this one is yours— it is always, always yours."

She smiled up at him. "And I will never tire of hearing it. I have no music to give you, Erik, and so can only say I am yours. Always, always yours."

The words stayed with Erik as he conducted, as he pushed the orchestra to the extremis of their abilities, as the vocalists kept up by sheer force of will. The newspapers may rave about the brilliant production, and Paris's elite may have one day bragged 'yes, I was there for that performance!' But as Erik bowed, and caught a glimpse of Nora standing in Box Five, applauding— he thought he could hear a better symphony taking shape.

.

VI

Nora had no business in a kitchen. The exigencies of travel had given her such vital skills as boiling an egg, or toasting bread and cheese over a grate. Luckily, that was why one kept a cook— though that relationship had gone through its early bumps as well. The cook came with the house when it was purchased, and therefore held the position before Erik's marriage and viewed the acquisition of a mistress with some distrust. Nora had thought at one point she would need to replace the woman— but one long, loud conversation early on, wherein Nora found herself using a very idiomatic Québécois dialect (not at all sanctioned by the Académie Française, but apparently still understandable.) brought about détente. The alliance had held for several years now, and both were satisfied with the success of its primary objective: Erik ate.

Nora suspected she was using up all the credit she had managed to build over the years when she directed a heavy crate, fresh from its voyage across the Atlantic, into Cook's domain. As the kitchen maid unpacked cans from the straw, Nora went over the recipe she had carefully translated from the one used at Farley House.

"He'll like it," Nora said firmly. "It's sweet."

The cook stared at her in blatant disbelief. She did not take the paper from Nora's hand.

"Try making it for tea while Monsieur is out next Friday," Nora persisted, "and then again for the anniversary dinner."

Erik's demeanor seemed to echo that of the cook's when, after a meticulously prepared menu of buttered sole, tender lamb, salad of the choicest late spring greens, and excellent wines, he was served a slice of pie.

"We used to eat this all the time for special occasions when I was growing up," Nora urged him. "Mostly in the fall and winter, but the housekeeper would always put a few cans of squash up for later on."

Erik lifted his fork and scrutinized it. Even Nora could admit that it wasn't the most appetizing looking thing— the pumpkin did give the custard a less than silky smooth texture.

"You can put the Chantilly cream on it," she offered, when the moment seemed to last a bit too long. But Erik shook his head mutely, and then chewed his bite thoughtfully.

He took another. "Squash pie, you say?" Nora nodded, and was encouraged when the third bite was a little bigger. "I will say this— being married to you is always an adventure, Nora."

Nora grinned and applied herself to her own slice.

.

VII

"Not now!" It was the first verbal response Nora had gotten in the past hour. The other two times she had tried knocking at the door of the music room, the piano playing had merely increased to wall-rattling intensity.

She shook her head gamely at the maid, who stood with a tray. She was new to service in the Siamo household and looked a little milk-faced.

Nora knocked again, "Erik, I'm coming in because you will be more upset if I don't." She took the grumbling halt of music as assent. With a practiced move, she opened the door, turned to take the tray from the maid, shooed her away, stepped in, and closed the door with her foot. Erik was in musical dishabille: shirtsleeves, maskless, and with his salt and pepper hair standing about his head like a chaotic halo. His expression could charitably be called 'fond exasperation,' but only in the fact that he did not look utterly murderous.

Still, he was able to put that great brain of his to good use. He took in the uncommonly fetching dress, the tray with a champagne bottle and accompanying coupes, and, especially, the little bud vase with its cream roses and blue aster poesy.

"Oh, hell," he said with feeling, "how long have I been in here working?"

"Not that long," Nora assured him. "Three days on and off."

"Ugh." He scrubbed at his face and accepted a champagne glass. "My most sincere apologies, I don't even know— can I possibly be forgiven?"

"Possibly," Nora said, scooching onto the piano bench. "If you play me what you have figured out so far."

.

VIII

"It can top a hundred kilometers an hour!" Nora shouted.

"I know!" Erik shouted back. He did know. He had reviewed the specs for the new Mercedes Simplex plenty of times before making the purchase and having it shipped out in time for a grand anniversary present. But, somehow, the weight of those numbers settled more profoundly with Nora gripping the wheel and letting the vehicle gain momentum.

"I love it!"

And I love you, Erik thought, and prayed they would manage to return home in one piece.

.

IX

"He is a legal clerk with a firm near Merriworth. His highest prospect is becoming an attorney at the same office, his keenest interest beyond Eloise is some kind of puppy communism, and his greatest talent appears to be plagiarizing John Donne in the most achingly lovely business hand I've ever seen." After a moment, Nora added, "His name is Tony."

"And the Girl loves him?"

"The Girl," Nora repeated with some asperity, "is sixteen. Of course she loves him."

Erik wondered how exactly Nora had managed to find out quite so much. Eloise had been with them for a scant day after they had descended on her school and brought her up to London. And it had been a whirl— walking in Hyde Park, shopping, an afternoon at the National Portrait Gallery, more shopping and stopping for treats. Erik had counted it a good day, for all London was sardined with visitors for the social season. He always found a particular pleasure in walking with Nora on one arm and Eloise on the other, listening to them batter back and forth across him. Eloise had long ago lost her trepidation with Uncle Erik, and as she grew older revealed a sharp wit that proved the familial relationship to Nora. She had the green eyes as well, and while her hair was a dark gold, it hung in the same straight, heavy curtain.

Walking with the two of them felt most curiously like— well, he wasn't quite sure. He had a place with Nora. He felt, at times, marriage was too small a word to capture what they were: a matched pair, half of the other's soul. The passing years added to that feeling. But Nora had a way of bringing people into Erik's life, and of welcoming the few already there, and he could not quite articulate what that meant.

Family, he supposed. Even without children, Nora had given him a family. And with that thought he mind, he found himself sighing in exasperation.

"Tony?"

.

X

Nora tied her dressing gown tightly closed and slipped out of the bedroom. Erik was already gone. He didn't sleep much these days. Since she heard nothing from the music room, and the only movement in the library was the maid laying a fresh fire, she shifted course and went out onto the terrace.

Erik was sitting on bench, full east to face the sunrise cracking over the vineyard. He had a bottle sharing his seat and a glass in hand. He looked relaxed and, when he noticed Nora, smiled. There had been a time he had not been quick to do so, when he was convinced any expression on his unmasked face would only compound the unfortunate reality of his features. And maybe it was so. But Nora had long since ceased to notice his peculiarities, and thought everyone looked at their best advantage with a smile.

He held up the glass, and it showed ruby in the morning light. "This is the first truly good year," he said, and handed it to Nora.

Erik had added vintner to his other many and varied interests once they took the chateau in Baume as a country house. He had coaxed Uncle Christian's neglected Gamay vines into order, and now produced something tolerable for the house.

Nora tasted the wine. It was bright and fresh in a way they had never managed before. Even the color, usually an indifferent, dull red, was clear and sparkling. "Surprisingly good."

"I wouldn't say that," Erik accepted the glass back. "Good things no longer surprise me."

*I spent an absurd amount of time confirming that, yes, pumpkin pie was a readily available recipe in mid-19th century Canada, and, yes, by 1905 Nora certainly could have had canned pumpkin delivered to her.