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Christine

Chapter 51

The Confrontation

The morning after Erik's next performance, Franklin met with my father over tea to discuss the prospect of him becoming a staple at the theatre as well. Papa was very interested.

I do not know exactly how that conversation went, but here is my guess:

First, the business talk. Deciding on a day - Friday, as I would learn. Salary talks. That would take approximately twenty minutes to tackle.

But, in full, they talked for an hour and a half.

Perhaps Franklin began speaking of how thankful he was that my father helped in the process of Grace's rescue. Perhaps my father would say that it was his pleasure. That he hoped the owner of the theatre and his daughter were settled in and that Vaillancourt was not still causing too much trouble now. That whatever Vincenzo had planned, the debtee was now out of his hair.

Franklin might have given him a funny look and reminded him that Vincenzo, in fact, ended Vaillancourt's life the night he was reunited with Grace.

I couldn't guess how he reacted exactly, or what he precisely said, at the table with Franklin. I could, however, remember quite well how he reacted and what he said when he arrived home.

I stood at the side of Erik's piano, smiling wide while he collected his sheet music into a neat pile and told me how much I was improving every single day, still sitting there at the bench.

"Since Franklin already has two members of this family," he said with a glint in his eye, "why not propose a third to him?"

"I've told you," I responded, "singing publicly feels wrong to me."

"Why? You'd bring Paris to its knees."

"I don't want to bring Paris to its knees." I held his gaze. "Singing is something you and I...it's the thing we bonded over. I don't want to monetize it. It's - it's special. I want to keep it between us." I grinned. "Perhaps if I ever got the opportunity to display my art, I will join you and my father in the rise to fame."

Erik smiled at the talk of my art, knowing that was my personal passion, but his eyes shone when I spoke of our falling in love through the conduit of one another's voices. He'd once told me that he knew he loved me when he heard me sing. And though hearing his singing for the first had been like listening to the angels themselves, it had been his speaking voice that kept me sane. His voice as I remained trapped in my own body that tethered me to the world and revealed who he truly was - a good man. A loving, intelligent, kind man with a life that forced him to act against his own mind and heart.

I was eternally grateful that he'd escaped with me.

If only he could escape his own memories.

Erik seemed to read my train of thoughts, saw whatever it did to my expression, and stood from the bench. He took my face in his hands and kissed my forehead.

"You," he said softly, "are everything to me and more. I hope you know that."

"My love," I whispered, and tilted my head up to him. I heard the front door unlock, knew my father was home, but the study door was closed. So I kissed Erik. It started gentle, and I could feel it begin to grow in intensity, when my father called from what sounded like the parlor:

"Erik. Christine. I need to speak to you both."

His voice was calm but clearly strained against a stronger emotion.

Erik and I pulled apart. His expression conveyed concern that matched mine and more. He looked toward the door of the study.

"Let's go see what's wrong."

He nodded slowly and followed me out of the room and into the parlor. We indeed found my father there. He sat in the armchair, stiff-backed, face severe. Ayesha rubbed against his legs, either knowing he was in a sour mood or not caring at all.

He saw us enter and gestured to the couch. "Sit, please."

Suddenly, I was seven years old and I'd just knocked over a flower vase by running through the house. Erik looked like he felt the same, only twice as perplexed. We sat. We waited. It was almost comical, seeing my imposing husband take orders like a schoolboy.

"As you know," my father started, tone gentle, "I met with Franklin Knight today. He mentioned something odd - something he apparently assumed I already knew." He leaned back, a crease appearing at the space between his eyes. He clasped his hands together softly. "Were you planning on telling me that Vincenzo murdered someone, or were you going to go on spending time with him, putting this family at risk unbeknownst to me?"

Erik looked like he stopped breathing.

I spoke: "Did Franklin tell you why he killed him?"

"He did. I know the reason. I don't think it's a good one." He put a hand up. "And before you say that Erik has killed too, he did so under duress. I do not fault him for it. From the description I was given, it sounds like no one forced Vincenzo's hand."

"No one did," whispered Erik. "That's true. So what are you getting at? If it's an apology you wish for, then I am sorry we did not tell you." Erik had bristled.

My father too. "And why didn't you tell me?"

"You already didn't like him."

He barked a laugh. "And with good reason, clearly."

Erik gave a long, slow blink and looked down. "I do sympathize with your concern. Truly. I felt...the same way, when it happened."

"I am very concerned - I'd say that's an understatement." He glanced at me shortly, then back to my husband. "I question whether it's a good idea for you to spend time with him at all. I think it's not. I think you should both stay away from him going forward."

Horror flashed across Erik's face. Yes, he was an adult man and certainly didn't need to obey my father's wishes, but I also knew of his deep need for approval. Any disappointment from me or his father-in-law would crush him, much as he might pretend at nonchalance to the world.

"Papa," I said, a bit of warning in my tone.

Erik was the one to speak, though. "Vincenzo is not going to hurt us."

"How do you know that, my boy?"

"I know Vincenzo. He's my brother. Please do not..." A shaky breath. "Please do not ask me to do this."

My father pursed his lips and looked away. "I am merely looking out for my daughter."

A chill suddenly emanated from Erik, pouring from his eyes, filling the room like cold wine - bitter and tinted red. "And I'm not?"

"Well..." He met his icy stare. "Are you?"

"Papa," I said, "enough. Vincenzo is..." I couldn't say harmless. That would make me sound naïve. But I trusted Erik - and I deeply understood Vincenzo's murder of Vaillancourt. Perhaps being surrounded by death and killing in Persia had permanently altered my moral compass. Actions, once reprehensible, were now understandable given the right context. I decided on: "Vincenzo is doing, and did do, the best he can in his circumstance."

My father outright ignored me, sending anger shooting down my chest and into my stomach. "Erik, you are no longer in Persia. So you can stop chasing risks and putting my daughter in harm's way."

That did it. Erik stood, hurt and fury and shame and fear all swimming, swirling and mixing, in his eyes. I nearly reached out for him, but he was gone from the apartment before I could, his mask on his face.

My own face burned. My heart thundered.

"You know what I am saying is true, Christine."

I couldn't look at my father. "Please don't."

"I know you are both young. Reckless, still. You don't have the years to give you experience."

"I have plenty of life experience, Papa. Erik more than me - more than you. More than anyone we know. And I was whisked off to another country; I'm not sheltered-"

"And I risked my life to save you. You think I want to lose you again?"

"You're not going to."

A long pause. "You truly take Erik's side in this."

"I do."

A sad sigh. "Then you are a fool. I did not raise you to be. But you are."

I didn't excuse myself as I rose from the couch and went outside too. Erik, I was relieved to see, had not travelled far. He'd merely leaned against our building. I stood in front of him. He let me take his hands. For a few minutes, we remained that way, listening to the city bustle by - the carriages pass, children laugh, birds chirp above. Then:

"What do you want me to do, Christine? If I lose your father's favor, then so be it. But it's your happiness, your love, that I care about. That's all. I will do anything to maintain that. So you say the word. What should I do when it comes to Vincenzo?"

"Whatever makes you happy. If it makes you happy, then it makes me happy."

He searched my eyes, his own growing wet. "I can't take losing him again."

His throat worked. I squeezed his hands.

"Let's go for a walk," I said. "Did you like the Bois? Let's go there."