The remainder of that evening went by without a ripple of pain or regret. Christine wrapped her fingers in the fold of my arm as we strolled along the bois. We shared comfortable silences, perhaps wondering what the other was thinking, but remaining peaceful in our souls. If she could have read my thoughts that evening, she would have been shocked by the simplicity of my pondering. In truth, I was merely relishing the delicate weight of her fingers on my arm, walking with her in a speechless awe at how such a night had come to pass. How had I, being the monster of many a child's nightmares, won the companionship of the quintessential angel?

I believe she was happy being with me. Perhaps that is why the events that were to unfold in the not so distant future proved not only to be an unwelcome surprise but a pain beyond comprehension. Her smiles in those weeks were not those created for my pleasure, but the product of her own joy. She was not playing a role.

I picked night-blooming flowers for her hair as we walked, and her delight sounded as the soft tinkling of tiny bells bouncing off the tree limbs that formed gnarled arms in the darkness. "Erik, you are always thinking of me. It is too much!" But, her enjoyment did not seem feigned at any moment of our early betrothal.

"Well, you could tell me to stop spoiling you."

She beamed up at me, the whiteness of her teeth apparent in the black of night. "Well, that would be positively unladylike of me, would it not?"

I feigned resignation, slouching my shoulders at her as if she had exasperated me, "Well, I had not thought of that, my dear, had not thought of it at all." I lifted her chin with the tips of my fingers and focused on the blue of her eyes. If there had been any time for affection and tenderness, for hope, it was that night.

"Erik, it's all right. . ." She whispered, blinking a few times, perhaps in nervous anticipation, or fear. No, it had to have been anticipation. She loved me that night, and the evening before, I realize. It could not have been otherwise. Not even the finest actors on the stage of the Comedie Francaise could have. . .

"I would very much like to kiss you, Christine."

She inhaled audibly, but did not show any sign of repulsion or fear. Instead, she rose up on her toes, her whole frame shaking like a river reed. I couldn't discern whether she was cold or merely nervous. My blood was pulsing through my veins at an alarming rate, and my heartbeat seemed to pound at the ends of my fingertips that held to Christine's chin. I couldn't breathe. I had always wished for such a moment to pass between the two of us, but never convinced myself that it was, indeed, a real possibility. I was ill-prepared to follow through with my actions. I did not know how to touch a woman, the realms of decorum which could not be breached prior to marriage. The softness of a kiss was all but foreign to me, and why shouldn't it remain so?

I had done little to earn such a reward from the dazzling, magnificent young creature who stood before me, willingly offering her lips and, possibly, her heart, to the caress of darkness. "Christine, are you sure. I need to know. . ."

"You do not need to ask your fiancé for a kiss, Erik." Her tone was gentle and full of comforting reassurance. And to augment her sincerity, she pressed her palms flat against my chest as she had in the brougham only minutes ago. Except there were no tears in her eyes this time. I could not have been more thankful for the sweet silence of the evening, which was only stirred by the rustling of our cloaks in the wind or the rubbing of insects' wings in the surrounding foliage.

"Is something wrong," she whispered, her voice carried away with the idea that we were conspirators in an act which should not be taking place.

"I can not ask such things of you, Christine, it was wrong of me. . ."

All at once, she slapped my hand away from her face, her eyes blazing with fury. "Erik, are you to be this way for our entire life together? I am not so fragile china doll. I do not want a husband who cannot bring himself to kiss his wife without being overwhelmed by guilt or feelings of low self-worth! If you want to take me in your arms, then by God, do it! Don't play games with me, Erik. Don't for one second believe that your hesitation to even hold my hand doesn't affect me! Do you want your fiancee to feel undesirable?"

Where was this all coming from? I had expected some form of retaliation from her, but for entirely different reasons. Repulsion, not frustration. I was aghast, speechless at this marvelously-enticing tirade being performed for my eyes only. "Christine-"

"If you say another word, Erik, I will scream, and you don't want that do you?"

I didn't say another word.

"Take me home, to your home! Right now! What do I need to do to prove to you that you are no monster?" She huffed as we walked back towards the brougham. It was a long silent, torturous stroll. No stroll actually. She did not take my arm, but her eyes made it look as if she were to devour me.

When we finally stepped back into the coach, she, and not myself, gave the driver his orders. "To the Palais Garnier, vitement!"

Then, she closed the shade of the brougham window and looked at me with a gaze that I could only assume suggested that she would indeed make her point when we arrived at my home on the lake. Was it excitement or fear coursing through my veins? As if she had snuffed out the flames of her rage, she curled up close to me, and unbutton my jacket. "Soon, Erik, you will understand, and there will be no reason for regrets or apologies."

The journey down to my home could not have been longer, and the tension between us seemed to close around my neck in a ghostly, suffocating grip. I do not believe Christine and I so much as met eyes as I led her by hand through the familiar labyrinthine corridors under the Opera house. She merely offered me a demure nod as I carefully lifted her into the gondola, then we resumed our postures of tense oblivion towards the other. Christine stared straight ahead, craning her neck in eager impatience, hoping to see the portcullis quickly emerge into her sight. Once again, I heard her intake of breath, her fingers curling along the smooth, dark wood of bow. I dared not break the veil of silence that masked the void between us, the gap our souls had not yet brooked.

How could she believe I did not wish to touch her, that the intoxicating possibility tortured my every thought? I had never ached so much to grasp beauty, to simply feel the contours of her jaw or the tiny bones of her wrist. It would have been worth more than any king's ransom to simply have her lips meld against my own.

Had she asked me to bring her to my home to mock me? To taunt me with all that would never be mine? Christine was greatly mistaken if she assumed that I had been playing some cruel game with her all this time, or that I concealed any of my own emotions from her.

Finally, the boat pulled soundlessly up to the shore, and with its arrival, Christine's frame appeared to relax, her bird-like shoulders no longer as immobile and stiff as a fortress wall. "Mademoiselle, I believe we have arrived."

Finally, as if I had been waiting decades without the conversation of another soul- which was not too distant from the truth of the matter- Christine turned to face me, a gentle smile fighting to form upon her pristine features. (To me, she had no physical flaw). "Yes, Erik, it seems we are home."

Home. . .to be instilled with the hope that she might one day find any structure in which I resided-for I would not make her to rot away like a sewer rat in my cellar-to be her own home, was to aspire for the impossible. But even the Shah of Persia had once remarked that I was capable of conjuring the impossible from the turn of my wrist. . .

Without waiting for my assistance, Christine stepped onto the smooth stone 'shore' at the front of my home. Immediately, she dashed into her room and shut the door in a smooth motion. No slamming; I do not believe she was angry. I was convinced, however that she had a particular determination fueling her every movement. I could make out, thanks to my rather keen sense of hearing, Christine rifling through her bureau, then perhaps, the armoire, and finally, I heard the unmistakable spray of the running water I had equipped for her bathe. Which I, of course, took advantage of also, when my lovely guest was absent from my home. It would simply not suffice to bathe in the grotto every evening with the sea creatures, and my siren could be rather temperamental. . .

"Christine?" I called to her, my head very near the wood frame of the Louis-Phillipe room. She was still shuffling around in the dresser drawers, I assumed, as urgent slams echoed one another in quick succession.

"I will join you in the sitting room in a matter of minutes, Erik."

Well, that had definitely been my cue to leave her alone to her ministrations-whatever they may entail. Reclining in my favorite armchair, I realized my patience was very much in need of reinforcement. I had not an inkling of precisely why and for what I had been asked to wait, but Christine's tone with me had not been that of woman who wished to field questions. Unable to sit still, I jerked up from my seat in agitation and began scanning my bookshelves in a vain attempt to find some piece of literature to occupy my time. Arabian Nights...no fairy tales this evening. "Erik, I am sick of fairy tales...", she had raged.

I had a rather diverse collection of books: novels of the current style, histories of the ancient civilizations, a few rather salacious publications purchased in an alley near the Opera. No, definitely none of that. It was difficult enough to be in the same home as the girl and not touch her- without the influence of a seductive bit of reading to augment the maddening, ever-present temptation. Instead, I simply grabbed a few leaves of manuscript and moved to my desk.

If I could not find a suitable piece of writing, I would compose one of my own. As soon as I touched quill to paper, I was lost in my frustrations and passions, allowing the ink to bleed like a fresh wound onto its parched white carcass. . .

I'm going to show you so much love as to break your heart forever.

It's what you taught me; tears.

I see Christ in the sunset, oranges, purples, and crucifixion.

I don't offer sanctuary, only a place away from instinctual contempt.

We lack the strength to carve the truth- I've had miles to want you. You've had a quickening pulse to prove me.

We stumble through solitude, as children awake to escape dreaming of what has already been realized.

This death has not been shoved away as hoped,

Merely pushed aside, crushing even the tension that once lay between our breaths.

It will hurt, promises don't care, because we're anchored in the neap,

And, as the protection of even obligation dissipates, its still the last time.

"Erik, I'm ready." My pen fell limply upon the parchment, at the sound of my name on her lips. I do not believe anything would have prepared me for the sight of her as I looked up from my wretched composition.

"Ready, Christine?" My every sense inhaled her, enclosed her within my memory. She would remain forever as the silk-clad goddess standing with demure charm and absolute innocence in the doorway of that sitting room.

She stepped ever closer to my desk, making her image all the more enticing in the candlelight. Every curve of her lithe figure, those long curls dropping well past her graceful shoulders. "Yes, Erik, but the question is no longer yours to ask. Erik, are you ready?" Her hands went to the ties of her cream-silk robe, and I lacked the voice to respond to her.