This chapter didn't go quite according to plan, but I think the next one will well make up for it!

Chapter 6: wed

"Please put them on the kitchen table." Christine pressed her mouth into a firm line as she then fetched her coin purse once more and held out a tip.

This boy, like the others, protested. "I've already been paid, mademoiselle! I am under strict orders not to accept any further tip. If I anger him, he won't pick me as his runner anymore."

"Yes, I know." She sighed, not the first time, and tucked the coin away. "Thank you for your trouble."

The boy touched the brim of his hat and scurried off. Christine closed the door behind him and turned to examine the latest delivery: a dozen lilies in a soft purple. A card accompanied the arrangement, scrawled in a rather awkward script.

"Another sign of spring to bring you warmth. Yours, E."

The lilies were beautiful, of perfect quality, and their fragrance added to the cacophony other vases of flowers upon the table. Soft pink roses, tulips in brilliant orange and yellow, voluminous white peonies. They all came with a card written with a single line meant to flatter or thrill her. And it had not only been flowers. A box of pastries from a fancy bakery had arrived at first light this morning. After that, flowers, boxes of chocolate and other fine goods had followed. Even a pair of earrings had come via a very nervous delivery boy, and the card had promised more finery if she was so inclined.

She supposed it was all romantic, the moves of a suitor trying to win her hand.

Her annoyance must have been far too obvious, however, because Papa called out from the bedroom: "What did he send this time, dearest?"

"More flowers," she said over her shoulder. Her hand reached out and stroked the delicate petal of one of the lilies with her thumb. She had often seen the bushels of spring flowers lining the streets, but she had never had the money to buy any for herself. Now her table was covered in the beautiful plants, and yet her stomach roiled with nerves.

"Christine," said her father.

She added the card to the stack with the rest and walked to her father's bedside. He was propped upright with pillows at the insistence of Dr. Martin, who said too much lying down would further endanger his damaged lungs.

"Yes, Papa?"

He looked up at her with watery eyes, the once brilliant blue now a dullish sea gray, the color of an approaching storm. She knew her own eyes were as red-rimmed as his; she had lost too much sleep these past three nights because of his worsening cough.

"These gifts do not please you," he said, not a question.

She cut her gaze away. "They are nice, Papa. I know he is trying to be nice."

"But?"

Christine wanted to tell him why her heart was so heavy, that she felt forced into this marriage, that if she did not accept Erik Voclain's proposal, she felt as though she had to become his wife in order to ensure he continued to pay for Dr. Martin's services. Papa's very life would be in danger.

She had not told Charles about her conversation with Erik in the park after she had left his house. She knew he would never fully understand why this decision was so difficult for her. She was an offering being served to a man who knew he could have her… so why was he making so much effort to gain her favor?

He already had her… gifts or no gifts.

She straightened, meeting her father's expectant eyes again. "I will give him an answer soon, Papa, but I will not be rushed into the matter."

Charles opened his mouth to speak, but his torso convulsed, the cough overtaking him once again. It took a long time to quiet him back down. When she left his room, he was half-asleep from the drugs. She hoped he would not wake until the morning; the more he slept, the less he suffered.

A few more gifts arrived that afternoon. More flowers, mostly, except in the evening when a man in a chef's uniform appeared with a full four-course meal for two people. Even though Christine had thought the rest of the gifts were in good taste, she secretly loved this one, which showed more thought toward her comfort than flowers or jewelry.

When she had finished her portions and placed Papa's in the icebox for when he woke, Christine sat by the window and attempted to read.

And then somehow, she knew Erik was there.

She parted the curtains and looked down to the street. He stood on the sidewalk, a darker shadow among shadows, out in the open where she could not mistake him. His golden eyes seem to glow in the lamplight. He was a tall figure cut out of black cloth, all angular lines and piercing gaze.

Perhaps she should have been afraid to throw on her cloak and make her way into the night to stand before him. She was not.

Her breath blew out in little wisps, the warmth turned white in the chilly air. "Thank you for the gifts."

His head tilted slightly. "You are not pleased," he said. She did not see his breath as she did her own.

"No, no, I am." She felt her face flush hot with embarrassment. What an ungrateful child she suddenly felt! Her earlier thoughts came back to haunt her; Erik had only been trying his best to flatter her, to show he had been thinking of her throughout the day. And she had disregarded all of his good intentions.

He shifted from one foot to the next… a subtle movement that made him seem as uncomfortable as she was. "I know so little of your tastes," he monotoned. "I thought perhaps a variety would be more likely to discover your likes."

"O-of course. Thank you so much, Erik. The flowers were especially beautiful."

He gave her a long look, then produced a box which had been tucked under his arm beneath his cloak. It was thin and rectangular, and the top was secured with a bit of ribbon.

"For me?" she asked as he thrust it at her.

"Open it."

The ribbon gave way. Christine lifted off the top to reveal the stack of parchment lying flat within. "A copy of 'Sonno'?" she asked, looking up at him questioningly.

Erik shuffled once again. "I rewrote the piece to align with what you might have heard your father play. This copy has been composed for violin, not piano."

"Oh!" Christine touched the ink with renewed enthusiasm. A different kind of warmth spread throughout her. "You did this… for me?"

"Do you like it?"

"I love it, Erik. Papa has been too weak to play his violin as of late, but maybe you would play it for me sometime?"

She thought the corner of his mouth twisted upward. "I would."

Christine replaced the lid and clutched the box to her chest. Erik had truly tried to think of something that would mean a lot to her, and he had succeeded in every way. Suddenly, she grasped how unfair she had been in her judgement of him.

"Perhaps you should return indoors now," Erik said, half-turning from her. "I only wished to deliver the composition to you safely."

"Erik."

"Yes, Christine?"

He stared down at her from that impressive height, his eyes shadowed behind the edges of his mask. She realized he had not even tried to put up his glamour between the two of them; he had not done so since he had removed the illusion at his home days ago. Once he had understood how much the trickery hurt her, he had stopped. This was the kind of man she known him to be thus far, and she hoped that she was right.

She swallowed down her nerves. "Why haven't you simply asked me to marry you?"

His eyes narrowed behind his mask. "There are the way things are done, and then there are the way things should be done. Perhaps in a different world, I could simply ask you."

"If you did, then you would get an answer."

He squared his shoulders. She heard a faint clearing of the throat, and for some reason, that one little bit of self-consciousness from him thrilled her. "Christine, would you marry me?"

She did not hesitate. "Yes. I agree to be your w-wife." How strange those words felt upon her tongue, but despite how she stumbled over them, she knew her answer was true.

The tension went out of him. He bent and curled a gloved finger under her chin, the barest touch that stole her breath away. "We can be married by the end of the week," he said.

Her eyes widened. "But the bans… it has to be published first."

"This is already done," he said, his finger still balanced under her chin, the leather cold against her skin. "All I needed was your consent to proceed from there."

She thought to wrench away from him, but the pressure of his touch kept her rooted in place. There was no way that Erik could have published the bans without Papa's approval. She thought of the two men having this conversation without her, but she was not certain of her own reaction, of how she should react. Her body was being pulled along a trajectory that she could not

By the end of the week. They could be married by the end of the week.

She raised her chin, the movement enough to break contact with him. He let his hand drift back to his side. "Once we are married, I will live at your home?"

"Yes."

"Then Papa must move in as well. I could never leave him here."

"It will be done," Erik said immediately. "His room is already prepared for him. He will be separate from the main house with his own butler, as is custom. There is a small chapel between here and my estate. Once we are married there, Darius will escort your father to his new quarters. I assure you, Christine, that Monsieur Daaé will receive excellent care there."

Christine had no doubt of this.

Married by the end of the week. It was far sooner than she had thought, and her stomach flip-flopped with nervousness. Still, she remained chin-raised, meeting Erik's steady gaze.

"I give my consent, Erik."

"Then go home, my dear. Get your rest."

She dipped her head in some semblance of goodbye and hurried back across the street, the composition still clutched to her chest. A quick peek into Papa's room showed her that he was still asleep, so she busied herself with dressing for bed.

Once her hair was combed in thick golden waves down her back, and she had pulled a blanket to her waist, she settled onto the couch and spread the pages of "Sonno" across her lap. Even though she could not read music, she gingerly touched the notes and imagined Erik sitting and writing the sheet music just for her enjoyment.

Yes, by the end of the week, she would be wed.

Over the next few days, Erik's gifts were only music. Sometimes he sent over snippets of sonatas with which she was already familiar. Sometimes they were pieces of compositions of his that she had never experienced. When curious enough, she would ask Papa to hum a little of the song for her, and in this way, she discovered new melodies that left her longing for more. Erik knew that she could not read music, but the compositions were not meant as a reminder of that fact. They were the promise of the music to come, of what life with him could be like.

Admittedly, they did help ease the nerves churning in her belly, so much so that she was taken aback when Darius Ardavan knocked on their door at six o'clock sharp just as she was finishing the dishes from dinner.

His light brown face seemed flushed with a deep pink, his eyes bright. "Good evening, mademoiselle," he said, stepping through the doorway before she had the chance to greet him. "I came as soon as I could to pick you up."

Christine blinked at him. "Pick me up?"

"For your wedding, of course." Darius swept by her, pulling off his hat as he knocked upon Charles's bedroom door. Christine was surprised to see Papa sitting on the side of his bed, dressed in a fresh dark blue suit, his hair carefully combed. "Good evening, Monsieur Daaé."

"Good evening, Darius," Charles said. "I am ready, as promised."

"So I see, monsieur! I will take your bag for you." Darius took up the small piece of luggage that Christine had not noticed on the floor near the bed. "Dr. Martin is waiting in the carriage, but he can assist if you require him."

Charles shook his head. "If we go slowly, I should be able to manage."

Christine moved aside for Darius, who walked past her to load up the bag. "Papa, what is going on?"

Her father stood and swayed a little. She reached out and put an arm around his middle to steady him, and he smiled gratefully down at her. "Daughter mine, I am determined to witness your marriage to Monsieur Voclain. But afterward, I will not be joining you at his manor."

It felt as though he had just thrown cold water in her face. "What do you mean?" she asked shakily.

"I could not possibly impose on you both," he said, giving her a squeeze. "There is a lovely hospice center not far from Voclain's estate that has agreed to take me in."

"But this is not what we agreed, Papa!" She could feel her voice rising. She was not certain which of them was now holding up the other.

Darius returned. From the sweep of his eyes and the firm set of his mouth, he knew what the argument was about. Without a word, he ducked under Charles's other shoulder so that Christine could gather up her own belongings.

"I will not hear of this," she continued, tugging on her gloves with angry movements. "Erik said he had a room all ready-made for you!"

"Indeed, he told me," Charles said. He gave her a warm but determined look, the one she knew meant she had already lost this argument. "You are getting married, Christine, and I will only be a burden to the both of you. Monsieur Voclain and Dr. Martin have both assured me that this care facility is the best."

"It is," Darius said as they made their way to the door. "He will have round-the-clock care in the most comfortable conditions."

Christine did not reply, could not reply, her throat closing on her. It was her wedding day, and she did not want to cry. Her father was a grown man capable of making his own decisions, and she could clearly see that this one had been already made without her acknowledgement.

"Please don't be mad at me," Charles said. "This is what is best."

"I am not mad," she managed to whisper.

The three of them made their way down the stairs, and Charles Daaé stepped outside for the first time in over a month. He took a moment to breathe in the cool night air before Darius helped him inside a waiting carriage that would take him to the hospice to settle in and then to the chapel. Darius and Christine climbed aboard a separate ride to Erik's manor where she would dress.

It was the second time she had seen Erik's home. She wondered if the high spires in white stone would look less imposing in the daylight or if the red trim would still seem as ominous. Would the manor look as large with sunlight trimming its edges? She had only ever seen Erik at night, for that matter, when he could intermingle with the shady backdrop. She tried to picture him in bright daylight, but the image seemed too odd and she shook it away.

Darius escorted her to a section of the estate that she had not ventured into last time. The red outside door led directly into a tower with a spiral staircase that opened to a single hallway. Lit sconces dotted the walls, heaping candlelight throughout their passage.

They stopped at the first door, and Darius opened it to reveal an expansive bedroom that seemed decorated just for her. The walls were covered in a beautiful lavender wallpaper detailed in silver, and ivory-colored furniture was studded with ornate, crystal knobs. A large claw-footed tub peaked out from behind a screen, a luxury she had never seen before. Across the bed were draped various pieces of wedding gowns, spread out for her perusal.

Madame Giry sat upon a velvet chaise lounge, looking as though she had been waiting for Christine to arrive. Christine was not surprised to see her, however. The ballet mistress seemed to have a way of knowing when she was most needed.

Giry stood and nodded her head in greeting. "I am here to help you, my dear girl."

As Darius ducked out and closed the door, Christine placed her few personal items down. "I am so glad to see you, madame. I… I am a little nervous."

"Of course you are." Madame Giry walked over the tub and tested the water. "A hot bath will do you some good. I will return in half an hour."

"Thank you, madame."

Once she was alone, Christine stripped, tied up her hair, and sank into the bubbly tub. The water was warm and scented with rose oil, and she felt her tension ease immediately.

In less than an hour, she would be a married woman.

She ran her hands down her body. She had never considered herself womanly, even after her shape had begun to change, her curves becoming more pronounced. A lifetime of poverty had kept her figure gangly, but she had not until now considered how a man might view her knobby knees or small breasts. She could hide these features under a voluptuous bustle, but on her wedding night…

A brisk knock on the door told her that Madame Giry had returned. Christine called out for the woman to give her a moment, and then she rose from the tub and dried herself off with a fluffy towel. Once she had buttoned up her wrapper, she told the older woman to enter.

"Have you considered what you will wear?" Madame Giry asked, gesturing at the piles of white and cream-colored satin and lace heaped upon the bed.

Christine had not, actually. How could she possibly choose what to wear under such pressure? She did not know what Erik might fancy… she did not know what she might fancy.

"If- if I pick out the bodice and skirt, will you help me choose what goes underneath?" she asked.

Madame Giry nodded and gestured again, a movement that showed they would soon run out of time. Christine went to the bodices first, a variety of sleeve lengths and bosom shapes. She selected one that kept her more covered, but that would also add shape to her boyish figure, the satin covering her neck to wrist with a bit of lace trim.

Madame Giry clicked her tongue. "If you are going to pick something so plain for the top, then the skirt must have more intrigue and detail. This has the same lace trim, but in more abundance, and the ruffles along the train will look attractive when you move."

"Thank you," Christine said. Giry was right. The two pieces would look pretty together. The ruffles on the train resembled little waves across silky water, at the lace added some much-needed intrigue to keep the gown from seeming too plain. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then she bent and fingered the edge of one sleeve. The fabric was butter-soft under her fingertips.

Madame Giry selected matching undergarments, and they spent the next moments in silence as Christine dressed. Finally, the older woman pulled over a tall floor mirror and adjusted Christine's long veil while Christine gazed at herself. Clad head to toe in ivory silk, she looked the perfect image of a bride. Her golden hair had been swept from her neck and studded with pearl pins. Her hands were left bare, her skin now clean and glowing.

Madame Giry met her eyes in the mirror and gave a sharp nod of approval. "Come, we must go. Monsieur Ardavan stands ready to drive us."

"A-All right." Christine stared at herself in the mirror, then cleared her throat. "Madame, do… do you think Monsieur Voclain a good man?"

Giry snapped her head back around. "It matters little what I think."

"But you know him. You have known him for a long time, I can see that. Please…" She forced herself to keep the woman's steely gaze, to hold onto her own resolve. "Is there anything about him you will tell me?"

"Still nervous, are you?"

"More than a little," Christine admitted.

Madame Giry blew out a sigh. "Let us be off. We can speak during the drive over."

"Thank you," Christine said with relief.

But it was a while before the ballet mistress spoke, the sound of horses' hooves upon cobblestone and the creaking of the wooden carriage filling the space between them. Madame Giry's knuckles were tight around the head of her cane.

"I have known Erik for thirty years," she said at last, dark eyes staring into the shadows of the carriage. "He had snuck into the Palais Garnier one night, starving, stinking of decaying earth. He was half-wild and dangerous, and I should have called for help, but I didn't. He listened to me when I told him to bathe, and then I fed him…" Here she paused and glanced at Christine, and something in that look made Christine not ask for more details, to allow the woman to keep going with her story as she saw fit.

"Once his needs were met, a new man emerged, and we settled into a routine together. I spent ten years helping him hide within the Palais Garnier. He never told me where he had come from, nor anything of his past except that he had spent a considerable amount of time in Persia. He was not an easy man with which to get along, but he was – and still is – a brilliant musician and composer. He transformed the opera house, made it the successful institution it is today with his musical guidance."

Madame Giry shook her head in remembrance. "We had a falling out, he and I. He left the Palais Garnier, and when I finally heard from him again, years had passed. Even then, we corresponded only through letters and his compositions, existing simply as colleagues rather than the friends we had been. I did not see him again until he showed up at the opera house to tell me about you."

"Me?" Christine said, eyes wide in the dark encasement of the carriage.

"He asked for my help. Despite my hesitation otherwise, despite our past, I decided to give it. I never thought I would see him again, let alone help his future bride dress for her wedding." Madame Giry turned to fully stare at her, eyes two pinpricks of hard light. "You asked if Erik Voclain was a good man."

"I did, madame."

"My answer is this: I believe he will be a good man to you. And upon this earth, that is the best you can hope for."

Next time: a wedding and a wedding night. Finally, this fic starts to earn its rating!