Creative Differences
Christian spent a long while staring at the ring, before finally setting its open box on the desk alongside his typewriter. He fed a sheet of paper into the machine, and began to type—but changed his mind and instead pulled up another sheet of paper and a fountain pen. He spent a while tapping the pen against the desk, (at one point leaving an inkblot against the paper, causing him to get another piece), intending to compose a poem or a song to Satine. He would write her something beautiful, then tell her how he felt and ask her to marry him. It was as simple as that.
Or perhaps not so. He scratched out several lines, but always ended up marking through them, and eventually crumpling up all of them until the wastebasket was half full of wadded paper. Setting the pen down, Christian ran a hand over his face, at last deciding he couldn't go about it that way. Whatever he said to Satine had to come from his heart, at the spur of the moment, as everything had, from their first meeting until now.
Picking up the ring box again, he palmed it and headed in the direction of the bedroom, pausing there outside it to check his appearance in the same mirror he had practiced his proposal on. He ran his free hand through his messy hair, straightened his clothing as best he could, then slipped into the bedroom.
He'd expected Satine to be asleep, but instead she was sitting propped against the pillows, his battered copy of Romeo and Juliet open on her lap. She glanced up at him as he entered and smiled.
Momentarily thrown off by this, Christian swallowed—hopefully not audibly—and put his hands behind his back as he reached to push the door shut.
"A-are you feeling better?" he asked, with an attempted air of casual concern.
Reading into his anxiety—but incorrectly so—she lifted an eyebrow at him and lowered the book, setting it aside on the nightstand.
"I'm fine, Christian," she insisted, offering a light laugh. "Stop worrying so much."
He nodded slightly, then moved over to sit beside her on the bed, self-consciously fidgeting with the ring box, which he held on his other side, out of view from her.
Satine sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, and looked at him in concern. "Christian, is something wrong?"
"No, it—it's just—" He stopped himself, frustrated, and bit his lip.
She remained patiently silent, folding her hands in her lap and allowing him to say whatever was weighing on his mind. Somehow, she had a feeling it had something to do with whatever it was Castleton had wanted earlier, but she wouldn't say as much.
"I—" Christian drew in a breath, hesitating, then burst out, "I want to spend my lifetime loving you."
Satine smiled, albeit bemusedly—this was what was bothering him so much? She found the sentiment sweet, of course, but didn't see why he would have to work up so much nerve just to tell her he loved her. It was something they said to each other several times a day, and while that did not diminish the weight of such a proclamation, it certainly wasn't a difficult affection to utter.
Christian rose, slipping the ring back into his pocket, and took her by the hand. Silently, he led her out of the bedroom and back into the living room, straight to the balcony, where he opened the doors and drew her outside. Then, he began to sing.
"Moon so bright, night so fine,
Keep your heart here with mine.
Life's a dream we are dreaming . . ."
He gestured up at the sky, to the nearly full moon that cast its silvered rays down upon them.
"Race the moon, catch the wind,
Ride the night to the end.
Seize the day, stand up for the light . . ."
He turned back to her with a smile, and continued earnestly, uncaring of who heard.
"I want to spend my lifetime loving you,
If that is all in life I ever do.
Heroes rise, heroes fall,
Rise again, win it all.
In your heart, can't you feel the glory?
Through our joy, through our pain,
We can move worlds again!
Take my hand, dance with me . . ."
Christian took Satine by the hand then and led her back inside, drawing her into his arms and twirling her around as they danced there in their bare feet upon the hardwood floor.
"I want to spend my lifetime loving you,
If that is all in life I ever do.
I will want nothing more to see me through,
If I can spend my lifetime loving you . . ."
Satine smiled at him through the tears that had filled her eyes, and their voices merged together.
"Though we know we will never come again,
Where there is love, life begins,
Over and over again . . .
Save the night, save the day,
Save the love, come what may!
Love is worth everything we pay."
Christian leaned his forehead against hers, continuing softly on his own.
"I want to spend my lifetime loving you,
If that is all in life I ever do . . ."
Satine wrapped her arms around him as she responded quietly.
"I want to spend my lifetime loving you,
If that is all in life I ever do . . ."
Their voices joined together again, as they finished,
"I will want nothing more to see me through,
If I can spend my lifetime loving you."
Christian leaned in and kissed Satine, then drew back from her slowly and knelt down before her. Drawing the ring box from his pocket, he opened it and offered it up to her.
"Satine, will you marry me?"
Satine gazed spellbound at the ring, its diamond twinkling in the moonlight that filtered into the room. She felt herself growing dizzy, but in a lovely sort of way, her heart fluttering.
Exhaling the breath she hadn't even realized she was holding, she nodded slowly, responding, "Yes."
Christian stared at her for a long moment, before finally allowing it to sink in that she had said yes. He stirred, blinking, and questioned, "Yes?"
"Yes," she affirmed, and held her hand out, allowing him to slide the ring onto her finger. "Yes."
"Yes," he repeated, grinning, as he got back to his feet.
"Yes," she said again, then all semblance of ladylike dignity was abandoned and she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him repeatedly. "Yes, yes, yes!"
Christian, of course, accepted this with all the dignity he could.
That was his job, after all.
The next morning, Satine awoke to find Christian was gone again, his side of the bed messy, but devoid of any trace of body heat. This time, however, she had the feeling it was not from one of his dreams, but sheer exuberance—because she felt it as well. Rolling over onto her back, she held up her left hand and looked at the ring that adorned her finger, the facets of the little diamond twinkling in the morning sunlight. She smiled at it, then stretched languorously, marveling over the fact she and Christian were engaged.
She was going to be Mrs. Christian James. Satine James. It didn't have the most poetic ring to it, but she couldn't care any less.
"What's in a name?" she asked no one at all.
"That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet," she exulted, then quieted, straining her ears for any noise to alert her of Christian's presence in the other room, but she heard no clacking of typewriter keys, or attempts at being quiet that usually tended to be louder for the efforts at silence.
Glancing at the clock, she found it was already ten o'clock, and so decided—albeit reluctantly—to rise, singing happily to herself.
"The hills are alive . . . with the sound of music . . ."
After getting dressed, she stepped out of the bedroom and headed immediately for Christian's desk, where she found a note addressed to her—not composed on the typewriter, but written in his own loving hand.
Good morning, my fiancée,
I hope you slept well. I've gone to mail off Sophie's letter—I promised her she'd be the first one to know!—and to get some fresh air. I left you some breakfast; I know you never like anything heavy. I love you and I'll be back soon.
All my love,
Christian
Satine smiled and looked over the top of the note to find a pomegranate sitting on the desk. She rolled her eyes, remembering the first time she and Christian had breakfast together—she'd eaten a single croissant, then declared herself full—but smiled at the sentiment nonetheless.
Reaching for the pomegranate, she lifted it off the newspaper (printed in English for all the British people, as of course few of them could read Arabic), and after a moment's curiosity picked up the newspaper as well, deciding she would do well to catch up with what was going on in the rest of the world. They had become decidedly isolated in Egypt.
Idly scanning the headlines, she took note of the date, wanting to remember upon which day she and Christian had become betrothed.
March 23, 1900.
That would make the day before the twenty-second. She frowned slightly, then—could it really be so late into the month? Setting the newspaper back down, she considered the pomegranate in her hand, but set it back down as well, her hand dropping to her stomach as a wave of nausea washed over her.
"It can't be," she whispered to herself, counting back in her mind.
It all aligned correctly, but still . . . it couldn't be.
She was not granted much time to ponder the matter, however, as at that moment a knock sounded on the door, causing her to jump. Figuring Christian must have wandered through the market again and had his hands full with more trinkets, she moved to answer it, and found not Christian, but Alexander Castleton, on the other side.
Castleton removed his hat—the American always seemed to be wearing a hat, Satine thought—and offered her a nod of greeting. "Good morning, Miss Satine."
"Good morning, Monsieur Castleton," she responded politely, stepping away from the door to allow him inside. She turned back to the desk as he entered. "Christian is out right now, but you're welcome to wait for him if you'd like."
"Actually," he clarified, closing the door behind himself, "I'd like to talk to you."
Satine lifted an eyebrow in curiosity, moving over to settle herself on the chaise.
"To me?" she questioned, that same cool composure coming over her that she always seemed to use in the presence of any save those who knew her well.
"Yes," he continued, sitting down across from her and fingering the brim of his hat. It was a motion that reminded her vaguely of nervous customers at the Moulin Rouge—ones who were suitably intimidated by whatever act she was putting on.
"Congratulations on your engagement, by the way," he finally offered. "Christian stopped by to tell me about it on his way out."
So he really was there just to see her, as he'd already spoken to Christian.
"Thank you," she responded primly, brushing a wrinkle out of her skirt. The ring on her finger twinkled, and a faint smile graced her features, momentarily banishing the professionalism.
"You two seem very happy," Castleton said slowly.
"We are," she said with a nod, the smile fading. What was he getting at?
"But—" he stated, seeming to be steeling up his nerve.
Here it came, Satine thought.
"—I ask you to consider Christian's future happiness."
She stared at him, unflinching.
"His world revolves around you. You are his world," Castleton corrected himself. "I know it sounds extreme, but you know and I know it's not."
Satine began to frown, but still said nothing, knowing he would not finish until he had been heard out.
"Think about it. Christian marries you, you have children, you build a life together . . . but inevitably, someone finds out who you were, and it may not matter to Christian, but I assure you, it will matter to them. Even the Americans you think are so crass about things," he stated bluntly.
"He'll stick by you, through it all, but his family will disown him, his fickle friends will look down on him. What will you have left then, a handful of drunken artists and streetwalkers? Your children won't be able to look you in the face without seeing what their mother was, a woman who sold herself for money—"
"Monsieur Castleton," Satine interjected, surprised to find herself trembling, though from anger or the sudden illness she had been experiencing, she didn't know. Her limbs seemed weak as she straightened to her full height despite herself, chin lifting defiantly.
"Please leave," she said coolly, "and I will do you the courtesy of not telling Christian of this conversation, as it would only hurt him to know your feelings."
Castleton rose and started to put on his hat again, but paused and lowered his hand back down.
"I still ask that you consider what I've said. For Christian's sake," he stated, and she was sickened to see that he could honestly be so concerned over it.
"Go," she demanded firmly, lifting a hand to point in the direction of the door.
"Just—" she'd begun to say, Just leave, but words failed her as she was gripped by a sudden feeling of vertigo that made her sway on the spot.
Castleton had begun to move toward the door, but paused and looked back at her, his brow furrowed in concern. "Are you all right?"
"Just a bit—a bit—" Dizzy, she finished silently, as everything started to spin.
The last thing she saw was the worried face of Alexander Castleton, before her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed backward onto the chaise lounge, too quickly for his attempts at catching her.
Christian entered the room ten seconds later.
Author's Note: Lyrics are "I Want to Spend My Lifetime Loving You," from The Mask of Zorro soundtrack, by Tina Arena and Marc Anthony; and "The Sound of Music," which . . . is also credit to someone other than me, but I don't remember exactly who. Satine's quote is, albeit obviously, from Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare, and while I figure most everyone knows that, I still wanted to give credit.
My sincere thanks go out to Kassy (Moonlit Aria) and Anna (Arauka Pilininge), for beta reading this rather lengthy chapter. My apologies fall to the readers for cutting it off at a rather inopportune place, but it was getting long, and I didn't want to hit the limit. Next chapter: Things take a turn for the worst, then the best, through a bit of trial and error; includes angst, betrayal, forgiveness, and—above all things—love.