Domestic Disharmony

Disclamation: I don't own anything belonging to someone else. I did own the word

Disclamation, but then I discovered it was, in fact, a word.

The newly married Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny, formerly Christine Daae, stretched and slid out of the bed she shared with her husband Raoul. He slept still, in the dawn hours. She couldn't sleep late; when she was in the Opera Populaire she rose at early for the ballet practice. She ran a hand down his soft cheek and smiled briefly. He was her angel.

She entered her dressing room, the beautiful mirror filled area adjacent to the bedroom. "Marie," she called softly.

"Is there anything you need my Vicomtesse?" the young servant asked.

"Marie, would you assist me in dressing?" she questioned with a rueful smile. The corsets worn by noblewomen had laces in both the front and back, preventing her from getting ready herself. It was times like these she wished she were back at the opera house. But the opera house is nothing now; just smoke and ashes, she told herself.

"Of course my Vicomtesse."

"Thank you Marie, and I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning."

"It's my job. I don't mind. I enjoy it." Her face was apprehensive and worried.

Christine immediately regretted her apology. The poor child thought her job was unnecessary. "Oh, of course," she stammered.

The girl relaxed and helped Christine to finish dressing. She walked down the stairs and was presented with an orange, peeled and cleaned. "Thank you," she said gently. The boy smiled uncertainly with his large, fearful eyes.

She sat down and sighed slightly. For Raoul, she forced herself to remember. Raoul wants a noble wife. A proper one and he shouldn't have to settle for less.

Vicomte Raoul de Chagny opened his eyes and groaned. Christine had risen earlier, leaving a cold patch to his left. He had told her to sleep late; he told her to "rest her old and weary bones," as the joke had been.

And the innocent and lovely Christine Daae—no, he murmured silently, Christine de Chagny, as she is my wife—well, the lovely Christine had been as naïve as she had seemed.

As much as he hadn't wanted to press her—well, she seemed about as eager to get into bed with him as with that—that phantom of the bloody opera!

"Martin!" he snapped.

"Yes my Vicomte?"

"Bring my clothing and send a message to my wife. I desire a word with her."

"Yes my Vicomte."

Suddenly, he didn't want to mess around with his inexperienced, unprepared, unknowledgeable wife. He wanted someone else.

"Martin?"

"Yes my Vicomte?"

"There has been a change of plans. I'm going out."

"Shall I prepare a carriage my Vicomte?" he asked, never forgetting that apparently necessary bit of courtesy to his better.

"No. I'll go on my own."

Martin turned meek. "Shall I inform your wife of your going?"

Raoul said nothing. "My Vicomte?" Martin stuttered.

"No. And I do not desire a word with her either."

Martin nodded, eager to go. "Yes my Vicomte."

Raoul didn't blame him and let the poor fool go. Poor fool, he makes me laugh… The opera songs tended to run through his head. He didn't blame them either. After the…tragedy that night…his thoughts were muddled. Christine was a touchy subject. Martin hadn't wanted to bring it up…

He had tried to initiate bedroom activity before and had failed. She didn't even seem to know what it was. Before the wedding, he could go to any whore for sexual cravings. Though he knew she wouldn't like it—well, she didn't even know what it was, the ingénue.

Giselle Bouvier smiled at the man's attentions, and she flirted back. Like I have a choice, she joked in her mind. As a prostitute, it was her job, and her seductiveness led to her making a half-decent living. Half-decent indeed…

"Simonne!" Her 'owner's' voice rang shrilly. "There's a man here who's asked for our 'best!'"

The young woman tossed her deep brown curls over one shoulder and kissed him goodbye, promising to return later.

She settled the shy smile over her outgoing interior. "Hello?" she said, almost as if not sure how she would be received.

The handsome nobleman seemed reassured and in control. She guessed he was married to a quiet woman. There was no way this man was not married; he was attractive and rich, judging from the small silk purse filled money he offered her.

"And would there be a pretty name for the pretty lady?" he asked, with the air of one reassuring a frightened colt.

Simonne made herself look slightly calmer. "I am called Simonne Bouvier."

He handed her a red rose. She gasped, genuinely surprised. "Why, thank you."

He smiled. In response she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, allowing her expertise to take over.

She couldn't miss his satisfied smirk as he pulled up his trousers and left.