She was sitting at his desk, head in hands, looking so beautiful and so sad. Erik wished that anything could have been different, anything that would make it possible for him to go to her, to put his arms around her and murmur words of comfort. This too was new. In the past, he had reacted to her hurts with rages or by finding ways to conveniently trip a bully or to let M. Lefevre know that some little cat was trying to catch the favors of the baritone (his brother-in-law). He had, on occasion, written music for her, but he had never told her about it. So much was unspoken. He could only regret all the opportunities lost. At that thought, he steeled himself. Here at least was an chance that he would not let pass by. He cleared his throat gently and tried to compose his face into an expression of mildness when she jumped in the chair and whirled around toward him.
"I hope that you are rested from your journey," he said, and then as she stared at him, "I, er, apologize for my … abruptness last night. I had no wish to offend you."
If he hadn't been so nervous, he might have smiled at her facial expression—her mouth was actually hanging open. They stared at one another like wild animals, until Giry saved them by entering the room.
"There you are," she said. "I trust that you have not walked yourself into a blister?"
Erik scowled at her. "I am very well, thank you."
Giry snorted. "Each of you is worse than the other. One day or no, I have had enough of being holed up in my room. If you wish to skulk about or hang in corners staring at one another, fine, but I am putting my old bones in front of the fire."
Erik joined Christine in her open-mouthed gape. Giry's grin looked suspiciously wicked. He tried again.
"You do not mind if I join you?" he asked Christine. After a brief hesitation, she shook her head. When he went to remove his jacket and fetch another book, he noticed that his hands were trembling, and his face felt hot. Still, it was a victory of sorts that she hadn't wept.
When he returned to the parlor, Christine had moved to one of the chair by the fire—the one that was usually his own. Erik sat at his desk, turned slightly so that he could watch the women from the corner of his eye. Giry was knitting, and Christine seemed deeply engrossed in a small piece of embroidery. He supposed that it must have looked to be a peaceful scene, but his heart was thudding in his chest.
He was normally a fast reader, but he didn't turn the page once. His eyes would focus on the words, but there was a disconnect to his brain—the sweep of Christine's arm was distracting. Every time he looked up, it seemed as if Giry was smirking at him. He still could hardly believe that he was sitting—calmly, even—in the same room as the woman for whose sake he had nearly destroyed himself. And her. And them all. This sparked a wave of despair. Surely there would be no second chance for him, not after so much pain. He must not allow himself ever to speak of it, barely to think of it. He had let her go once. That decision would have to stand. "It would kill me to hurt her again," he thought, and knew that it was not madness speaking but truth.
He thought of Meg and Giry, how they had grown used to each other and into something that he thought was friendship. He could place his hope there. Perhaps, in time, Christine would also come to value him as a friend, if he could prove to her that he was now sane and no danger to her. If he could keep quiet the love that burned steadily just under the surface of his skin.