Even with his head pounding from so many tears, Erik felt as if the weight of ages had been lifted from him. He sat in his room for a while with a wet cloth pressed to his face, and when his eyes cleared and his head felt better, he found that his mask was not ruined after all. Cleaning and oiling soon set it to rights, and he pulled out another to wear while it dried. Funny that he had, without thinking, made spares, as soon as they were settled. Yet he had given up the wigs. And no one fled from him in the street.
His brain was brimming, so within the hour he was back at his desk with a new quill cut and notes laying themselves down as fast as his hand could move. Surely perfect pitch was God's kindest gift to a composer. The piece, which seemed to be shaping into a string quartet, was so alive in itself that he had room left over to think.
He had said very nearly every awful thing in his heart, and she had not run from him. She had not scorned him. She had put her arms around him and held him close, so for the second time in 24 hours he had found consolation in a woman's arms—he, the monster. When he was mad, she had spurned him, she had plotted his ruin. But now she stood near him. She held him close to her and ran her fingers through his hair. The cello line deepened, even as the first violin soared over a gently pizzicato viola and second violin. Two dark-eyed women, and his past resolving itself into a present that might admit a future. He felt he could sleep for a year, except for all the writing.
Erik reminded himself that she would leave, but the pang of it held no despair. Through all their tears, he had found a sort of reconciliation. His past was what it was, and she forgave him. So, too, he forgave her. She was so young, and he knew so little of the world—it could never have ended well.
By the time Giry returned home, he was most of the way through a third piece, his fifth quill, and his hand was starting to cramp. He felt almost giddy, what with exhaustion, emotion, composition, and—he realized—having eaten almost nothing all day. Giry was in a strange, joyous mood, so it was very welcome to pull out their one bottle of good sherry and enjoy the fire.
And Christine. Christine in green, with the flames pulling glints of gold from her hair. He was so light-headed that he even teased her gently, as he had just begun to do with Meg and Giry this month past. He hardly knew himself. If he was not hated and feared, who was he? Perhaps a simple composer. The manners that demanded he sit with them until after supper were occasionally inconvenient.
Erik was not so outside himself as to be resentful when Meg arrived and talk turned to all things female. She was in raptures over Christine's dress, with which he quite agreed, and he caught Giry's amused glance several times over dinner as the girls planned their grand shopping trip, two days hence.
"Maman, you will come, won't you?" Meg asked, and Giry sighed.
"I suppose I must, or poor Christine will have no travel money when you are done."
They had both grinned, but he saw that when Christine looked over at him, her smile faltered slightly. He made note to reassure her when he could. Of course he would prefer for her to be near him always, but he was resigned. He could see the wisdom of it, and not just for her. The potential for danger was very great, no matter how much they talked, no matter how much they had changed.
And after dinner they pulled the chairs close together by the fire. It was such an adorable arrangement that he risked a joke.
"Oh no, thank you. I much prefer to sit by the cold window and suffer for my art."
Meg giggled and Giry snorted, but it was Christine who answered him.
"You poor old thing! Shall we fetch you a lap rug and a hot-water bottle? Or perhaps a footstool to keep your feet out of the draft?"
He felt sure that Heaven would be like this, even as they laughed at him. The constant giggling in the background could not quell the tide of music that had risen in him. He ran out of staves and had to draw more, which was rarely anything but an irritation. It was while he was drawing that he heard the phrase "travel money" again, and Christine cried out,
"Oh, but it's so confusing! I could go anywhere, so how am I to decide?"
This was a topic of great interest. Drawing staves suddenly seemed like just the thing.
"I believe you are right, my dear, that the great houses are closed to you," Giry said after a pause.
"Yes. So that means I can count out London, Rome, Berlin, and Lisbon. That leaves the rest of the world! I mean, surely they won't have heard of this in America."
The very thought was ice in his veins.
"Not America!" Meg cried. "You can't go so far! Why, we'd never see you again!"
Bless Meg.
"No, you're right," Christine said. "It does seem an entirely foreign place. So not America."
Erik gave up trying to pretend that he wasn't listening and turned in his chair. Christine looked up and beckoned him over. How could he refuse? He carried his chair closer and sat.
"I've heard the opera in St. Petersburg is very fine," Giry said. Christine looked at him.
"I have heard the same, but they are reported to be a very rigorous company," he said. "Also, I have heard less than savory things about the Tsar."
"And Russian politics are even worse than our own. They're always breaking out into one war or another."
Christine nodded. "I hadn't thought of that."
"Are you sure about Lisbon?" he asked. "Their reputation is not what it was. They might be willing to overlook a little scandal, given your talent."
She shook her head.
"I don't want to take the chance," she said. "The money I have won't last forever, so the more quickly I can get somewhere and start working, the better."
"Budapest?" Meg ventured.
"Certainly they are far enough off the map, but I know nothing of them," he said.
"Nor I," Giry added, "although I have met a few very fine dancers from Hungary."
"I was considering Vienna," Christine said.
"Their company barely functions. You would be singing lieder in coffeehouses to make your way," he said, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"Ah, that's right," Giry said. "They have that horrible patron."
Then he was struck with the perfect idea, but it saddened him, being so very far away.
"Have you thought of returning to Stockholm?"
The glimmer of excitement in her eyes was palpable.
"How could I have missed it? Is their opera any good?"
He shrugged.
"I've heard very little of them."
"The house is quite old, but small," Giry said. "They recently lured the ballet mistress from Salzburg and the conductor from Madrid, so there must be some potential." She stared shrewdly at Christine. "And given your name, you may be welcomed home as a daughter."
Tears stood in her eyes as Christine nodded. It was clear they all felt the wisdom of this decision. Erik was glad to have been the one to voice it.
"Stockholm, then," she said. "Home." He did not understand the phrase she added. Erik made note that he had to learn another language.