Erik couldn't tell whether it was punishment or mercy that she should be gone so much, her last two days. He thought maybe it was just as well that they had no more opportunities to unpack the past and its various pains. Given that he was tied up in the rigors of composition, he also had no time to brood about it. There were so many melodies crowding his mind that he could barely keep up with himself. He worked all day—Aimée startled him twice by bustling in with a tray, and he had paced the room with a teacup in hand, humming to himself. By the time Christine and Giry returned, his brain was muzzy with exhaustion, such that the notes receded for a time and he could sit quietly and watch these women, each of whom was dear to him, peaceably and gladly.
He dreamed of nebulous things—two voices twined in duet, the echo of strings across a large body of water, glints of gold in dark hair, the taste of herbs steeped in alcohol. By morning, these had resolved themselves into song, and he was up early, back to work.
Meg had either worse manners than the other two or less of an appreciation of his music, for she forcibly dragged him to sit with them at breakfast.
"Christine's leaving tomorrow; you can't hole yourself up in here. You'll have all the time in the world when she's gone."
This was true, so he sat with them and listened as they plotted their day like a trio of generals bent on sacking the city. Meg was quivering with excitement; Giry and Christine were grinning at her in a way he had rarely seen on either face. Had things really been so bad, back at the Opéra? He hoped not, and he knew well enough not to ask. No one would want to spoil such joy.
As soon as they were out the door, he returned to his desk. He'd be all winter revising, at this point. Everything was trying to come out at once, and it was all he could do to keep themes from overlapping into a muddle.
Around midday, he was stuck on a line that would not make peace with itself, his hand was aching, and he was running low on paper and quills. There was nothing for it but a walk. The day was warm and perfect, and the rhythm of walking cleared his mind of its cobwebs. He could feel the notes in the background, beginning to bring themselves to order. He bought his paper and quills and wandered the narrow streets, beginning to hum to himself. He stopped for coffee but left the newspapers—politics would wait until after the music had let go a little. The drink's bitterness revived him somewhat. He was amused with himself that he did not even notice whether anyone stared at him; it was a great gift of his music that it distracted him from the misery of his own flesh. Erik looked down at his hands as they cradled the tiny coffee cup. There was nothing about his hands to elicit disgust. They were strong enough for hard labor, large enough to span more than an octave and a half, but capable of the delicate motions of lock-picking or drawing tails on eighth notes that were identical to one another, each with a tiny flourish that pleased his eye. They were old friends, his hands, no matter how ill he had used them. Perhaps the ink stains would some day obscure the blood.
He went into a book shop and poked about for a while. He was very pleased to find not only a Swedish dictionary but also a book of what looked to be fairytales, which would be useful for grammar. Back home, he placed these at the side of the desk as a sort of token. His melody had come together in his mind, so he was able to spend the rest of afternoon working easily and steadily.
Erik had lived with the Girys long enough to know that Meg would require him to look at all her purchases—and, if Fate was unkind, to hear about the fabric, the type of lace, and how many times she had had to bat her eyelashes to bring the price down two francs. She amused him, as she always had, but she quite wore him out. But as she had said, it was Christine's last day. When the day's light began to fade and he reached a good stopping point, Erik went to his room and dressed carefully for dinner, much as he had at the Opéra, in a lean, dark suit and a brocade waistcoat. For whatever reason, he found himself tying his cravats these days with a less extravagant knot. Despite his care, they still had not arrived, and it was nice to sit quietly with his book and let his mind relax. Somehow he had gotten through Christine's last two days without pain, without brooding. In the morning, she would go, and his quiet life would have a new quality to it, because he had been able to forgive her, to be forgiven by her. Now he could let her go with only a mild regret. Tonight he would have to look at her enough to last a lifetime. Sadness would be the counterpoint—with any luck, nearly hidden—but the theme would be to celebrate her, to send her off joyfully on her grand adventure.
There was a tremendous noise in the hallway that was punctuated by laughter. Erik stood to greet them, his dear ones, who had come home.