She could not know how she intoxicated him by standing so close, by the feel of her fingers against his neck. He tried to focus on the awkwardness of his stance, but it was very little distraction. There had been a moment when he almost thought that she looked at him as she had all those months ago, down under the Opéra when he sang to her and he thought she would be his forever, before it all fell apart. If that expression had lasted another instant he might have leaned in to kiss her, but then her face cleared—perhaps he'd imagined it.
Thoughts like that were just so much hubris, anyway. Better to focus on what was real: he could write to her, and he had a beautiful little pin at his throat that he could not stop touching. That they would write was a miracle and a comfort—no parting forever. It made his task to send her off well much easier.
Meg returned with her new shawl and her hair redone in a new ribbon, with Giry walking behind, rolling her eyes but grinning. They were a merry bunch, and Aimée outdid herself with a very fine supper, even going so far as to mumble that it was for Mlle. Christine. At that, Erik placed a glass in her hand, filled it with wine, and they toasted Christine all together; she then had to have a little cry. Aimée clutched her wineglass to her chest and stared at him with wide eyes. He patted her shoulder.
"It's all right," he told her, and it surprisingly was.
They stayed up late into the night, trading only the happiest stories of the past, which meant that Erik only listened, but still it was good to hear of glad times, to think that he had not wholly ruined the past. To see them sitting together was a marvel to him, three women of long, close acquaintance. They sat fairly on top of one another, and they were always touching—knees pressed together, a brief clasping of hands, an arm around a shoulder, a hand laid on an arm. He did not know whether other men touched each other or the women they knew; he had led a life nearly devoid of touch. To see such contact made him envious, hungry, but at the same time it rested his eyes to see such comfortable affection.
As the night wore on, pauses grew longer, as did the slight hugs. Erik wondered whether he could fall asleep there in his hard desk chair and hold this image in his head through his dreams—Christine with her head laid against Giry's arm, holding Meg's hand, the three of them lit by the orange glow of a banked fire.
He didn't know that anyone suggested that they all go to bed—it was as if their minds moved along the same pathway and came to an agreement. Even with shadows under her eyes, Christine was more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen. In his dream, she held that expression of bewitchment for just a minute longer, and he leaned into her, her lips soft as rose petals and her fingers at his neck. When he woke, deep in the night, he rolled over to place his hand and his forehead against the wall. She lay on the other side, and he told himself that he could smell her, a faint scent of jasmine. Uncomfortable as it was, this was how he fell back to sleep, as close to he as he would ever be again.
They were all of them up early—he could hear Meg and Christine thumping about in their room, talking quietly. Christine had never been one for organization or planning—she was likely packing, and Meg would be off to teach soon. He would let them have their goodbyes privately. She would go, and he would lose his heart again, for it was entirely hers, and when she wasn't near he wouldn't have it. He wrapped her father's picture in a large square of red silk and tied it with a black ribbon. The small box with the cravat pin lay beside it. She had given him a gift—a tangible thing, which could stand for all the other joys of these short days, as her ring did for all their days of suffering. She was leaving, but his heart felt lighter. Already he was composing his first letter to her.
Breakfast was quiet. Meg had already gone, and Christine kept fiddling with her silverware, eating very little.
"Are you nervous?" Giry asked, and she nodded.
"I have traveled so little that I don't know what to expect."
Erik wished he could send his shadow with her, to loom over her and protect her from danger. Knowing that she would go this very day, he gave in to all his romantic notions and thought of following her, even if he was only the unseen guardian, as in the past. But how much better to reveal himself, to guide her on his arm. He needed little sleep; he would sit up all night in the railway carriage and she could rest her head against his arm.
Time passed too quickly with such thoughts. Too soon the hired carriage was in the street, her trunk loaded on top, and it was time for her to go. Giry embraced her; he kissed her hand, lingering as long as he dared. He pressed the silk-wrapped present into her hand and told her to open it on the train. Her smile was tearful as he handed her into the carriage. He and Antoinette stood waving as long as they could see it. Erik told himself that he could see her face through the window, looking back at them. He thought, "I will love you all the days of my life."