Her first role was to be Odabella in Vedi's Attila. M. Peña was good enough to tell her as soon as the decision was made, and it eased her nervousness to put so much study into the role. Then, too, it would be good to have rehearsals and to be busy. Christine had made sure to attend dance classes at least three days a week, but her recitals had required almost no preparation, and it was unsettling to be in the opera house yet idle. Attila would rehearse for three weeks and run through Christmas, and at the new year they would hold a gala like the one in Paris.
Many people had attended her recitals and had praised her, but she knew that she must prove herself in an opera. Odabella wasn't the perfect role for this, but it was Verdi, so it would do. M. Lindstrom and the widows were overjoyed. Christine immediately wrote to Erik for advice.
His letters were very strange. She wished they were longer and not quite so filled with news of what was going on around him—she was much more interested in the man himself. But they at least had become frequent, and they often had charming little drawings in them. She thought he must be holding himself at a distance from her, and she tried to not let this hurt, with varying success. It vexed her, that he should pull away, just when she was beginning to think that missing him would not fade, that maybe her heart was not so fickle after all.
This was compounded by the discomfort that several young men had begun sending flowers after her recitals. They were all pleasant enough, but she had no patience for them. She felt that she had had enough of courting and of innocent gazing into another's eyes. They were very nice young men, with an emphasis on young. No matter what their ages were, she felt old by comparison. And, of course, older gentlemen with a different object—she had no interest in them either. Thankfully, her status as prodigal daughter kept most of the unsavory types away and lent a quality of safety to her dealings with the three young men. She was content with her widows and her ancient patron. Even better, M. Eckman had found a cousin, and he and his wife were coming to the opening of Attila.
Erik's next letter made her laugh. It was five sheets, closely written and with no margins, much less drawings. When it came to music—and apparently to her voice—he had a great deal to say. He did not entirely approve of their choice of vehicle, but just as she had thought, at least it was Verdi. His insights into the character were quite interesting. She sat with the score for a couple of days, increasingly nervous at the vocal demands of the role and the difficulty of portraying a villain and yet being sympathetic. It was all very devious of M. Eckman. Their Attila was a Danish bass twice her size—if the staging was poorly done, it would look ridiculous when she stabbed him at the end. Erik's advice was very thorough, as if he had sat down with a score as well, going through note by note to tell her how to best play to her own strengths. She hoped that she would not make a fool of herself, stamping about in a giant breastplate.
It was a great relief to her when rehearsals began and she was too busy to brood. Christine had met the entire company, but to work with them proved to be an experience entirely unlike that in Paris. There was none of the strutting and posturing—no one was firmly established as a star, so there was much more of a feeling of solidarity. She had been careful to remain mindful of her newness and youth, so that most of the hesitation over the upstart with the famous name dissipated quickly.
The cousin M. Eckman had located was a first cousin of her mother, whom she did not remember. Mme. Hagglund, his wife, sent her a very friendly letter. It was bizarre to have a relative. After Erik's long letter, she felt secure in writing of it to him, the strangeness and wonder of it. All of it was strange, that she was not alone. Her entire life she had felt alone, since Papa died, except for her Angel. Was he lonely in his cottage by the sea? She didn't ask him that, nor did she say that it was him she was lonely for. She was so glad of work once she had had this thought. It was too much to grasp. She worked and sang. She posted the letter to Erik before she wrote something silly on it, like "I miss you," or "Come to Stockholm," or "If you will have me, I am yours forever." A very silly girl indeed.
Once a week his letters arrived, without fail, sometimes twice, but there was never a word in them that he missed her. He was all friendliness, but nothing more. Attila opened to great enthusiasm—between Erik's counsel and M. Peña's very thorough ideas about warming up, by opening night she was, for her, barely nervous. It went off without any troubles. The widows loved it, and M. Lindstrom filled her dressing room with hothouse flowers. The Hagglunds were almost as shy with her as she was with them, but they invited her to their house for Christmas. She had plans with the widows but promised to go up after the New Year's gala, for Epiphany. She sang. She read Meg's rapturous letters about the Comédie. She hoped for a spark of something from Erik, and when it did not come, she mourned quietly. It was all her own fault, of course—she had hurt him too much and had missed her chance. These were the fruits of her own stupidity. She told herself this constantly. She would cherish what there was and make the best of it.
Once Attila closed on Christmas Eve, Christine gave herself over to enjoyment and to her friends. She had been greeted by ovations for the entire run, but she placed most of that on the shoulders of M. Peña's staging. Still, the run was a success—even King Carl had attended a performance. M. Eckman was pleased, and Christine felt certain that her place was secure. Knowing this, it was easy to simply relish the company of Mme. Jenssen and her sister and of the other widows and to sneak out with Axana for late shopping.
The New Year's Eve ball was also a notable success. M. Lindstrom danced with all the widows, and Christine danced with the three young men, who thankfully behaved themselves. The elusive Mme. Peña made an appearance—she was a tall, olive-skinned woman who matched her husband in solemnity, although Christine thought that they danced together beautifully. It rested her eye to look on them, and for several sets she sat to one side with a little cup of glögg, feeling wistful. Did Erik dance? Had she not been so stupid, she would know. They would eventually have danced like that, with long years of affection showing between them and the grace of familiarity. Well. Not exactly like that; Erik was so much taller than she. He was just of a height that she could lay her head on his chest, her forehead against his neck, and listen to his heartbeat. Surely the addition of one tear would not affect the taste of her glögg. She was miserable about it. She reminded herself, for the twentieth time that day, that his heart must be the one protected. After all she had done, perhaps it was only right that she should suffer.
After the ball, she traveled very gladly and comfortably with Mme. Jenssen and her sister to Göteborg, where the Hagglunds lived. A week's worth of playing with their children and hearing stories of the mother she had never known was a welcome distraction. She had other cousins, it turned out—though not many—and cousin Oscar was very kind in introducing her to the ones who lived nearby. So she learned a little of her history. Papa, it seemed, had been the only child of his family to survive to adulthood, and his parents had died young, so there was no hope there. But if the Hagglund cousins were any indication, she had inherited her wild curls from her mother.
She wrote of all of this to Erik and about the severity of the dark days and the cold. She wrote to the Girys of her suitors and, as she had hoped, received some very sensible advice from Mme. Giry. She was not a bit surprised that Meg wanted mostly to know how good-looking they were. Her friends seemed to be happy in their new situation, but she would have given much to have Mme. Giry near. Such things as she wanted to say did not sound right in letters. So she kept her peace. She entered into rehearsals for her next role gladly, and she wrote to Erik of everything that she dared.