Christine was deeply vexed all winter. She had small featured roles in several productions and gave another handful of recitals, all to enthusiastic audiences. She was singing better than ever—Erik's continuing guidance was complemented by M. Peña's direction. But these were not enough to keep her busy, and she wanted to be busy, so that she would neither think too much nor brood. Her friends were so kind, and she knew that she should be content. She had work, a place to live, a career that seemed assured, friends, and even cousins. On top of this, two of the suitors lost interest. Yet she was restless, and when she laid in her little bed at night, she knew that this was a symptom of her breaking heart.

She could not be angry with Erik about it. After all, she had told him nothing. All her rage was directed at herself, that she had been so blind for so long. That it should take all of this was ridiculous—the Opéra burned down, Raoul disappointed, Erik in a shack by the sea, and she in Stockholm. But she loved him. It was only in the darkness that she would use the word. With every letter she hoped for a sign that he still felt the same, and with each one she was disappointed.

At least he sounded well, as if the healing he had found in Paris with the Girys continued, and she really was glad for him. His letters were a funny mix of French and Swedish, and as the months went on, Swedish started to gain the upper hand. His stories of his little cat were utterly charming, but when he reported on his young friend, a little boy whom he was teaching to draw and to read, she felt a distinct pang. She knew what an excellent teacher he was, both patient and strict. She missed it. Then, too, the thought of him with a child brought on its own pains.

Christine tried to conquer herself, to no avail. Perhaps it was the cold and the darkness. It certainly was a difficult adjustment. By the end of January she was thoroughly sick of snow and was beginning to think that she would never be warm again. When she said this, Mme. Gunnarson smiled and patted her hand.

"We all find the winter hard, my dear. That's why we invented saunas! Look to your feet, and keep plenty of candles going. And of course you're welcome here any time you're low."

She found that dance classes helped, so she took to attending every day, and Mlle. Schmidt and the corps were very good about letting her hang to the back and muddle through without interrupting them. She took up more embroidery. She wrote long letters. As the days grew longer, her spirits lifted a little. This sparked enough commentary that she felt the need to make a round of apologies to everyone. Then M. Lindstrom suffered a terrible bout of illness, so she spent much of her time visiting, trying to rally him. The old man was eager to see her in Nozze di Figaro, so she learned the "De Veni" aria to sing to him. It was really a beautiful song, even a capella, and his delight was plain to see. When she got to the end, she surprised herself. She sang the final line, "Come, come—I will wreathe thy brow with roses," and promptly burst into tears.

For a moment, he was all astonishment, and then M. Lindstrom beckoned her to his sofa. She sat on the little stool beside him, and he patted her arm while she dried her eyes.

"My poor dear. Is that what it was, then?" he asked after a moment.

This was a little confusing.

"Well, I've wondered what brought you here so abruptly. Even with the opera house burning down—and yes, of course we knew about that—you would not have left Paris without a good reason. It was the only home you know. Did he break your heart, then?"

She had another rush of tears before she could tell him that no, she had broken her own heart. M. Lindstrom squeezed her fingers with all affection.

"My darling Christine. I know you don't want to hear it, but you are young. One does recover from the youthful follies of the heart."

She did not tell him that she had and was instead suffering from something more. Perhaps he would not believe her. He spent the afternoon telling her stories of Papa, and even of her mother and herself as an infant, and it made her feel better.

The entire company was grouchy through February—there were a great many more loud parties downstairs, but Christine could not abide these. She drew her friend Axana into the bosom of the widows; they made a very merry group when they could all gather, and Christine quickly learned not to bet against Axana when they played cards. Still, when she was not with someone else, she was extremely bad-tempered. She spent a good deal more time than was healthy stomping about the theater. When she realized that this was just what Erik used to do, she laughed at herself and felt better for a while.

Toward the end of the month she was feeling a little more cheerful—rehearsals were coming in just a few weeks, and there were more hours of daylight. She was looking forward to working hard again. She took a walk about the theater, and not even to stomp, but just to think. Downstairs by the practice room, she heard M. Peña at the pianoforte, playing a deeply beautiful song. She could not resist it and crept in to listen better. He looked up with his barely-smile.

"That's beautiful."

"Isn't it? I just bought it, and I've been playing them for hours. They're songs for voice. Come sit and let me hear a real voice. I can't do them justice."

The words, in French, were just as lovely as the music. It was such a wistful song, about loving someone far away—just how she felt, and the beauty of it soothed her.

"Ah, wonderful. Try this one," M. Peña said.

The next song was just as good, about loving secretly, quietly, holding love in one's heart like a treasure. The melody and accompaniment were quite simple, so that nearly anyone would be able to make their way through it. It also happened to hit smack in the middle of her range, where her voice was best. She would definitely be singing these songs at her next recital.

"These are so beautiful," she said.

"Here—this is my favorite so far."

It was just a touch more difficult, more ornamented. Such grand sentiments; they eased her heart, to know that someone in the world felt just as she did, loving in silence from afar. Loving with no hope of its being returned, but without bitterness, thankful for it, even. And then, toward the end, the words, "my angel, angel of the music of my heart." She clapped her mouth shut. M. Peña looked at her.

"Who wrote this?" Her voice actually squeaked, and she could feel that her eyebrows were practically up in her hair.

"Someone I've never heard of," he said. "There was a whole stack of his works in the music shop. I've been playing them all day. These songs are evidently all the rage in Paris—and rightly so. Ah, here we go. Renouille. Is the name familiar?"

It wasn't, but her hand still shook when she reached for the book. E. Renouille. It couldn't actually be, could it? Twenty-Six Love Songs. She opened the cover, and in small type, just above the first staff, "for Christine."

M. Peña had not known his ingénue to be so emotional, so he sat and stared at her for a moment when she started to cry. His reserve seemed to quit him at her sobs, and he patted her hand with an expression of deep distress on his face as he asked her repeatedly what was the matter. Christine tried to compose herself, but each time she looked at the music, she sobbed again, until finally M. Peña went for help. Mlle. Schmidt and Axana led her upstairs without any questions. They washed her face, helped her off with her corset, and tucked her into bed.

After so many months, she felt it very strange to be dreaming again of labyrinths. She was annoyed by it and strode with purpose through the corridors as if she just where to go. At the center, she found what she was looking for.

In the morning, she woke too early to go to the music shop, but not too early to find M. Peña and apologize for her outburst.

"Are you feeling better, then?"

She assured him that she was. His black eyes were very shrewd.

"I had not noticed it before your reaction, but can I assume that you are the Christine to whom they are dedicated?"

"I believe that I am."

"And yet you were surprised?"

She nodded.

"Even the most intelligent of us can act like fools. Some day, when she knows you better, ask my wife about how she and I came to be married. In the meantime, would you like to borrow my score?"

"Thank you, no. I think I'd better buy my own."

She went to the music shop and bought a copy of each of his works. The shopkeeper said that the love songs in particular were selling quickly. Back in her room, she examined each score closely, leaving the love songs for last. Looking at them together, it was clearly Erik's work. He had said that he was writing, but nothing about publishing. Why would he not have told her? Then she noticed in the open score on her lap that it said "for C., with love" just above the first staff. She went through each of them—they all said the same thing, except for the love songs, which had her name spelled out.

The only thing that kept her joy from overwhelming her was her irritation. Was he ever going to tell her? Not, of course, that she had ever planned to tell him, so they might have gone their entire lives, both suffering quietly. Just as Mme. Giry had said back in Paris, they were each of them worse than the other.

She read through the songs, and she wept over them. There was such love in the words. She had given up hope, but he loved her. She had to sit up and clasp the pages to her chest. He loved her.

M. Eckman was a sentimental man. She had no duties for the next three weeks, until rehearsals for Figaro began. So when she went to his office and said that she needed to make a short trip but that she would return in time to rehearse, she had a ready answer to his question as to what could be so important. She showed him the cover of the love songs and then their dedication. His eyes got very wide.

"And this is you?

"Yes."

"And this is what has been bothering you, the past couple of months?"

Apparently she was not as subtle as she thought.

"Yes sir."

M. Eckman grinned.

"Then by all means go, my dear. Be back on time for rehearsals, but be sure to come back happy."

She felt sure that she would. It all happened very fast—she got a train to France the next morning, and excitement warred with nervousness the whole way, except when she was annoyed at both of them for being so stupid. And underneath it all, the clacking of the wheels seemed to chant his name.