To be a working composer was a great gift. To be paid well for it was beyond comprehension. Erik's publisher was very pleased and sent a glowing letter with every check. As soon as he could afford to do so, Erik insisted on buying a proper pianoforte for Jean-Jacques.
"Given how often you'll be playing it, I accept," the organist said with a grin.
Erik experimented with not wearing his mask at home, which made him feel naked and exposed, although his face itched a great deal less. He took one of his spares and cut it down, so that it covered only the worst parts of his face. Mathieu approved, so he wore it around town one day and got a few more stares than usual, but nothing more. Mme. Benne had a great deal to say on the subject, all of which was shockingly forward, so he tried to not pay attention. He wished that he could write of these things to Christine. He did write of them to Giry, who sounded overjoyed at his good fortune. She agreed with the idea that a little sun might be good for him.
That was all well and good, but he was not going to spend the winter out of doors in the wind, except for his walks along the seashore or into town. He continued to write, of course. The publisher sent a note about the love songs so enthusiastic that it was barely legible. After that, the checks were larger and more frequent—apparently other people liked them as well. He was glad for this, but also a little wistful. He hoped that some day he would be able to show them to Christine—her voice would do the songs justice.
"Show them to her," Giry wrote. "Don't be an idiot."
Unless Giry knew something he did not, he had to disagree. He would not risk his friendship with Christine. He had already very nearly destroyed everything—nothing would induce him to burden her. Especially now, given that her letters were so sad. It seemed the winter was hard on her, and he wished he could think of what to say that might comfort her.
There was not very much to write about—his days were so quiet. Composition was extremely interesting from the inside, but from the outside all he did was walk the beach, work at his desk, and sit by the fire stroking the cat. Aside from Christine's being so far away, he was content.
It was not often that anyone knocked at his door. Mme. Benne and Jean-Jacques both knocked in a purely perfunctory way before walking in—he found that he minded this less than he would've thought. In Mme. Benne's case, anyway, he didn't think he had any choice. So at the knock, he took a moment to see who would enter, but no one did, so he went to the door. Christine stood on the other side, with a thunderous look on her face.
The world flopped over on its back—he could feel his mouth hanging open. That she was standing on his doorstep was astounding. That she looked so angry frightened him. She held up the score of the love songs.
"Were you ever going to tell me?"
"I've ruined everything," he thought. "Again."
She glanced down at the music in her hands, and her mouth twisted. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were soft.
"They are for me, aren't they?"
His secret was out—he might as well be honest.
"Yes."
Then things got very strange, because before he had time to blink, she was in his arms, kissing him. Just as he had dreamed but had thought would never happen again, Christine was kissing him. Her mouth, pressed to his, tasting of heaven. She was like a whirlwind in his arms, pulling him tightly to her, her hands clutching at him, and her mouth, her sweet mouth, kissing him like she would never stop. After a moment, Erik's surprise faded and he gave himself over to her—he wrapped his arms fully around her and kissed her with a fervor to match her own. It was very nearly everything he had ever wanted.
Eventually she drew back. They were both breathing hard. Christine's eyes were huge and liquid, and Erik was acutely aware of his small bed just beyond the doorway.
"Why are you here?" he asked her, his voice hoarse.
She smiled at him and passed her hands over his head, through his hair.
"I love you," she said. So of course he had to kiss her again.
"And I love my songs," she said after a few minutes, which required more kisses.
The wind caught the open front door and it banged loudly; otherwise he might never have let her go. She had left a small bag on the step. He had a thousand questions to ask, but his heart was in his throat. Somehow, his music had found her, and she was here. She was here, and she loved him. She loved him, and it was like a miracle.
"Say it again."
She had been looking at his drawings pinned to the walls, but she turned to him with a smile.
"I love you, Erik. I love you."
How much happiness could one heart bear? He felt lightheaded.
"Christine."
Her mouth tasted gorgeous, and her neck was satin under his lips. When she sighed his name, he thought he could not pull her close enough, would never have his fill of her in his arms.
"How did this happen?" he asked after a long while, and she laughed.
"I hardly know," she said. She kept touching his face, even though he wasn't wearing his mask. Touching his face, gently and with no fear. She smiled at him. Christine was in his house, in his arms.
"I think I have loved you for years," she said, "without knowing it. Ever since I left Paris, I've done nothing but miss you."
Erik could only touch her cheek in wonder. She turned her head and kissed his fingers.
"That was why your letters seemed so sad?"
She nodded.
"But I couldn't tell you, because I had hurt you so badly. I thought you didn't love me anymore."
He gathered her close.
"My dearest." Then he had to laugh a little. "There are many letters I did not send you, for fear that I would offend you. Of course I love you. I have never stopped."
Then she wanted to see them. Her eyes widened when he pulled out the four little notebooks and handed them to her. He put Christine in his chair by the stove and went to put the kettle on. It all felt a little unreal. When he turned back to her, she already had tears in her eyes. The tea was forgotten; she reached for him, and then he was in the chair with Christine sitting in his lap, her head leaning against him, while she read all of the things he had not said to her.
He much preferred Christine in his lap to the cat. She was here, and she loved him. How many times would he have to tell himself before he believed it? For such a miracle, perhaps never. All day and well into evening she read the notebooks while he held her, and they laughed gently over them or she asked questions about what she read.
"This was what I wanted," she said at one point. "All those months, these are the letters I wanted. I wanted to know what you were thinking."
He kissed the top of her head. It was at this moment that Nisse wandered in and found her usual place filled. Christine cried out in delight and climbed down to introduce herself. After a few minutes, the cat allowed herself to be adored. She complained when Christine stopped scratching and climbed back into his lap.
"Sorry, little friend. He has more charms even than you," Christine said in Swedish, and he laughed. She looked up at him with a questioning smile.
"My inflection has been all wrong."
She grinned and snuggled delightfully against him. His left arm curved around her back to her hip, and his right arm lay over her legs. He could think of few things more wondrous, and most of those were entirely improper.
"Your Swedish has gotten very good," she said. "I'm proud of you."
And she loved him.
"You are the newest star of the Kungliga Operan," he said in that language. "I am proud of you."
She giggled and corrected his pronunciation. Then her face turned grave.
"It has been so hard," she said, "to know that I should be happy but not be."
"Do you regret going?"
He was glad that she shook her head.
"I know that it's what I needed to do. And I have friends now, even family. But my love, I have been miserable without you."
She laid her fingers against his cheek and smiled at him.
"You will not make me do without you anymore, will you?"
Erik caught her hand and kissed her fingers. Silly girl.
"I have already said it—anywhere you go, let me go too."
More kisses were necessary, after this. There could never be enough of them. As much as he had come to love this place, it would not be difficult to leave behind, not with a lifetime of Christine ahead of him. He did not deserve such joy, but he would try to do so. He would try to make up for the past. Christine in his arms. Her mouth moving against his own. He would get no writing done with her near, not if he was allowed to touch her, to kiss her. They were alone in his house by the sea.
When later they were lying close together on his bed, and she squeezed his fingers and shook her head as he reached for the neck of her gown, he tried not to be disappointed. She drew him down for a slow kiss.
"Patience, my love," she said. "I'm going to make you marry me."
Erik smiled over a heart full to bursting.
"If I must."
Her wriggle of laughter was maddening. This inspired in him the most marvelous idea. So it was that they walked to town in the darkness and woke Jean-Jacques, who seemed not one bit surprised that a real person had inspired Erik's songs, and then the priest. He was thankfully not so put out as to refuse a midnight marriage rite. As they walked back up the coast, hand in hand, Erik kept trying to tell himself that he was not asleep, that the dreams of all his long years of despair had indeed come true and she was his forever.
"How am I to believe this?"
She stopped and faced him, a mass of light and shadow in the moonlight.
"I will remind you every day."
There was no music so beautiful as that playing in his heart when Christine kissed him.