They made few stops between Palermo and Licaria. The carriage paused only long enough to rest the horses, long enough for them to take hurried meals at some little inn, ignoring the curious and often superstitious stares directed towards a masked man in the company of an aristocratic woman. They slept in the carriage, her head on his shoulder and her hands in his.
As they neared Licaria, the sky had darkened with thick clouds and the sound of the thunder mingled with the low rumble from the depths of Mount Etna.
As the carriage made its way up the steep road between the town and the villa, the storm broke.
When they reached the house, the rain was heavy and obscured the glowing summit of Etna. They hurried from carriage to door. Even with Erik's cloak around them both, their clothes were soaked by the time the housekeeper admitted them into the hall.
"Maria-Catena, please," Helene told the surprised woman, "bring some hot tea for us. To my room. And see that Salvatore brings in our luggage as soon as the storm passes."
Erik barely noticed the woman's curious glance as he lifted his wet cape from Helene's shoulders and handed it to the housekeeper.
"One more thing, Maria-Catena," Helene added, "see if you can find some fresh clothing for…for…"
She glanced down at the heavy ring on her hand.
"For my husband," she said, finally.
The housekeeper shook her head discretely as she hurried down the shallow stone steps to the kitchen. She had been informed of the mistresses planned return from Paris after a short stay in Palermo. She was, however, expecting the lady to return alone.
When the woman had gone, Helene took Erik's arm and leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Will you stay here with me, Erik?"
"If you will let me, Helene," he said, feeling her shiver beneath the soaked gown, "if you will let me."
She lead him upstairs to her room. The ever-efficient housekeeper had already left the tea on the low table beside the chaise and a small pile of letters lay on the tray, too.
As Helene stepped behind a screen of carved olive-wood to change from her wet clothing as the housekeeper knocked on the door again.
Slipping on an embroidered silk robe over her nightgown, Helene answered the door.
"I've brought some of the late master's things, Signora. I think they will fit until…until the luggage is brought up in the morning."
She frowned at little as she glanced at Erik and, setting some clothes on the bed, left quickly.
"Don't mind her, Erik. She was with the family before I married. She's always been fond of me, but I think she is a bit surprised."
She handed Erik a cup of a hot strong tea that was liberally flavored with fresh lemon juice and turned to the garments on the bed.
"I think these will do. For the moment," she said, holding up a dressing gown of dark blue velvet and a white shirt, "now, get out of those wet clothes!"
"With your assistance, Comtessa," he set as he set aside the tea and tugged at the sodden cravat.
---------------------------------------
Helene opened her eyes when she heard the muted tolling of the church bells in the village below.
Erik stirred a little, but did not open his eyes.
Something was different. She had, during those nights beneath the opera house, grown so accustomed to awakening beside him. And, when he left him, she had missed that silent, defenseless intimacy.
One of his hands, still entwined with her own, lay against her stomach.
It had rained throughout the night, but the morning was clear and bright beyond the windows of her bed room.
And she knew what was so different about this silent, drowsy embrace. It was the sunlight. It streamed through the Cypriot lace curtains and over the bed…over the man who held her tightly.
Until this morning, she had always awakened beside him in the dim, cool darkness of the grottos beneath the opera house.
And she remembered that morning when she sat in the bright breakfast room of the de Chagny house in Paris, wondering…hoping someday…
Her musing was interrupted by the warm brush of his lips against her wrist.
"Helene, why did you tell your housekeeper that I am your husband?"
She tugged her hand free from his and held it up, let the morning light catch the heavy ring with its vivid green stone.
"This is why, Erik."
"But there is nothing legally binding between us…there cannot be. I have no name, I might as well not exist. There are no vows."
She leaned over him, taking his face between both of her hands.
"I don't care about a legal marriage now," she said, kissing him, "this is the only vow that matters between us. Erik, I am your wife."
His hands covered her own as he repeated her words, first in disbelief and then in acceptance.
"My wife, Helene…my wife, my wife."