Hello! Here you will find a story that has been in the works for years at this point, having begun its life as a short story fluff piece, and slowly but surely metamorphosed into a multi-chapter beast spanning decades in the characters' lives. I hope everyone likes it! Lessons is heavily Leroux-based, but ALW-friendly.

I welcome any and all criticism. That's how I can become a better writer. Anything from a typo to a problematic plot point; if you think something could be improved, please do let me know!

A million thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, MarySkater. Despite being on the other side of an ocean from me, she has held my hand throughout the last five years, helping, editing, inspiring, and being a friend. This story would never have become what it now is without her invaluable assistance.

Lessons

Chapter 1. July, 1887. Three months after the wedding. Friday.

"Madame Giry, teach me how to cook."

"To cook? What do you mean, Christine?"

"I mean, to cook! I want to be a good wife, and shouldn't a wife cook for her husband? I was thinking that maybe that would help…"

"Whatever is wrong, child? Are the two of you not getting along?…Well, come inside, at least, don't stand there in the hall…There, that's better. Now, what is wrong between the two of you?"

Christine's pretty face turned sulky. "He's…working."

Madame Giry looked blank. "Working?"

"On a new opera," Christine elaborated, and the older woman nodded in sudden understanding. "He won't eat, and he won't sleep, and he won't talk to me or even look at me!" Her voice was rapidly rising to a whine. "I had to shout at him this morning to get his attention even long enough to tell him that I was going to visit you, and I think he was glad! He told me to stay as long as I liked!"

"Well, I can't blame you for being upset," observed Madame Giry. "I must say, I've never seen anything like that man when he's composing. But do try to remember, dear, that he has been alone for a very long time. Up until quite recently, he has never had to worry about how his behaviour might affect anyone else."

"Well, it does affect me!" Christine wailed. "I don't think he even came to bed last night! I had put on my nicest wrapper, and I might have been that awful mannequin, for all he noticed. I could have drowned in the lake and he wouldn't have even looked up! And I…I had something to tell him…" Adele Giry looked immediately alert.

"Christine," she said, putting her hand kindly on the younger woman's arm, "are you telling me that…you have a surprise for him?"

Christine nodded, beaming now. "I've thought so for a little while now, and…and I went to the doctor two days ago, and he said yes!"

"Already?" asked the widow, giving Christine a gimlet eye. "You have barely been married three months. Or did the two of you, ah, anticipate your vows, so to speak?"

"Oh, no!" said Christine, shocked. "Not at all. I didn't know it would happen this fast, either. But – " she faltered, searching for words, and then continued, "My husband is a very…passionate man."

"That he is," agreed Adele, very dryly. "And he has, as I said, been alone a very long time. I take it, then, that the conversation we had on your wedding day was helpful?"

Christine blushed to the roots of her hair. Then she went on, trying to direct the conversation away from that topic, "I went straight home to share the news, and I found him sitting at that piano of his, thundering away on it and scribbling notes down! He wasn't doing that when I left, he was going up to frighten the ballet girls – " Adele raised her eyes to the ceiling at this. "I don't know what set him off, I never do. We can be having a wonderful time, and all of a sudden he gets this glazed look in his eyes and makes a beeline for the piano or the organ, and that's that until he decides to stop! It might be hours, it might be days! How can he treat me like this if he loves me?"

"I don't think there can be much doubt that he loves you," said the older woman sardonically. "He went to far too much trouble over it."

"Then why doesn't he seem to want anything to do with me sometimes?"

"I think this may be a long conversation," said Madame Giry, sighing. "And I am being a terrible hostess. I'll make some tea – were you going out marketing? Here, I'll take the basket."

She set aside her guest's bonnet and gloves as well, setting them in the empty basket, and they went into the Girys' kitchen, where Christine sat down at the table, allowing her fluffy lawn skirts to spread around her. The flat was quiet, as Meg and her brother and sister had all gone to a street fair. Adele put the water on to boil, cut up some cake and placed it on a serving platter, and put out forks, napkins, cups and saucers. When the water boiled, she poured it over the tea leaves and set it in the middle of the table to steep. Then she sat down across from Christine and said gently, "I think, my dear, that you will just have to give him time to learn how to be a husband. It isn't that he doesn't want anything to do with you, it's only that he hasn't ever had any reason not to give himself over completely to his muse. I doubt he has ever learned how to put his music aside when necessary if he is in the mood to compose. Perhaps he even welcomed it before, as something to take his mind off the rest of his life?"

Christine sniffed and wiped her eyes on her handkerchief. "Perhaps you are right," she said, a slightly tender note entering her voice. "After all, I am needing time to learn how to be a good wife. I've kept the house clean, and I've tried to dress nicely for him, and talk to him when he wants me to, and…well." She blushed again, touched her stomach self-consciously, and continued, "But, I thought maybe part of the problem was that I can't cook. Up till now, either he cooks or we eat things that don't require cooking in the first place, fruit, cheese, ham, that sort of thing, or we buy things ready-made. But I thought maybe I should be doing the cooking, and maybe he was disappointed that I haven't been."

"Has he ever said anything about it one way or the other?" asked the older woman, eyebrows raised.

Christine shook her head. "No, never. But, isn't the wife supposed to cook for her husband?"

"Usually, yes. But Erik has been, again, by himself for most of his life. He had no choice but to learn to feed himself."

"I don't think he really did feed himself, at least not much," Christine mused. "Else, how could he be so thin? He's gained some weight, I think, probably because I pester him to eat all the time, but not a great deal. It was all I could do just to get him to take meals with me in the first place, regardless of where they came from."

"He has to take his mask off in order to eat, I take it?"

"Oh – no, not necessarily, but it's awkward if he doesn't. That is why he would not eat or drink with me that first time he brought me down below. He will now, but I don't think he's at all comfortable. So I thought, maybe he'd enjoy it more if he knew I'd cooked for him."

Adele was less sure of this than Christine, but was willing to try to help. Likely her devil of a husband would at least pretend to enjoy food his new wife had made. He did, after all, love her to distraction.

"Yes, I will help you learn how to cook," she said, getting up to fetch a porringer, and Christine's face lit up. "What do you know already?" the boxkeeper continued. "Can you cook anything?"

"Some things," answered Christine, "but mostly Swedish peasant food, the things I made for my father and me when we camped alongside the roads we travelled on. A lot of the time, though, we just ate food that people had given us."

"Can you…" Adele cast about for somewhere to start. "Can you boil an egg?"

"Yes," said Christine dolefully, "but that's of no use. He doesn't like eggs."

"Well, then I suggest you not make omelettes for dinner."

"That's how I found out he doesn't like them, actually," answered Christine. "I made omelettes – they weren't very good, but I didn't know what else to do – and there he was sitting stoically at the other end of the table eating away, and I could tell something was wrong. So I asked him what it was, and he said, 'Nothing, it is so kind of you to cook for me,' so I pestered him and pestered him until he admitted he 'doesn't really care for eggs.' "

"How does he expect you to make things like cakes and such, then?"

"Oh, he doesn't mind eggs if they're mixed up in something! But as for cakes, he doesn't seem to like desserts much. I wasn't really expecting to learn how to make those anyway, they can be bought at a pastry shop. If I made a whole cake just for us, it'd go to waste before I managed to eat it all."

"Wait until your children are a few years old," said Adele, "and there will be no trouble about sweets going to waste, I assure you."

Christine smiled, her whole face suffused with a radiant delight. "I've always wanted children," she confided. "A large family! Ever since I can remember. I'm so glad it happened right away."

"If that is the case, it is fortunate for you that you are apparently able to have them," answered Adele, "as some poor women can not."

"Oh, I would be so miserable if that happened to me!" exclaimed Christine. "How can any woman bear it?"

"I suppose for the same reason anyone bears any sorrow in life; because there is no choice. I understand how you feel, though. Like you, I wanted children so much, and Meg and Jeanne, and of course my Pierre, are my greatest joy. It would have been infinitely harder to suffer through Jules' death, if I hadn't had our children to help me. Ah, the tea is ready."

Adele, a skilled enough hostess to remember her guest's preferences, added a good deal of cream and sugar, handed Christine her cup, and poured one for herself, black. "Now, as to your husband's eccentric eating habits. What does he like?"

"I don't really know," Christine admitted. "I don't think he likes food much in general. At least, he never seems to notice what he's eating, whether it's burned or well-prepared or… well, anything. If I can get him to eat twice in one day, I count myself lucky. He looks completely taken aback when I ask him what he likes, as though he's never even considered it. The fact that he doesn't like eggs has been about all I can get out of him."

Adele thought for a moment. "Well, we should probably start with something simple. How about a nice soup, that can be served hot or cold, in case you can't get him to come to the table in a timely fashion? You'd buy some good bread and cheese to have with it, of course, and I'll show you how to make an apple tart. I've never met a man yet who didn't like those."

"You might have met one, remember?" warned Christine. "I've never seen him eat sweets of any kind whatever. He buys them for me all the time, but he always refuses when I invite him to have some."

"Nonsense," said Adele briskly. "I'm sure he will like it if you make it. And if for some reason he doesn't, he'd better have enough manners to pretend to. If he doesn't, you tell him to come and talk to me."

Christine giggled, picturing the stern boxkeeper giving Erik a lecture on manners. He would be highly unlikely to appreciate it.

"You were going out marketing to begin with, before you came here?" Adele asked again, and Christine nodded. "Good, then we will go together and get the supplies you will need soon. It is a good thing it's still early, we will need the time for you to practise. We'll go out to the market and I'll help you select the right things, and then we will go back to your home and make dinner for tonight for the two of you together – Oh, don't worry, if he's in the condition you describe he'll hardly notice either one of us is there. Hmmm…you should probably write down the recipes, too, so you'll have them to refer back to until you become more familiar with French cooking. Here is a pen and paper, start taking down notes. Now, you must begin with chopping some onions. Mince them finely, and then brown them in the usual fashion, until they are a good colour…"

"Wait, what?" Christine begged, scribbling frantically. "What is the usual fashion – for French people, I mean? And what is a good colour?"

"Oh, dear… " said the widow with a sigh.

O-O-O

"Erik…Erik?…Erik!"

"What?"

"Would you like anything to eat?"

"No!"

Christine sighed. She'd only just gotten home, and thought perhaps her poor starving husband should have some food now. It would be hours before dinner was ready. By the look of the scowl on his face, however, that was the very last thing he wanted. His face...

He was unmasked, being in their home, and she wondered how she was going to tell him to put it on without making him angry. Adele had bypassed the parlour and gone straight down the hall into the kitchen; since music had been thundering from the piano, he didn't know yet that she was there. If Christine let him stay unmasked until he realised they had company, he'd be furious, but if she told him to put it on while he still thought they were alone, then he would assume Christine didn't want to look at him, and that would just start off a different argument (and one which she was already thoroughly tired of). She stalled.

"I just thought you might be hungry. You haven't eaten all day."

"Yes, I have. I had some bread a while ago."

"Erik, that was yesterday... Erik?"

"I'm trying to work, woman!"

"Erik, a human being isn't meant to go without sleep or food for days! You are still too thin as it is – "

"Ah, so that is it. You can not bear to look at Erik and you wish him to eat so that he will not be so repulsive to you. The truth finally comes out."

"Erik, that's not true!" Christine cried, nearly in tears. "I've told you again and again, I don't mind the way you look! I'm just worried about your health!"

"You women always lie – "

"Erik, that will be more than enough," snapped Madame Giry, coming into view. "You have no reason whatever to be so cruel to your wife. She is honestly concerned for you. Do try to act your age."

Erik's mouth dropped open, and he stared speechlessly. Christine had never brought anyone down here before. Then he whirled, snatched up the discarded mask that was lying on a side table, and slapped it onto his face. The long fingers flew expertly through the task of knotting the strings, and then he lowered his arms, turned back to face the intruder and bellowed furiously, "Giry, what are you doing in my home?"

Utterly unimpressed, the widow answered, "Oh, don't bother. It's not as if I don't know what you look like. As for why I'm here, I am keeping Christine company. Since you seem so unwilling to do so yourself."

"Company?" Erik said blankly.

"Yes, company," she retorted, stalking over to the piano to glower down at him, hands on hips. "Companionship. Amusement. Diversion. Choose whatever word you like, it isn't normal or healthy for someone to live without it."

"I did, for years!" Erik shouted, and then looked suddenly dismayed as he realised his mistake. He sat back down on the piano bench with a thump, pointedly turning his back on her.

"Exactly," said Madame, pouncing on the opportunity he'd offered her. "Did you want Christine to end up like that? No, I think not. You have no right to leave her bored and lonely while you pound away on that thing." She gestured derisively at the piano.

"I'm working!" said Erik, in tones of outrage. "It's what I do! I am a composer! Christine knows that!"

"Erik, I don't mean that I don't want you to compose!" interjected Christine tearfully, coming to stand on the other side of her husband. "I just don't want you to get so taken up with your music that you don't eat or sleep! It's not good for you! I worry about you!" Her voice was rising, becoming more and more shrill.

"Erik, you must at least try to change," scolded Adele. "You promised you would, remember? On your wedding day. I was there, I heard you."

"Erik, what do you expect me to do around here when you're so oblivious – "

"Erik, what do you think you're going to do with this new composition – "

"Erik, I'm your wife now – "

"Erik, you said you wanted to be like everyone else – "

"For God's sake, you pair of harpies!" roared Erik, slamming his hands down on the keys and making the women jump as the resultant disjointed notes echoed through the room. "Get out, I'm working!"

The two women looked at each other over his head, and then turned as one and went out of the room. Madame Giry closed the kitchen door, leaned against it, and began to shake with laughter. Christine, for her part, wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. She settled for a sort of hysterical giggle.

"Once upon a time, I believe he would have killed someone instantly for appearing uninvited in his home, let alone allowed me to scold him like that," said Adele, recovering herself.

"Why did you come, then?" asked Christine in hushed tones. "How did you dare?"

"I knew already that he had changed," the other woman answered simply. "Letting you go as he did…letting the Vicomte go…marrying you, in broad daylight, in a church…he had to have changed significantly already, or none of that would ever have happened."

Christine looked at her, and, uncontrollable, the memory of the look on his face as she had drawn away from their first kiss rose up, and gripped her heart in its determined hands. Yes. He had changed. She wanted to dwell on that memory, live again the instant when he had realised that now he honestly loved her, instead of only being obsessed with her. It was why he had gone to fetch Raoul for her, after they had shared that kiss.

O-O-O O-O-O