The idea for 'key lamps' came from an attempt to understand how on earth Erik would be able to keep all the candles alight when he needed them; thanks to my brother for the idea! Speaking of which, today he graduates from college at UHart, so a tip to the school mascot in this chapter.
I apologize for that antagonizing cliffhanger last chapter; it will all become clear soon, I promise.
I have discovered something. I can't write girls (despite the fact I am one) to save my life. This, apparently, includes Christine, to my woe.
Disclaimer: you ought to know by now I'm stealing this from better minds. Or, as my cousin says, "It's not stealing if you don't get caught!" "Oops."
Of Knights and Dragons
Chapter IV: Life after Love
"…for we have in the dream forsaken our allegiance to the organizing, controlling and rectifying forces of the world, the Universal Conscience. We have sworn fealty to the wild, incalculable, creative forces, the Imagination of the Universe."
(Isak Dinesen)
Like a heavenly spear thrown by Apollo, the light of the sun lanced through the minute gap between curtains, dappling the oak-paneled floor and the heavy quilts of the bed, coming to rest at last against the head of the pillow, a gleaming bar of light. Christine lay with her cheek cradled on one arm, a warm pillow, curled up innocently on the still-dark half of the bed, eyes blissfully closed. If she dreamed she gave no outward sign; her chest rose and fell peacefully with each deep breath she took. Not once did her long eyelashes flutter.
In the armchair by the window Raoul sat watching her, her small smile mirrored on his own face. She was so innocent, so sweet, so kindly, a perfect girl. At times like this he felt ashamedly guilty that she loved him so completely—how unworthy it made him feel of her, of her love! But he loved her. God! How he loved her!
She stirred slightly in her sleep, murmuring a quiet word, a name. Raoul did not attempt to catch it, knowing what the word would be. It was not his name, he knew, and that had saddened him once—but that was a fantasy that never could be. Her dream-world belonged to her past.
Back in the beginning, she had been both afraid and shamed when she had woken those early nights after they had fled to England, woken in Raoul's arms, frantically calling the name of the man she had left broken behind her. She had seen the faint hurt in his brown eyes; but he had only held her close through her tears, sheltering her, murmuring soft assurances and comforting words, until her weeping and trembling subsided in his arms. She had turned to him, then, her tears of misery still streaking her face, and managed a smile. He had held her close…
He could not fault her for her past, for the dreams that came beyond her control, for the wild nature, the passion the Maestro had woken in her. It was an event she could not control. She had not asked for this strange communion… neither of them had. If she could, Raoul knew, she would gladly abandon her past, and live with him alone… but she could not. So Raoul loved her nonetheless, body and soul, enough for the both of them.
He couldn't grudge her for her dreams, would never be able to forgive himself if he did. Part of her would always belong to the ghost; a piece and portion of her soul was left to him forever. Raoul counted himself lucky that it had never quite extinguished the blossom of love that had grown, unlikely though it seemed, between the Vicomte and the chorus girl; a wild rose, untamed, ranging far from the bush, but no less beautiful. She was his, and he hers.
So when she stirred in her sleep and murmured Erik, Raoul only smiled, went to the window, and drew the curtains back, letting the early-morning sunlight stream into the room, blanketing it in a golden haze.
Christine stirred and woke from her shroud of dreams, eyes blank for a moment, then fixing on the figure framed in the window. Her blue eyes lit up with contentment as she slowly came awake and sat up, her back against the carved headboard. "Morning, angel," Raoul said with a wide smile to see her awake, her long brown locks falling around her face.
"Morning, Raoul," she replied, hiding a yawn, throwing back the coverlet and rising to her feet to cross to his side. He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him, tilting her head to rest on his chest. Beneath his tunic she could hear his heart beating, strong and steady.
"Sweet dreams?" Raoul queried gently.
But she didn't stiffen in his arms, as she had used to do. "Not half so sweet as waking," she said, and laughed when his grip tightened in loving joy. "I did not sleep too late, did I?" she said, tilting her head to peer out the window at the country estate.
"No," he mumbled into her curling hair, eyes out the window at the Chagny residence. "Not at all, dearest Christine."
Dearest Christine.
They took breakfast out on the lawn, ignoring the curious looks of the maids and servants, and spent the morning in the bright, warm July sun, enjoying a rare blue-skied day free of rain. They sat together on the rough boulders in the garden, the smell of lilacs and forsythia and azalea rising about them in a heady brew. They remembered England, and the four months they had spent there directly following the infamous Opera events, staying in London and the nearby Oxford university with Lord Derek, an old friend of the Chagny family. She told him stories of the Opera, and they both laughed, even though he had heard them before. But most of their time was spent sitting silently side-by-side, hands locked, looking out across the brilliant green countryside, counting the bobbing heads of daisies, watching the sparrowhawks wheeling in the sky, leaning against each other happily. The wind sang an idle melody about them. It was times like these when Raoul had come to understand not to begrudge her dreams. The night was hers, hers and his, but the days belonged to the young Vicomte and Vicomtess alone.
"I dreamed of Him again last night," Christine admitted in a quiet voice. "Of… of the ghost."
"I know," Raoul murmured, patting their clasped hands. "You called out to him just before you woke."
Fear and shame washed over Christine's features. "Oh, Raoul!" she gasped. "I',m so sorry, I don't mean to… oh, how could I…" and she hung her head.
He hushed her with a gentle finger to her lips. "Shhh, Christine, it's all right," he told her. "It's all right," he repeated. "I will always love you, no matter what. But I know He will, too. I know how much you love me—but I understand that there will always be a part of you that loves Him as well. He gave too much to you—too much to both of us—for that not to be true. I can't begrudge him that part of your heart, Christine. Look how blessed we are, together… why, little Gerard is two…"
"Two and a half," she corrected with a little smile, as Gerard would have had he been there.
"…two and a half," Raoul amended with a laugh. "Don't linger over the dreams, Christine, because no matter what we will be together… right?"
She answered him with a kiss, every bit as full and as passionate as the one they shared on the roof of the Opera Populaire. As they held each other, if at that moment either of them remembered the kiss she had shared with the ghost, they did not make mention, and it did not dilute the moment. At length Raoul gently pulled back from her. "Christine, I love you," he murmured, perfectly completing the moment. Her smile was more brilliant than the sun.
When, near midmorning, the two of them wandered back to the manor hand-in-hand, they found the yard playing host to a stately carriage and a team of proud white horses. "The brothers d'Halier are here," Christine said delightedly when she made out the stately crest of the Halier family boldly lacquerated on the doors to the coach. "I hope we haven't kept them waiting for long!"
"We haven't," Raoul assured her, seeing that the team was still hitched to the coach. He smiled and extended an arm to her, and bowed with mock formality, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Would you care to accompany me, Vicomtess de Chagny, to greet our guests?" he said, somehow keeping his tone suitably grave.
She dipped into a little curtsy, failing miserably at hiding her answering smile. "Why, my dear Vicomte, you are far too gracious," she said, accepting his arm. So, arm in arm, the two of them walked up to the door to their estate, the shadows from the midmorning sun rising long behind them.
As they walked in and closed the oak doors behind them, the circling hawk plummeted downward from midair in a fifty-foot dive and snatched a raven on the wing right above the threshold to their home. The driver of the coach, watching the aerial spectacle, muttered something about superstitions and turned away.