Margareite sat uncomfortably, nibbling at a slice of bread, watching Christine read the book that Erik had teased her about some days ago. She had not had a chance to pick it up since that night, and had gone back to engulfing herself within the paper and print. Her brow would furrow from time to time, and then smooth out. Every now and again, she would sigh deeply, and if she noticed Margareite glance at her during those moments, she would color heavily, and then return to the novel.
Since the night that Erik had cradled her in his arms like a loving father, accepting her tears an swallowing her grief for her, constantly muttering "I'm sorry", not for himself, but for all the wrongs the world had placed upon her. He had cried silently between his apologies for the world, his hot tears falling into the mass of brown locks beneath his jaw, replacing her tears of pain with his tears of relief and love. Slowly, both had fallen asleep, Erik staying awake some time after the young girl had slipped of into a peaceful darkness, but he never left her, never once moved her from his arms. He had kissed her crown lovingly, then laid his cheek upon the soft down of fawn-sleek hair, and drifted to sleep. When he woke, the girl still lay in his arms comfortably, unwilling to leave to protection of his love, but eventually their stomachs had complained so much Erik had suggested they breakfast. Since that night and every day for the next four days after that, Margareite had moved, and still moved, around the Lair confidently, fear and pain residing only in her own mind, no longer shimmering within her oak eyes, although the spheres of chocolate remained worn with the experience of her young life torn away from her.
Looking now at Christine, who had said nothing during the night Erik had held his daughter in spirit, nor in the days after that, simply observing the two humans so wrapped within each other, Margareite found herself feeling guilty. The woman had never spoken a harsh word to her, even when the girl had bitten out at her savagely, compassion shining out through her brown eyes every time she gazed upon margareite. She had thought cold thoughts against this woman out of fear, but now, knowing how deeply entwined Erik had become with her, and she him, he knew that she would not loose erik to Christine. Although she had noticed that Erik was almost completely oblivious of Christine, having blocked out everything in the world but Margareite. And yet, in the days and nights before his revelation, she had seen the wanting, the yearning, and the permanent loss that would yet play itself out once again all threaded to Christine. He wanted her, and it was all to clear. He still loved hr. Before, Margareite would have been jealous of this love, but now she was realizing that this was a different love then the one that held her within. And she would not let anymore pain come to Erik then she could prevent. But until it came down to the days when Christine left, she could do nothing. Now her self appointed task was to befriend the woman that shared Erik's love.
"What do you read?" she asked testily. Christine jumped at her voice, not having expected the genius girl to speak, but then crossed herself, ready to defend her reading f the book.
"Do you tease me for the subject of the novel as well?" she asked in an annoyed tone. Margareite blinked, remembering how Erik had caused her to color vibrantly.
"No," she answered truthfully. "I was simply curious. What could possibly make you color so at the mention of the book?"
"Oh!" Christine's eyes widened. The girl was actually making an effort to talk to her. She almost sighed with relief, glad to have someone to talk to after complete silence the past four days. Who knew such quietness was so easy when stuck with even two people? But then who knew it would be so trying as well? "Well, ah…" she cleared her throat, her expression becoming bemused at the girl's confused look. "It's a romance novel. An erotic one." She rushed the words out, hoping it would dull the meaning, but it did not.
The seven year old child cocked her head, her expression curious.
"Romance meaning story of… love," she analyzed out loud. "Erotic…what does that word mean?" Christine nearly gaped at the girl. She had become so used to the girl's firm grip upon language and her use of it, she had over looked that Margareite was still a child at heart, and at times, did have child's need to learn. "I've never heard that word used before." Christine frowned, thinking of how to explain the word.
"Well... erotic can have many meanings... it often means 'foreign' or 'different'..." she trailed off thinkingof how to explain how the word described a romance novel with explicet intimate scenes.
"Oh," Margareite said, obviously calculating the meaning. "So it is an unusual romance novel?" Christine made an unsure face.
"In a way," she answered. "Rather then your normal romance, it has um…descriptive scenes."
"Desriptive about what?" the girl asked. "Are not all books descriptive? Otherwise it would be rather confusing."
Christine shifted uncomfortably, unsure of whether she should discuss the sex scenes with Margareite after her history. Where was Erik when she needed him? Out gathering supplies under his black cloak, that was where he was. But then… surely, despite how much Margareite trusted Erik, Christine found it difficult for Erik to explain to Margareit about sex scenes, when she was sure he himself was a virgin. She colored yet again, embarrassed about having thought of Erik's non-existent sex life. The girl continued to look at her with utter confusion written across her face. She sighed. Better to tell the girl exactly what she wanted to know, point-blank.
"Um... it describes intimate scenes," she said flatly.
"Sex scenes," Margareite translated. Her eyes darkened for a moment, then cleared again. She loved and trusted Erik dearly… but she could not ask him how real sex worked, nor show him the worst evidence of her past. She trembled as considered what she was about to do. She did not truly want to do it, but she would have to show the damning evidence some day, and she had to do it before she lost her courage. "I have heard from someone that sex is not always bad… that it is not always like…like this." She ran her fingers across the pearl choker that was the most prominent proof of her rough past. "Or like this…" the girl's hands ran along the edge of her skirts, then started to shift them higher on her young legs.
Child's legs. Christine's brown tightened, unsure of the girl's motive in this movement. A voice whispered an idea in the back of her mind, but she shut it out, hoping it would not be so. Despite her hoping, her prayers did not materialize in but the horror that was revealed when Margareite sat open legged, baring her lower region, her skirts hiked to her upper thighs.
The insides of her thighs were marked with hideous, twisted scars; fields of pearly rivers and some lakes that were large sections of the skin injured lay open for the first time willing, unforced for the eyes to behold. Unwantingly, grudgingly, Christine's eyes traveled farther up to the joint of the two legs. It was marred horridly, causing Christine to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out at the ripped and scathed area. She closed her eyes tightly, as she turned away, forcing back tears. So much pain this girl had endured. So much agony. She had not just been raped…she had been torn, mutilated, and it had been done horrendously. She did not open her eyes until she heard the girl's movements still after pulling the skirts back down her legs. "It's not always like that?"
Her voice was desperately quite, almost a whisper, a prayer that her thirteen year old sister had been right. She looked at Christine with pleading eyes, begging her to tell her it was so. Christine's voice cracked as she spoke, but it was sure. She was not lying when she answered.
"No, Margareite, it's not," she said. "If you love the person, if they love you, and they are gentle, it can be a joyful experience."
"Raoul?" Margareite quipped. Christine's discomfort showed vividly upon her face as she nodded. "He is gentle?" She nodded again. "What about the first time. Was it really different your first time, and then the others were better?"
Christine nodded again. She could not believe she was discussing this subject with a seven year old. But then, for once, she had to remind herself she was talking to a genius child. And she needed to be told.
"He was very gentle our first time," she said, her voice a little shifty with unease at speaking about how her fiancé had treated her virgin night. " He waited until I was ready for him to dive in and tear my virgin veil…" he voice warmed with loving memory as she spoke, a soft light shining in her eyes… "and even then, he slid in gently, then he tore it quickly, kissing me… swallowing my whimpers… telling me he loved me, and that he was sorry…and even then he waited until I told him to continue." She smiled warmly, then turned to Margareite, who looked at her with a longing in her eyes. Christine's smile weakened. "I was lucky." Margareite nodded. "One day, you'll find someone to lead you through the first time your ready," Christine assured her, lifting her chin with her fingers gently. "I promise it. Erik and I will never let any harm befall you again." Margareite looked at her with something hiding in her eyes momentarily before fleeting out of view, the expression of uncertainty smoothing over in an instant.
"Can you…explain it?" she asked haltingly, unsure of the question herself. All this time she ha just wanted to figure out how it worked… why it was needed... but not her desperate want to know failed her, but knowing that she would wish she had asked later drove her to ask for an answer to her age-old questions. Christine nodded, and relief flooded through her, having half expected an uncomfortable "no.," from the woman.
"I expect you understand the basic of how the bodies fit together," she began, her voice becoming sure of itself. She had to be strong and unfaltering to show the girl that love making was not as evil an act as it had shoed itself to e to her… but then "love making" was not what had been brought upon her. Rape was what she had experienced. Margareite nodded.
"Some what," she answered. "Why does it hurt?" Christine explained as best she could the concept of a woman's virgin veil, watching the girl soak in the information. The she shook her head.
"But why does it hurt even after that?" she asked. "Why does it hurt…me?" Christine sighed, strengthening herself to answer.
"Your are young yet, Mrgareite, and as you grow, your womanhood grows with you. As does a man's manhood grown with tem. The age determines the size, and when the wrong age sizes at forced together, it could be painful," she explained lamely, sounding stupid even to herself. She sighed. "Margareite, you're womanhood is still very small because of your age, and grown men have forced themselves upon you. They're manhoods are too big to fit into your womanhood that is really yet only a girlhood. Even when the ages are right…the first time the entrance to your womanhood is being torn slightly, stretched uncomfortably. Because you're so small, it was being stretched and torn over… and over again." She paused, shuddering at the thought of the multiple rapes. "That alone is painful, but it is even worse when the woman is not... uh… relasing her...erm…'love juices', which a woman does not when she does not wish to lay with the man." Margareite opened her mouth to question again, but Christine answered before she could speak, one step ahead of her thoughts. "Love juices are... ah... the natural liquid that our bodies release so that the man's manhood slides in comfortably. When we do not, the friction of dry skin is painful." Margareite's mouth opened in a wide "o" of understanding.
Erik sat in the chair, reading a book- or at least trying. Neither female had heard him return with the supplies and he did not want to disrupt margareite's obviously willing learning of sexual activity. Erik blushed at the thought of how he could have explained the aspects of love making with the young girl when he had as much experience with sexual activity as she had. Christine's parting kiss on the night of the fire in the opera house had been his first and only intimate touch but for running his hands along her side, the smooth skin of her neck…he shuddered warmly at the memory, then shook himself immidiatly.
Completely engulfed within his care for Margareite, Erik had managed to push Christine from his thoughts. But even now he could not deny himself that he still loved her. And one way or another, Raoul would deny him his true love once again.