Christine

Erik had fallen asleep again, but this morning was far too enchanting for me to spend it dozing. Everything seemed to be refreshed, sparkling with new life as though I had never seen it before. Erik had said long ago that all he owned was mine, but this was the first morning in which I truly felt it to be true. From the beautiful silver candlesticks to the worn, comfortable kitchen chairs, these items were now ours, and the very fact that Erik shared them with me made them treasures.

I spent almost half an hour wandering through our home and touching things whose dearness had been renewed and deepened: the piano, the positively ancient blanket Erik would wrap me in when the kitchen was chilly, the book of Swedish fairytales on a table in the music room.

Eventually, however, my footsteps led me to a door I had only been through once.

He had done it to frighten me, I was certain; that night, Erik had been even more furious with me than he had been with the rest of humanity. We had barely reached his home, after plunging from the stage in the midst of Don Juan Triumphant, when Erik had ordered me to change into the wedding dress he designed for me. And instead of allowing me to switch costumes in the comfort of the Louis-Philippe room, Erik had dragged me to this dark, menacing door, and told me to change within.

I had not known until then that he slept inside a coffin.

Now, I glanced over my shoulder, looking for any sign of my husband. Erik had not forbidden me to enter his room; he knew there was no need to. Never, before yesterday, would I have willingly opened that black door.

But now I was his wife. I had vowed to accept all of him, even his flaws, even his darkness, and the coffin-room was one of his shadows—one that, suddenly, I felt I must face immediately.

If he had locked it, of course, my standing indecisively before it was pointless; I reached out, hesitantly, to touch the doorknob of blood-red glass.

It turned.

The door swung open smoothly, silently, gliding away from the slightest pressure of my fingertips. After looking behind me once more, I turned and stepped forward.

My candle illuminated little of the brooding darkness, but if I remembered correctly, there was a gaslight just to my left—there. I concentrated on lighting the lamp so that my hands would not shake; illumination spilled through the room, and I forced myself to turn and look.

Dominating the back wall was Erik's organ. The sight of it made me shiver; it was detailed in the black and red that were this room's theme, and seemed to stare at me with a menacing scowl. Don Juan Triumphant had been composed at that organ, and it was as if the instrument was rebuking me for not allowing the production of its masterpiece to finish playing.

I shook myself. Nonsense. The organ was completely incapable of such strong emotion.

Its master, however . . .

No, I would not think of that. Erik had made no mention of the disaster that nighthad been since the fight which ended in my bruised wrist. Perhaps more importantly, I hadn't seen the raging anger lurking in his expressive eyes since then, either.

I was surprised, turning, to find that the open coffin did not frighten me nearly as much as the organ had. It was morbid, yes, but somehow I found it unthreatening.

Feeling more and more a master of my surroundings, even though their true master was absent, I walked over to the coffin and gently closed the lid.

If I had any say in the matter, Erik had spent his last night in this particular bed.

Was the coffin bolted down? Experimentally, I leaned down, gripped one of the handles, and yanked.

It didn't budge.

I straightened and glared down at the offending piece of furniture. I was my husband's mistress now, not this thing. I was determined to conquer it, even if my 'victory was only for it to move a handful of inches.

All thoughts of conquering the coffin fled completely, however, when Erik's long hands slid from my shoulders to my wrists.

I closed my eyes as he folded our arms around me and drew me back against him; through the thin material of my robe, I tried to gauge his mood. He didn't feel tense, but all the same, my breath quickened. Erik probably wasn't angry with me . . . but only probably. How long had he been here? I had an uncomfortable feeling that Erik had been leaning in the doorway watching me almost since I entered his room.

His mouth touched my ear and slowly, delicately he began to explore it. I held perfectly still, though I was melting inside. Deliberately, he moved from my ear to my throat, lightly nibbling its length until he reached my shoulder, before returning his full attention to my ear. He was gentle at first, and then rough, insistent. But Erik's roughest, at least in love, was never too rough, and it took all of my willpower to not react.

"You're far too stiff," he complained after a few more moments, his hands caressing my waist. When I did not answer, he quietly said, "Christine, I am not angry with you."

At this, I looked back at him. "Truly?"

He held my gaze; the intensity in his eyes sent delicious warmth into the pit of my stomach. "I swore yesterday that everything I have is yours. Even this room, though I had not thought you would want to see it again." Erik raised his eyebrows at me, but I didn't want to answer the question inherent in his words. I wasn't sure I knew the reason myself.

But if he wasn't angry . . .

I fully turned around in his arms and let my eyes roam his face and torso. Erik was maskless and alluring in his dark trousers and unbuttoned white shirt; I smiled, allowing myself to close the distance between us and slowly, warmly kiss the exposed skin of his chest. Glancing up for permission, I lightly trailed my fingers from his throat to his navel in loops and whorls, drawing make-believe runes across his stomach.

A light pull about my hips made me glance down; Erik was tugging insistently at the sash of my robe. I was wearing a nightgown underneath, but the intimacy of his touch still made me tremble. I looked back up, and he leaned in enough to murmur against my temple, "Do you know what I am thinking?"

"No," I denied, teasing. He let go of my sash in order to stroke my back.

"I think," Erik continued, his mouth moving down my cheek, "that you should come back to bed."

I smiled. "And why is that?" I asked innocently.

He laughed softly against my lips. "Because I think that you would find both the floor and the coffin highly uncomfortable, my dear."

Lowering my eyes demurely, I glanced up at him through my eyelashes and wickedly murmured, "The couch in the music room is closer."

I think I shocked him; Erik drew back enough to stare at me for a moment, and then he smirked. "The bed is softer."

"True," I whispered just before he kissed me. His touch was slow and deeply tender; I wrapped my arms more tightly around his neck. When we finally parted, I unthinkingly asked, "Are you certain that the coffin won't hold two?"

"If I thought you were the least bit serious," Erik retorted, "I would take you up on that offer."

I blushed; he was right. I was nowhere near ready to contemplate sleeping in the coffin, with or without him.

Erik swung me up into his arms and started to carry me out of the room, but my gaze caught something I had missed earlier. "Where does that door lead?" I pointed to a door in the back, by the organ, which was a plain and inviting brown in contrast to the rest of the room.

Turning to see what I meant, Erik hesitated, then glanced at me. "Do you need to know immediately, or can I show you that room later?"

I tilted my head, considering. "Later."

He grinned.

We had made it halfway through the kitchen when Erik's arms around me tensed suddenly; without warning, I was set firmly on my feet. I frowned up at him, but my husband was not paying attention to me. His face was as hard as stone. I turned around to see what he was regarding with so chilly a disposition, but even as I did, I heard my beloved's wonderful voice frigidly say, "Hello, daroga."

Worry began to worm through my heart. Nadir Khan stood in our kitchen, his hat in his hands; the former daroga's expression was one of intense regret. I hated to see him so pained, for Erik had told me a little of his friend, and I had genuinely liked the man on the two occasions we had met.

The last of those, though, had torn a rift between Erik and Nadir. The Persian had not been invited to our wedding; Erik would not hear of it. He had yet to forgive Nadir for bringing Raoul down to the lair.

Raoul had not been invited to the wedding, either, but that was because I wasn't foolish enough to suggest it. To either of them.

"Erik," Nadir replied quietly.

Silence.

Shakily—hoping that Erik wouldn't see it as a betrayal—I smiled at Nadir. "Welcome to our home, monsieur Khan." I turned back to my husband and lightly touched his good cheek, bringing his attention down to me. "I think I should make tea," I murmured, while pulling my robe a little more tightly around me. Even though I still wore my nightgown beneath it, I was certainly not dressed for company.

Erik nodded, shortly. I stepped away from him and started a search for the teacups which was interrupted when I heard my husband swear viciously. I whirled around to find him with his back to Nadir, his hand covering the right side of his face.

A flutter of joy spurted in my heart because my acceptance of him had obviously made Erik forget he wasn't wearing a mask, but it was followed swiftly by pain on his behalf. How he hated to be so exposed, especially in front of one of the few he counted as friends. "Christine," he begged, not looking at me.

I knew what he wanted and started to leave the kitchen and retrieve his mask, but the Persian shook his head at me. I paused, waiting.

"Erik," Nadir spoke gently, coming up behind him and slowly reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. "Erik, please. Not for me."

My breath caught.

Slowly, so very slowly, Erik lowered his hand from his face.

I waited until he nodded at me again before I returned to making the tea; it was another full minute before Erik faced Nadir.

Erik

"Did you come here for a reason?" I questioned lowly, resisting the urge to cover my ruined face again.

Nadir glanced at the table. "May I sit down?"

I nodded my assent and waited for him to get comfortable; I preferred to stand.

"I had hoped," Nadir continued once he was seated, "to offer my congratulations to you." If he noticed my disbelieving snort, he paid it no mind; Nadir's attention was firmly focused on his hands, clasped together on the table. "And, perhaps, to apologize for leading Raoul de Chagny here. That trespass seems to have cost me a friendship I valued, and I came to see if it was possible to gain that friendship back." At this last, finally, his tone softened, though it retained Nadir's inherent dignity.

"Why?" Nadir looked up at me, startled, and I quickly clarified. "Why did you have to bring him down here, daroga?"

It was difficult—incredibly so—to just stand with my face in the open air. I was only able to remain civil by listening to the sounds of Christine making tea in the kitchen behind me. With her—for her—I could do anything, even let the one man left in the world who I respected see the horror that passed for my face.

He didn't want to answer, I could see that much; Nadir has an annoying preoccupation with scrupulous honesty. If his views on the truth were a little more flexible, this would be easier for him.

The teapot whistled; Christine brought a tray to the table, filled with tea cups, the teapot, leaves, bags, spoons, and . . . where had she gotten pastries?

I would have sworn there were no pastries in this house last night.

Gazing at the wonder who was my wife, I bemusedly sat down at her bidding as she began pouring us tea.

The three of us were silent until everything was arranged on the table to Christine's liking. She sat between Nadir and me; for a moment, the quiet tap of her spoon against her teacup was the only sound we heard.

She glanced up at me, a teasing expression in her eyes. "No comments about the amount of sugar I like?"

Despite myself, I laughed softly. Christine will usually deposit what I consider an absurd amount of sugar into an otherwise satisfactory cup of tea, and I have tormented her about it for the past week in an explosion of pre-wedding nerves. How she put up with me for the last seven days, I had no idea . . . but then, I don't know how Christine puts up with me on a regular basis.

The tension broke a little, with my laughter; enough, at least, that Nadir felt comfortable answering me. "Erik," he replied quietly, "I know your temper. I felt uneasy about Christine's presence in your home for any prolonged period of time, considering the history between the two of you. When the Vicomte came to me, begging to be taken to the woman he referred to as his fiancée, I felt that it was best to accompany him—for all three of your sakes."

My fist tightened automatically—that boy still believed Christine was engaged to him?

"Erik," Christine murmured, taking my clenched fist into her hands and lightly running her fingers over my skin. "I'm here."

I raised my eyes to hers; they were calm, gentle.

Loving.

Christine's cool touch opened my hand, slowly, and she interlocked our fingers while keeping her gaze on me. I sighed and nodded, then glanced over at my longtime friend. "Nadir, you have seen me through murder, treachery, and madness. I can't . . ."I looked down at Christine's hand, so trustingly holding mine, for strength. To her pale fingertips, I finished, "It would be poor etiquette indeed for me to repay your friendship with enmity." I glanced up at Nadir, calculating, and then forced a tight grin. "Though I dare say you shall be relieved to turn my 'keeping' over to the entirely capable hands of my wife."

He snorted. "I do not doubt her ability to influence you, Erik, but it would be too much of a bother to change my ways now. I will always be your conscience."

"No man should be cursed with two." It felt strange in my mouth, the old familiar banter with him; my heart was not ready to soften, and the words were bitterer than they should have been.

"On the contrary, Erik, you need as many consciences as you can obtain." Nadir seemed willing enough to accept my words as they were; perhaps he understood. If anyone did, it would be Christine or he. They were the only two who knew enough to understand how difficultly forgiveness came to me.

Perhaps because they were the only people I had ever tried to forgive.

Hiding that thought away inside of me so that it would not show on my face, I nodded to Christine, who had begun to clean up the tea, and raised one eyebrow. "You'll pardon me, of course, Nadir, if I prefer to hear her voice in my head."

Nadir stood and bowed to Christine. "Of course. What man would not rather hear the voice of an angel than the grumbling of an old Persian?" Christine smiled at Nadir and curtseyed; I kept a careful eye on the tray she was holding. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe that I must be returning to my own business."

Christine

Nadir left, but I did not see it; I kept my gaze fixed on my husband. Erik was still sitting at the table, his back to me, and I couldn't seem to find the words that would break our silence.

Fortunately, I did not have to.

"Christine," he murmured, his voice a low, rough plea, "could you do something for me?"

So he would not shut me out, after all. Watching him speak with Nadir, that possibility had frightened me more than the thought of his temper shrugging off its bounds.

Knowing how much he hated asking anyone for help, I came to his side. "Anything."

He turned, slightly, to look up at me. For a moment he simply stared, almost not seeing me, then Erik allowed the faintest of pained whispers to escape his throat. "I need you."

I knew he did not mean in passion.

Taking my husband's hand, I led him back to the Louis-Philippe room. Gentle despite his protests, I lay down on the wide couch and took him into my arms, holding him tightly as he buried his face in my shoulder.

I do not know how long we lay there; I sung, sometimes, light meaningless things, and stroked his hair and back tenderly. Mostly, though, I just held him and whispered to Erik how very much I loved him.

Eventually, he stopped shaking.

If it took this—my love and his own strength—for Erik to forgive Nadir, what had he gone through inside to forgive me?

Had he?

That thought, however, had nothing to do with us, now, and I banished it.

Erik sat up and pulled me with him, continuing the motion until he was once more standing and carrying me. Deliberately, he turned back the way we had originally come, toward the coffin-room.

"Erik?"

"I want you to see something."

We went straight through the great black door and across the length of the coffin-room to the other door, the plain one I had noticed earlier. Erik set me down and reached one long hand out to finger the doorknob; he looked at me for a long moment as he held the knob in his hand, as though determining whether or not he really wanted to open this door for me; then I heard the click of a lock and the light wood opened toward us.

With a gesture of his hand, Erik motioned me through.

I took one step inside the room, as Erik lit the lamps behind me, and froze.

Vaguely, I knew there must be a desk, a chair, for this was a smaller version of his study. But that surmise came from logic, not sense, for the first and whole impression of this room was of . . . me.

Dozens, even hundreds of portraits of me covered the walls, the desk, each and every one illustrating an aspect of my personality. It was not merely Erik's exquisite attention to detail that overwhelmed; it was that, in each of these sketches, he showed me me. The woman staring back at me was myself, drawn with a sure hand, a hand that knew me better than I ever could, that showed not a perfected, dream-Christine, but my true self.

And the love.

The love that seeped from these reflections was fierce, piercing; I took another step forward and heard the floor crunch beneath me.

Had he rescued every rose he had ever given me and laid their dried petals out for a carpet? The scent was wonderful, and there were soft black ribbons strewn among the rose petals, each a commemoration of a time when I had pleased my impossible teacher.

"Christine . . ."

Maybe I should have been frightened of the thoroughness of his love and need for me. Erik had been wise to keep this from me until now; the girl who had fainted at the sight of her own mannequin would have reacted much more strongly to a room devoted to her living soul.

I had not been that girl for a long time.

Turning, I flew into my husband's arms.

AN: Here is the second chapter, folks! Hope that you're enjoying so far! All of your lovely reviews make writing come faster and easier (hint). Truly, thanks guys!

Oh, btw. I know that this chapter gets a tad more . . . descriptive. This is absolutely the farthest it goes, so those of you who, like me, neither read nor write lemons—I hope this wasn't too much for you.

On the other hand . . . I know I wrote a bit more for you, my dear Co-Mistress of the DE, but I decided it needed chopping. What can I say? I'm a wimp!

EDIT: I'm such a dork! I forgot, when posting, to put up this disclaimer. I have realized that, situationally, this chapter particularly bears quite a few resemblances to Riene's wonderful EC phic, "Red Rose", which I adore. I am absolutely not copying anything from that excellent work, and I think the story lines are different enough that it shouldn't be a problem, but I just wanted to acknowledge the similarities. If you want some absolutely beautiful EC writing, go read "Red Rose" for yourself—it's in my Favorites list. I would post a link, but FF.N confuses me. Thanks again!

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