Disclaimer: I don't own blah blah blah.
A/N: Hello everyone! This chapter has been written for awhile, I'm sorry it took me so long to update it—blame it on my sister, who, every time I found a time to type it up, would have to go on the computer. But now I've moved out of my house and into my summer housing (free housing comes with my summer job! Yay!) and by the time I'm home again it will be almost time to go back to New York. Anyway, here it is.
A warning before you begin: There is a LOT of Christine/Raoul fluff in this chapter. Sorry Raoul-haters. I had to do it. There's also no Erik in this chapter shields herself. Now don't get upset! I'm not done with him yet (obviously—if you want to know, Holy Darkness will have 20 chapters in total, not counting the prologue), but right now the plot lies with Christine. He'll be in the next chapter (though not for a very long time, I'm afraid). So anyway, please don't hate me (or Christine) for what she does in this chapter. I listened to a lot of All I Ask of You (and I do allude to that—catch it!) and read some Leroux to prepare for this, because we all know that I don't usually write Raoul well—or at all. My usual tactic (case in point: Reality Issues) is to stick him just outside of the actual events. It worked for most of HD as well—but now I feel like he's a very integral part of the story and I've been denying him his place, see? So, I hope you Raoul-haters like my Raoul even a little bit, and here's a little present to you Raoul-lovers from an E/C kinda girl.
Chapter Ten: Guide the Morning Star
The story went as such: Exhausted from a full day of dealing with aggressive shop owners, Christine found her way to a small park to relax and fell asleep quite innocently. When she awoke, it was very dark and she immediately hailed a carriage and returned home.
Christine assumed that everyone was too relieved that she had returned home safely to question the validity of her story. Raoul was so relieved that, when he had woken up that morning, he had thrown himself on top of her, knocking her out of her drugged sleep, praising the Lord as if he had just been granted all the wealth in the world. Christine's story had hardly left her lips before he was racing around the house, waking the servants, proclaiming their mistress's return. It was not until lunch that Raoul calmed down enough to truly converse with his wife. Still, he could not stop beaming at her from across the dining room table.
"Raoul," she eventually said, when she could stand his tireless grin no longer, "stop it."
"What?" he asked innocently, his eyes rounding like two full moons. Christine couldn't help but laugh.
"You're looking at me as if I were the Virgin Mary." Raoul tossed down his fork and walked down the length of the table to her, presenting himself wildly. "Oh, the Mother of God has nothing," he said, kneeling before her, "next to you." Christine laughed again and clamped her hand over her husband's mouth.
"Hush, you great fool," she whispered playfully. "What you say is sacrilegious." Raoul leaned in very close and kissed the palm she had laid over his lips.
"I don't care," he whispered back, and, with further grandness, picked his wife up and swung her around. Christine's laugh was first one of surprise and then one of pure delight. Her arms encircling Raoul's neck, she tilted back her head and closed her eyes, feeling the air blow through her hair. She felt sublimely happy, a happiness she hadn't felt for years, since before her father died. When she was returned to her seat, she not longer sat in the chair herself; no indeed, for Raoul had usurped her place and she was now sitting securely on his lap. As they sat laughing, the words just flew from her lips.
"Will you marry me?" He looked at her quizzically, a smirk playing upon his mouth.
"Well, it shall be quite a disappointment to all my other lovers, but yes, I think I might be willing." Raoul leaned in slowly to kiss her, but just when their lips began to brush, he pulled away. "But," he said, raising his right index finger, "you've only yourself to blame if I grow tired of you after a month." She flattened his finger with her palm and quickly pressed her lips against his. He was very talented, this husband of hers, in helping her forget. For a moment, Christine felt a pang of guilt, but as Raoul opened his mouth with hers, she threw that emotion behind her. This is what Erik wanted, was it not? She was not deceiving anyone; a mother can love her two children equally with her whole heart, why couldn't she? And she did love both Raoul and Erik with every part of her being, the same amount of love, just in different ways. Had she a choice again, perhaps she would have chosen differently, but there was no choice for her to make. It had been made for her, once again.
Raoul pulled tenderly away from her lips and smiled up at her, tucking her hair behind her ear. And as she looked down into his beautiful marble blue eyes, Christine's heart melted. If she couldn't be with Erik, she wouldn't want anyone else but Raoul. He was the best person she knew; his devotion would never fade and she was sure that she could love him for the rest of his life. She bent down to him and kissed his temple gently.
"Last night," she said softly, truthfully, pulling herself back once more to look into his eyes, "when I came home, I watched you sleep. I used to do that so much when we first were married." Raoul's lips turned upwards. It wasn't his playful grin that he had just been sporting; it was a gentle, soothing smile. They were being serious now. "I once read that you can never know how much you love someone until you've seen them asleep, because that's the only time when all your defenses are down and you're completely vulnerable. And you…" Christine smiled now and ran her fingers through his hair. "When I watch you sleep, all I can see is the little boy that I first knew. You're so beautifully peaceful when you sleep, as free of burdens as a newborn. And I wondered…" she paused, wanted to get the words right, "how you did it."
Raoul looked back at her, confused. "How I did what?"
"How…" Christine didn't know where her thoughts were leading her. She had never spoken to Raoul, really spoken, about what had happened their last night in the Opera House. But now seemed like as fine a time as she was likely to find… "After everything we…went through last year, you never lost that…openness, joy, innocence—I don't know what it is!" She laughed in embarrassment and Raoul himself looked rather amused.
"I wouldn't exactly call you world-weary…"
"No, I know, but…" She found herself lost once again in his blue eyes, his compassionate face, his warm arms that would never let her fall. She could tell him anything. "I'm different now, you know. Or, at least, I feel different. How is it that you managed not to change at all?"
"You are different," Raoul replied, and Christine felt a strong urge to pull herself away from his eyes, but resisted, "a good different. And I wouldn't have you any other way now." He looked away himself, but just for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts. He didn't speak until his gaze was upon her again. "You came through a trying experience stronger than you were before. I had thought it might break you, but you blossomed. I'm in awe of you." He smile tenderly and Christine felt her eyes filling with tears and didn't do a thing to stop them from falling silently. "If I ever need strength I think of you and I can move mountains.
"There's a sadness about you too, though. A sadness which reminds me that, had you been given a choice, perhaps you would have chosen to…spend your life with someone else." He paused again here, his eyes drifting slowly out of focus as he struggled to find the words. Christine made to deny it, however true it may be, but he stopped her. "You don't have to say it—I know you love me. But I also know you love him. And I can't begrudge you that—you certainly didn't wish for it—and although I loathe and despise the man," Christine smiled through her tears and even Raoul looked slightly amused with himself, "I am grateful to him as well. He made you who you are, and I love every part of the woman before me." Only here did Christine make any sound through her crying. A half-sob, half-sigh escaped from her lips. Raoul smiled in sympathy and kissed her forehead. Only then did she notice that he was crying quietly as well. And Raoul did not cry.
"In answer to your question," he continued, "I have changed. A far more subtle change than yours, but I am not the man I once was. This openness you speak of, I still retain that only because you bring it out in me. Because I love you."
"I love you," was all she had time to utter before she pressed her lips against his, her hands holding his head as if the world would end were she to let go. He pressed his hands against her back with equal force and they clung to each other like this, as they hadn't in years. As they had their night on the Opera roof…
Christine was heaving with cobs now. She buried her face in his neck to try and stop them, but there she was filled with the scent of him, and this only made her cry harder. She kissed him again and held his face steady, locking their eyes together. "I will never leave you," she said, her voice becoming steady through her words.
"I know," was all he replied before they were kissing again. It was different this time, though. They were no longer clinging, they were…stroking. Without his lips ever leaving hers, Raoul lifted her up in his arms and carried her upstairs. And so their honeymoon officially began, even though they had not yet left home.
Soon after, it was time to depart. The whole of the household staff lines up in the foyer to see them off. Raoul shook everyone's hand and wished them all well. When he arrived at Wesley, he pulled him instead into a fond embrace (it was always said that these two cared for each other as brothers) and whispered something to him that Christine couldn't hear. Whatever it was, it made Wesley laugh and murmur something in assent. As Raoul moved on to the next servant, Christine smiled gently at Wesley.
"You will take care of things while we are gone?" she asked, although she didn't have to.
"Of course, madame." He smiled back at her.
"And do not hesitate to send word should anything go wrong."
"I won't madame."
"Take care." She smiled once again and joined her husband at the door.
"Now you're sure you have everything?" Raoul beamed down at her.
"Yes," Christine replied, tucking her hand into the pocket of her cloak, her fingers grazing a small piece of paper. Although she was fairly certain she would not be able to forget, she did not want to chance it, and was determined to keep this little slip of paper on her person until she completed the task written upon it, namely to visit this Frederick Garland. How she would manage to withdraw from her husband on their honeymoon long enough to do this errand, She did not yet know. But those thoughts were for another day, when they were in London. Today, she could think no further than Italy and all that awaited her there.
Their itinerary was such: They were to travel first to Naples and work their way up the country, stopping in Rome, Florence, and Venice as well, before entering Germany, where they would visit Munich and Berlin. From there, they would travel to Sweden, to the seaside where they first met, just outside of Malmö. Then it was on to London, Bath and Dublin before finally crossing the English Channel and returning home. Raoul, who had made all the arrangements himself, had not told his wife how long their trip was to last ("However long we want it too," he replied with a grin each time she asked). Christine supposed months and wondered how anyone could afford to be away from home for so long, but Raoul just tossed her questions away with a flick of his wrist. "We took a year to have our honeymoon," he told her as she questioned him the last time before they left, "and we only get one. These memories will have to last us a lifetime." Christine wanted to tell him that the memories she cherished her whole life were mostly ordinary ones, like sitting by the fire with her father, but he was so proud and excited for their trip that she hadn't the heart to say anything.
After their first day in Italy, however, Christine's excitement for their trip equaled her husband's. Naples was unlike any place she had ever dreamt of. The sun bounced off the white buildings, causing the entire city to gleam with warmth and beauty. The people treated her with a welcoming respect and, had she any idea what they were saying, she was sure that she could have made a few Italian friends (she had sung in a few Italian operas, but it was not necessary for a chorus member to understand every word they were singing). Raoul spoke Italian fluently, one of the privileges of being born a Vicomte, and soon enough he had a few citizens touring them around the city, Raoul translating everything they said into French.
Christine was far too busy and much too preoccupied with her husband to dwell on Erik or his request. In fact, she only thought of him once in her entire stay in Italy—in Rome, about three weeks into their honeymoon. She and Raoul had just toured the Vatican and were strolling along a boulevard when Christine suddenly stopped in front of a tall stone building. It wasn't very different from the other buildings that surrounded it, but there was something, something that made it intricately unique. As she stood in front of it, silently staring, Raoul looked at her and laughed.
"Darling, what are you doing?"
"Looking at this building," she replied, concentrating even harder on the structure. She was looking for something…but what?
"Yes," he laughed again, "I see that. But why?"
"There's something…familiar about it."
"That's probably because it looks the same as every other building around here."
"No. I don't know anything about masonry—masons are the men who work with stone, right?" Raoul shrugged. "But there's something special about it. It's one of the most beautiful buildings I've ever seen."
"Christine," Raoul said, looking at her with his eyebrows raised in jest, "you have just seen the Sistine Chapel and this is the most beautiful building you've ever seen?"
"I said 'one of', Raoul," she said, finally turning away from the building. "Of course, it is nothing compared to the Sistine Chapel, or the Vatican, or the Opera House—" Her voice cut off there and she didn't know exactly why, but she somehow knew that Erik had been here, that this was his building. She turned back to it and laid her hands tenderly on its wall. "But someone cared for each stone of this building, don't you see?" she said softly. "That's what makes it different from all the others. That's what makes it beautiful."
Raoul came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Yes, I see," he said just as softly as she, "and I do believe that if you were a building, this would be you." He turned her around and kissed her softly. And as they walked away, Christine wondered why she wished so strongly that Raoul had not just spoken those words.
Christine saw no more signs of Erik in Italy and very quickly a month had passed by, and they were in Germany. Soon after, two months had passed, and they were in Sweden. Finally, on the tenth week of their honeymoon, they departed for London. Christine became ill on their journey across the North Sea; she vomited at even the mention of food. Raoul was very concerned, but Christine, who believed she was just anxious to finish her Task (as she had begun to refer to it in her head), told her husband it was just seasickness. And although she had never been seasick before, Raoul believed her.
And so they arrived in London. Christine felt more at home there than anywhere else they had traveled to so far (except for Sweden, of course). She could speak English very well, and the hustle of the city reminded her so much of Paris. The streets were noisy and crowded and full of people for Christine to watch. For their second day in the city, Christine and Raoul went out to visit the great sights, but Christine was overwhelmed by the people of London rather than its places. She did not understand the animosity between the French and the British; they seemed so similar to her. She thought London was a marvelous city, and not at all as dirty as people said (bear in mind that Christine had never been in a slum in her life and Raoul was not about to introduce her to one).
Christine didn't even have to worry about how to get rid of Raoul for an afternoon. On their third day in London, as they were walking to lunch, Raoul was accosted by two men who happened to be old friends of his (Christine was surprised; she didn't know Raoul had any old English friends). They invited him somewhere the next day and Raoul looked at her quickly before declining. Christine realized that they must have wanted him to go to a Men's Club—or whatever those places were called. Christine softly suggested to Raoul that he go and though he protested, she managed to convince him that she would be perfectly capable of entertaining herself. So, the next day was officially the day she would go and find Frederick Garland and Burton Street. Even as she bid Raoul's friends goodbye, she felt a nervous energy grow in her stomach, and she knew that she would get little sleep that night.
The next day, Christine stepped out of her carriage and onto Burton Street, a quaint little place on the North end of London, just off one of the main roads. She walked slowly down the street until she stopped in front of number 45. The sign on the door read: Garland and Garland Photographers
This must be the place, she thought and, with a final word to herself of how ridiculous this whole situation was, pushed open the door and entered the tiny shop, butterflies flapping wildly in her stomach.
The door rang a tiny bell as it opened and closed. An older man stood behind a small counter doing something that looked very complicated with what Christine could only assume was a print. He was tall and reasonably broad, and even bent over Christine could immediately see from the way his face turned in gentle concentration that he was a kindly sort of man. He looked up and smiled warmly at her, and as he did, she felt many of her butterflies begin to leave their nest.
"Good morning, miss," he said, bowing his head slightly. "How may I help you? Are you here for a sitting?"
"Oh, no," Christine replied, blushing slightly. "No, I'm here to… Are you Frederick Garland?"
The man laughed, his eyes lighting up brightly, making him appear many years younger than her impression. "No, no. Frederick is my nephew. But thank you for asking. I'm Webster Garland," he said, extending his hand to her. She took it and they shook hands as men do. Christine supposed she was coloring again.
"How do you do," she returned. The man, Webster, smiled at her again before withdrawing his hand and turning away from her. He faced a young man, perhaps two or three years younger than Christine, whom she had not previously noticed. He was sitting quite contentedly on a stool in the corner, with his knees pulled up, reading a small novel closely.
"Jim," Webster called, "be of some use, boy. Go and get Fred for me." The boy didn't look up.
"I ain't goin' in there, Webster mate," he replied in a broken Cockney accent, as if he had been attempting to lose it. "He's in another one of his rows with Sally. Why d'you think I'm sitting out here in the first place? You go, you're his uncle, he has to listen to you."
"Jim," Webster said again, patiently. Christine got the impression that Jim often had to be asked things twice. "I can't leave this for more than a few minutes. Please go get Fred for this lady here." Only then did Jim look up. He met Christine's eyes and she smiled slightly, once again feeling awkward. He sighed and dramatically hopped off his stool and dropped his book onto the seat. He marched over to a door near the counter and placed his hand on it before turning back around.
"All right then," he said to Webster, who had already resumed his work, "but first I just want you to hear the lovely music you are making me break up." With that he swung open the door and Christine was hit by a torrent of curses flowing wildly from a man's mouth.
"Oh don't be such a baby, Fred," a woman replied. Christine assumed she was the Sally Jim had spoken of. "There's no reason to swear."
"You threw a book at my head!"
"Well, hopefully, some of the numbers in it crammed their way into your brain! Honestly, Fred, how am I supposed to help you with the books if you don't write anything down?"
"I'm a busy man, Sally; I can't be bothered. We need another hand around here."
"Well, we'll never find the money for another hand if you don't write all the figures down! Now please, how much did you spend on that new thing you've been playing with?"
"It's not a thing and I am not playing." Frederick sounded very offended. "I am not a child, nor do you have any right to boss or lecture me. It's not like we're married." There was a slight pause in the conversation.
"If you're starting on that again," Sally replied, sounding just as offended, "I'm leaving."
"Fine. Leave. I'll take care of the books myself from now on."
"I'd like to see that."
"You think I can't?"
"I'm certain. I remember what it was like when you took care of the books."
"Jim," Webster chimed in softly.
"Thank you very much, Sally. You confidence means a lot."
"You just don't know when to stop, do you?"
"I won't be called stupid in my own house!"
"I never called you stupid!"
"Enough now, Jim."
"Oy, Fred," Jim hollered out. "Customer for you." Without a pause, Frederick walked out into the shop, his face still burning red from his argument. He was taller than his uncle and very handsome, with light blonde hair that fell easily to the tips of his ears. He already had laugh lines on his young face, the only flaw on which was a broken nose. Though he was obviously unsettled from the scene he had just left, he smiled when he looked at Christine, and she felt the same warm kindness in his blue eyes as she had in his uncle's.
"Hello, miss," he said, greeting her with yet another handshake. "I'm Frederick Garland, how may I help you?"
Christine smiled back, strangely smitten from his attention. "I was told…" she started, not quite sure how to begin. "I'm looking for someone and I heard that—"
"Ah!" he exclaimed, his smile stretching into a bright grin. "You're not here for Frederick Garland, the Photographer at all." He must have seen her face twist in confusion, for he leaned in and said, "You want Frederick Garland, Detective Extrordinaire!" Webster began to snicker from his counter. Frederick paid him no mind, but instead offered her his arm. "Please let me escort you to my office."
"It's not an office at all," Jim said dryly, "just the back room where we keep the books."
"Which makes it an office!" Frederick laughed, and led her into the room in question with Jim on their heels. The "office" was more of a kitchen; along with all the things necessary to a kitchen, there was a table set and on the side of the room, two large easy chairs. The table was overcome with stacks of paper and a young woman was raking through them. She was very pretty, with fair-colored hair and strikingly dark eyes. She smiled when they walked in, and it was obvious as Frederick led Christine past her briskly, without an introduction, that this was Sally.
"Is there a mystery?" she asked.
"So it would seem," Frederick said stiffly. Sally's face began to fall, but she caught it gracefully.
"Well, you've come to the right place," she said to Christine. "Fred does a wonderful job of solving mysteries." She glanced quickly at him before turning back to her work.
"I don't know if you would call it a mystery exactly," Christine explained to Frederick as they sat down in his easy chairs. Jim had drawn another stool over to where they were sitting and began to chomp noisily on an apple. "I'm just looking for someone."
"Well, let's start at the beginning. Who are you looking for?"
"Her name is Winifred Evans. She's a maid, somewhere here in London." Christine was growing nervous again. Both men were staring at her eagerly and even Sally kept peering up at her every so often. She didn't know what else to say.
"Why do you need to find her?"
"I… I'm supposed to ask her to come work for me."
"You're supposed to?" Jim asked, leaning in, his eyes wide with greedy suspicion.
Oh dear, Christine thought. "Yes, someone…someone told me to find her."
"Now it's a mystery," Frederick declared, smiling.
"I don't know why I have to find her, but I do."
"Finding her won't be a problem. The name already sounds familiar to me," he said, crossing his arms casually. "Speaking of names, though, I don't think I asked you for yours."
"My name?" she asked, surprised. "Christine Daae." She did not know why she gave her maiden name, but she immediately regretted it. Jim leaned so far forward that his apple rolled onto the floor. He paid no mind.
"I most definitely know that name!" he exclaimed, pointing strongly at Christine. Sally, at her table, had completely abandoned her work and stared at Jim in bewilderment. Even Frederick seemed shocked at Jim's behavior.
"Jim, there's no need to point at anyone," he said firmly.
"Did you sing in the Paris Opera?" he asked excitedly, his second finger still fixed in her direction.
"I—" He didn't wait for her answer.
"Yes! You're the singer, the soprano! You were once hailed as 'The New Marguerite', weren't you?"
"Jim, stop harassing the poor lady," Sally said sternly from her table.
"Forgive me, Miss Daae; Jim fancies himself and actor."
"Playwright, mate, not an actor. But this is not about that, not really." He had lowered his finger from its accusatory salute, but was now standing, still leaning towards her, his eyes glowing with cunning anticipation. Christine had no idea what to do. She wanted to run out of the room and forget all about her hasty promise to Erik. She had never been in this situation before—how did he know who she was?—but she knew that there was no way out. After all, she needed their help. She just hoped he wouldn't mention—"Do you remember when I told you about the Phantom of the Opera?"
Christine's mind silently screamed the most foul and base word she had ever heard Erik speak. Now it was her mask that had been ripped off, wasn't it? Not a very pleasant feeling…
"And I remember telling you that we deal with mysteries, not ghost stories."
"But this is the girl!" he exclaimed, gesturing madly. "The girl he kidnapped!"
There was a short silence as Frederick and Sally stared, stupefied at Jim. Christine, however, focused on her lap, working up her courage. Obviously there was no way around the subject any longer. Best to just confront it brazenly.
"Jim," Frederick said, trying once again to reason with him. "Calm down. You don't know that. It could be a common name."
"Really? How many French Swedes are there in the world?"
"Quite a few actually." All three heads snapped directly to the person who had spoken these words, but Christine kept her own eyes fixed on Jim, who began to smile with gleeful satisfaction. He sat back down on his stool and crossed his arms, perfectly delighted with himself.
"So it's true then?" Sally asked, moving her chair over to join the cluster. "Everything he said?"
"All but one count," Christine replied, suddenly feeling the same rush of confidence she had felt in Erik's parlor. This wasn't difficult after all. "There is no Phantom of the Opera." She could not betray Erik's secrets, but she could hint at them. And it was worth it to see the haughty pride pour off Jim's face. Christine smiled. "Well, not anymore."
"Dead?" Jim asked.
"Retired," she answered. Her smile grew.
"How can a ghost retire?"
"If he wasn't a ghost after all," Sally said, smiling herself, "right?" Christine nodded back.
"But he did kidnap you?" Jim pounced.
"Yes."
"Then what happened?"
"Then…" Christine paused for a moment, unsure what to divulge and what to avoid. "Then he let me go. Then he died, a year went by, and then he was alive again."
"So now he's a ghost!" Jim exclaimed, with a false sense of triumph.
"No, he didn't actually die. I just believed that he did."
Jim looked at her angrily. "My vampire play made more sense than this."
Sally caught Christine's eye and smiled tenderly at her. "Go on, please."
Christine took a deep breath before finishing her story. "I discovered that he was alive, and when I found him he requested that I leave him alone. But first he sent me here."
"Why?" Sally asked, and Christine smiled back at her.
"That's not a question he's very fond of, I'm afraid. He simply told me to hire her as my maid, that she would do very well for me."
"Well, I think I definitely have enough to start with," Frederick said, slapping his knees and rising to his feet. "Miss Daae, if you come back in a week, I believe I will have an answer with you. Jim, if you would show the lady out, please." Christine stood and once again shook hands with Frederick and Sally before following Jim back into the shop.
After the door had closed behind them, Sally turned to Frederick. "Surely it can't take more than a day to find the girl?"
Fred shook his head. "I know where she is right now, actually. I could be there within the hour. It will take me a week to get to Paris and find this Phantom fellow."
"Why—"
"The lady she asked to find, Winifred Evans, was once engaged to my cousin, Wesley. When the two parted ways, he asked me to keep an eye on her. I intend to find out his intentions for her."
Christine didn't hear any of this, of course, as she was already in a carriage on her way to meet Raoul. A doctor was coming to their hotel in a few hours. Raoul had called him after her seasickness failed to stay behind on the boat. Christine had told him again not to worry, that she most likely just had a stomach sickness, but she was wrong. What was making her sick was far more life altering.
Christine was pregnant.
A/N: Okay, that's it. Halfway done. Wow. Took me a long time to get here, huh? I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I know it was a little different—I had to cover a lot of territory (and basically half of Europe hehe). For any Reality Issues fans—do not fear, Christine's pregnancy will come fully to term in this story (like I'd repeat myself so obviously…) and the birth will also not kill her. Remember (if I haven't mentioned it already), I'm planning a sequel. Maybe I shouldn't have said that… I hope it wasn't too corny for you all. I couldn't help myself with the Rome/Erik reference hehe.Please review! I'm hard at work at Chapter Eleven: When You Give Command. Some more R/C fluff (hello, she's pregnant!) and the man of every hour makes an (albeit, rather small) appearance. Until then, adieu!
