Christine didn't starve herself; I had forgotten in my alarm that my interest--or lack thereof--was a purely secondary concern since I'd provided her with offspring. Her feminine self-image seemed to be suffering a bit, but as long as she had the fat baby diva, I felt she would muddle through successfully. I made a cursory search for my masculine self-image, could not place it, and turned my attention to back to my theater.
The opera season was getting underway. I had neglected my responsibilities over the past disordered months, so it was pleasant to return to a familiar routine. If left to their own devices during the planning phase of the year, my well-meaning managers could have the place crashing down around our ears in short order. It was delightful to be raiding again, dropping notes and being blamed for absolutely everything that went awry.
They needed Christine desperately, but she gave no indication that she was ready to abandon her indentured servitude. I missed the sound of her voice; even more so when I contemplated being subjected to another season of la Carlotta. I drew her into an impromptu duet one evening after supper. She was washing up, I was making some sketches, and Ophelia was beating anything she could reach with a wooden spoon. I was gripped with a sudden inspiration, so I slipped my arms around her and started singing Othello. Christine abandoned the dirty dishes happily, and the percussion section sat transfixed through the entire performance. After a kiss and a whispered 'Brava', I returned to my sketches, she to her dishes. Ophelia staged her own rendition of Othello with a spoon accompaniment.
"So, do you feel ready to take rehearsal? They need you," I opened, trying to sound casual. I could see her shoulders tighten.
"Leave Erika?"
The fat baby diva paused at the sound of her name. She shot me a glance, smelling a plot.
"A few hours early in the day; by curtain time she'll be going to bed," I reminded her. "We can amuse ourselves for that long."
"I would have to leave before she went down to sleep…" Christine worried. This was clearly a Big Thing, the significance of which was lost on me. Many times she'd been around the house somewhere when the child went down to sleep, but I didn't point this out.
"Well, I know everyone would love for you to return," I ended mildly. I watched her eyes flutter throughout the evening when she'd return to the idea. I just let it cook.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say that you appear to be building a toy, Erik, but that cannot be." My Persian comedian friend.
"If you don't dispose of that grin, I'll see to having you committed. Pour me some wine."
"Here. Where are the ladies this afternoon, if I may ask?"
"Christine has befriended another unfortunate young mother. They meet in the park, weather permitting."
"Ah. This is a very nice Claret, by they way."
"Mm, the last of it, I think. Daroga, I'm not sure I approve of Ophelia babbling with just any chubby young man who happens to be in the sandbox at the same hour as she. We know nothing about his intellectual potential, after all."
"Mm. How exactly would you go about evaluating the suitability of a particular ten-month-old as a playmate?"
"Well, that's another thing, after all, it's a baby. Not very bright, certainly not Ophelia's equal."
"Of course not. Still, they are quite young, I wouldn't be too concerned. These childhood friendships—"
I shot him the Look of Death. A 'childhood friendship' had nearly been the death of me.
"Yes, well, I wouldn't be concerned, Erik."
"Hmph. Never too early…"
"What are you doing, exactly?"
"Music box."
"Ah, so, strictly speaking, not a toy at all."
"Of course not, it's part of her education."
"Yes. Hence the carousel motif, the clockwork horses…"
"It is a child, daroga," I sighed, exasperated. "One must capture its attention somehow."
"Obviously."
"Listen, when they return, worry about the Opera, will you? Christine doesn't want to return to work. How long can a gifted, brilliant woman remain diverted by one infant?"
"You've managed to divert her for nearly six years now. I'm quite proud of you."
"Yes, now, if you'll just step into this mirrored room, don't mind the noose…"
"Uh-oh." Two little syllables from an infant voice could make my blood freeze in my veins.
Christine had gone up to the Opera 'just to look around, I'm not staying'. I was left to supervise the little diva. She was mobile now, and it was no longer possible to convince her to read if she was in the mood to go on a raid. I had taken my eyes off her long enough to scoop a plate and cup into the sink, and she seized the opportunity to make good her escape.
Only two rooms were forbidden to the human maelstrom: my room, which was duly locked, and the music room. The thought of her loose in my music room made me nauseous. She was permitted to enter only if firmly attached to Mother's hip. Naturally, this meant that the music room was the only place in the house where she could be relied upon to turn up if she went missing.
"Ophelia. You know that this room is not for you. Come out, please."
Nothing.
"I know you are in here. Show yourself and there is a cookie in it for you."
Nothing. I crept in slowly, checking under things and looking for breakage, though I had not heard any crashes. Yet.
"Uh-oh." Fortunately, babies don't yet understand that when they talk to themselves, out loud, others can hear. Behind the piano. White pinafore; no, red pinafore. Red hands. Blood—no, ink. There's the overturned bottle, thank you god. Just ink.
"Uh-oh."
"Yes, uh-oh indeed." I snatched up the bottle; unbroken, good…another priceless rug ruined. Lovely. "This is not Ophelia's. This is Erik's. Ophelia does not touch Erik's things. No."
I sounded displeased, I admit; I was trying to make a point. But I did not sound sufficiently displeased for her to wail the way she did. She shoved her ink-stained knuckle into her mouth, crying all the while. Alright, if I scooped her up, my shirt was finished, but there was nothing for it, she was in extremis. She rested her runny face on me, just like Christine; fat inky fingers patting my neck, wailing and babbling. Babies overreact. It seemed an eternity before she would settle, and that after much patting, kissing, and reassuring that she remained a very good girl. It was the first time I realized that my good opinion was so important to her.
By the time Christine returned home, we had disposed of all the evidence, except for the rug. I decided I would take the blame for that when it was noticed. I received a slight demerit because of the strong smell of solvent, but how else would I have gotten the ink off my co-conspirator's hands?
"Erik, you mustn't use those strong chemicals around her; you must wait until we're out."
"Yes, you're right, I forget."
Christine agreed to return to work on a trial basis since we had not set each other on fire in her absence. It would have been a biblical-scale catastrophe had Christine learned of the Ink Uh-oh. I was glad I had stuck to my original lying instinct and resorted to subterfuge. She asked for the ruined dress once; I insisted I could not recall ever having seen it, let her think I'm going senile.
I thought things were going agreeably until we were in the library on one of Christine's rare nights off. Ophelia was engrossed in conversation with her dear friend, the carousel music box, I was sketching, Christine was pretending to read.
"I think the ballet is quite good this year," she opened. No alarm bells tinkled. Did I miss the signs on this one?
"Mm."
"That is what you're working on, isn't it, some new costumes for the ballet?"
"Hm? Oh, yes, I was thinking of something birdlike…" I flipped the sketch around to give her a better look. "Red or teal?"
"It depends. Red always works well," she mused harmlessly, "but I think the teal would be more flattering for some of the girls."
"Mm." I decided I'd do one of each and see what jumped out at me.
"For example, that tall, auburn haired girl. She's new. I'm sure you've noticed her."
"Mm, yes. She is quite striking." Still no alarm bells. Perhaps the baby babble was distracting me.
"I understand she sings," my little bride offered, just as casually as you please.
"Really."
"Yes. Have you heard her?"
"Not that I recall." I glanced at Christine briefly. "Can't have been very remarkable then, hm?" I smiled. Looking back on it, that remark should have laid Christine's fears to rest—leaving out the fantastic nature of the whole idea to begin with.
"So you've not heard her."
"No." I felt a twinge of something here, but I could not identify it.
"You wouldn't have sung for her, then."
"WHAT?" I startled Ophelia. "WA!" She decided to stare at Mother along with me.
Christine went back to her book as if she accused me of vocal adultery every day.
"Christine, I wish you would tell me what's inspired this…extraordinary idea."
"WA!"
"Nothing," came the soft reply.
"Well, then, why—" I admit I was a bit slow on the uptake this time. Not 'nothing'; 'NOTHING', was what she meant to say.
Oh.
I glanced at Ophelia; she and the carousel were chatting again.
"Christine," I said softly—the spy was quite good at intuiting which conversations were None of Her Business—"this is a preposterous idea for a number of reasons, most of all because I have absolutely no interest in anyone but you." That seemed to satisfy her for the moment; when we got to bed I realized it was because she expected follow-through on my part.
Ophelia and I were getting along superbly. I had been hoping that our alliance would have some effect on the child's bewitching effect, and I would be able to reap the benefits of Meg's murder as before. When this did not occur, I was forced to re-examine my original hypothesis. I decided that I wasn't suffering from baby magic after all, but that it had been some unfortunate coincidence that made it seem so. I had simply run all the miles out of Meg's murder that I was going to get. Meg's murder was a spent force, ha-ha.
So I was plunged again into the icy stream of my deviant nature. It was not a problem for me; I'm perfectly comfortable there, after all. But what of my darling bride? She was not the ingénue she had been, and was now perfectly capable of telling me and my lasso to go to hell.
