"There is something to be said for being a night person," Erik says. "Of course, for me, these past several years have consisted primarily of night – so I am not entirely certain if I am a night person or simply accustomed to living in darkness."
"Whatever are you muttering about?" Christine grumbles as she throws off the duvet, grabbing her pale lavender dressing gown, she slides her feet into the bed slippers sitting next to the bed. Pressing both hands into the mattress, she rises from the four-poster.
"Living above ground creates routines – one wakes to the sun shining through the windows. One become sleepy when the light fades and darkness sets in," he continues. Following her lead, he dons his scarlet robe and brocade house shoes. "Sleep was something I seldom desired, nor, in fact, felt I needed."
Small fists rub the aquamarine eyes, still cloudy from her broken rest. A yawn so wide, he almost expects to hear her wonderful E6, but the only sound that comes out is a low moan reminiscent of a dog howling – more of a G3. Nevertheless, to him, she is pitch perfect. His Christine.
Trailing her, as she stumbles from the bedroom into the hallway, he goes on to say, "Nevertheless, much as not sleeping became a habit – I find that now I yearn for those hours beneath the sheets and blankets. Being with you nestled close beside me is possibly the most glorious time of the day."
"Do you think that sleeping in a coffin may have dampened your desire for rest?" she asks, turning to look at him, rolling her eyes. "The concern might have been that the lid would slam shut and you would never wake again."
"The thought occurred to me – but the coffin was safe and snug – quite comforting, actually," he says. "That said, I find your presence to be ever so more appealing."
"Thank you, for that," she retorts. "I shall write in my memoir that my husband much preferred taking his nightly rest with me in a bed, as opposed to sleeping alone in his coffin. Better yet, you could write an opera about it."
"Now you are just being testy, my dear. I was merely teasing you," he chuckles.
"Erik, it is one o'clock in the morning, this is not the time for teasing."
"What better time? For all our desire to set normal sleeping patterns for ourselves, our daughter has determined her own desire for nourishment supersedes our wishes. Do you think she takes after me in that?"
"If you mean, being a tad overbearing and bossy – yes," she says. "As for the other, you never ate either. No food, no sleep. God only knows how you survived."
"I suppose I lived on hope – waiting for an Angel to rescue me from the hell I lived in." Although said in jest, he recalls only too well the truth of that longing – his heart filling once again with gratitude and love for the petite woman he calls wife.
They reach the door to the nursery, Erik stands and waits as Christine lifts Belle from the white bassinet, wrapping her in a pink blanket.
Safe in her mama's arms, Belle's hiccoughs and the flow of tears stops. Christine murmurs into the small shell of an ear, smoothing the damp wisps of hair as yet undefined as to color or curl.
Taking a seat on the small settee, Christine undoes the top of her chemise and offers her breast to the little girl. "You know you do not have to get up with me when she fusses."
"Ah, but I do. All those years of living without sleep would go to waste were I to loll about in bed, while you tended to our daughter."
Nodding to the empty space next to her on the raspberry brocade settee, she says, "Come sit by us."
Joining them, he puts an arm around her shoulders. They smile down at the nursing infant.
"If I were a praying manto pray for anything, it would be she take after you."
"She will be ours – and she will be hers."
"That does make sense – you are a wise woman."
"And you are a silly, wonderful man."