When Sam had finished his second cup of hot coco, his gallant band of followers fell through the kitchen door, snow covered, red-cheeked, and smiling – Charlotte a sweet blonde haired child of three, Elijah who looked Sam's age but read large tomes without assistance, and Sarah a curly-haired child of eleven who was always humming to herself.
Much like Sam, the children had grown on Christine. She found their arrival a welcome surprise and passed out the remaining coco to them all.
"What gives you such a sour face?" Christine asked Sam as she topped off Charlotte's little cup.
"Nothing."
"Christine, can we play school here today? Mrs. S said the school won't be open for another week, and that's just too long." Elijah had even brought two books with him, tied tight together by a worn, old belt. They were from Erik's library. No one would have given the small boy The Count of Monte Cristo or Gulliver's Travels except Erik.
"We can if you would like. But we will have to be quiet. Mr. Y will have visitors today."
"How about the attic?" Sarah offered. The attic would be a good place: quiet, and a floor removed from Erik's discussions.
"It may be cold up there. Are you sure you want to stay in your jackets all day?" They nodded. "And what would you like to learn about?" They all grinned at each other, their gazes landing squarely on Sam. At her look, he blushed.
"We want to learn about Paris and the big Opera House you came from."
"That's not lessons."
"It is if you tell us about how the stage works."
Christine took a deep breath. Erik wouldn't like this. She knew he'd kept the truth about his Paris life rather hidden from everyone, and she was unsure if she could keep her own experiences devoid of his presence. But their faces were so excited, and she did have rather good stories about the opera house.
"Alright. But promise one thing." They all nodded again. "When Mr. Y asks who started this, you have to tell him the truth that it wasn't me."
Sarah smiled first, then Elijah; Sam looked only a little worried at her request, and Charlotte pulled on her skirt to be lifted up into Christine's arms. "Up with you all then! Let's go! Time waits for no one!"
True to Erik's assessment of the situation, both sides of the strike arrived at his table in turns. Cummings with his men came first and stayed only long enough to dry their feet. They seemed more interested in Phantasma in winter than their plans to counter the strike. Porter was strangely absent from the party. The strikers came soon after, and – to her surprise – Mol Weaver and Hanna were with them. She could hear Mol's voice in Erik's study, sharp with authority and unwavering. It was clear: the woman was leading the negotiations. How very modern.
With the leaving of the strikers, the return of Mr. Y solidified. It was Hanna and Sam, late in the afternoon, who finally drew him out of his stoic façade.
"Mr. Y said you would be able to help me at the school, Christine. I would greatly appreciate it."
Sam was beating her soundly at chess. It was a stupid game. "I should like to help as best I can," she answered. Erik nodded at Hanna in agreement.
"Good. I could use you. The children will be learning geography and it will be best for you to also have a clear knowledge of the maps."
"I know my states quite well."
"Yes. That is good. You knowing your map of Pennsylvania will be better." Her tight smile told Christine that in matters of the school, any education she already had would be unhelpful. "It would be best if you join me and the children at church this Sunday."
"And why would I subject her to such burning Christian gossip?" Erik did not lift his head from the l'Humanite in his grip. Even from a distance, Christine could see the paper was nearly a month old.
"Because it will give people something to talk about other than the impending implosion of this small town."
"No."
"I don't mind," she cut in.
"Christine, I believe you miss the context. Their words will not be kind. I refuse to subject you to such idol vitriol." The tension in the room twisted, though Erik's gaze remained firmly on his paper.
"I know exactly what Pastor Whitt will not say to me. They can judge me all they'd like. You and I both know it is not the worst they could say."
Thankfully Sam interjected, "I'm confused. Everyone at church likes Christine."
"Exactly." Erik snorted, finally dropping his paper. "You are determined then, to have them gossip that you are my mistress."
Sam's eye went wide. Christine could cuff him for his carelessness. Too late to back down now.
"And what am I, if not your mistress?" Erik's eyes, humorless before, burned at her question. He'd as good as told her this morning he did not believe she would be his wife. She'd told him he could have her whenever he wished. What definition was she missing?
Hanna coughed and stood to leave, "They gossip now that she is your captive. Seeing her at church will be a sign of good faith you are with us, Mr. Y. And right now, we need that more than we need a guaranteed fund."
"You'll need more than my help if Porter Cummings has his way."
This was too close to raw truth and Christine could see Sam turn anxious at the talk. She took him by the hand and pulled him close, "There is nothing to worry about. You will be fine. We all will." Christine did not know where such surety rose in her voice, but as she spoke the words, she believed them to be true and magic formed. He calmed in her embrace.
"I know. And if it isn't, Mr. Y has a plan."
Yes. Mr. Y always did have a plan. What was the plan? Christine thought hard and found she knew basically nothing of what would come next. Sam knew more than she did. Damn.
Hanna and Sam exited as they entered, anxious yet decided. Christine mourned the small boy's adultness. He hardly seemed like the child he was. She wanted him to stay with them, stay near her. Maybe Erik would let him take the small room on the first floor as a bedroom. Sensing her own thoughts, Erik commented, "He's a good boy. Brave for one so young. Fearless. Determined."
"You love him."
"In many ways I consider him my own, though he would never presume to say the same of me."
But what if he would? What if they could be his parents? All their parents? Madness, she dismissed out of hand. What child would ever want them as parents?
Erik returned to his paper, avoiding Christine's gaze. Her ghostly phantom had more hiding behind his façade then he let on. He loved the boy. He loved Phantasma.
Yet he viewed the strike as a minor annoyance even though it consumed everything around them.
All over again she felt like a pawn on a chess board, ignorant of everything before or behind her, only able to take small steps toward the truth. The constant fury that ebbed and flowed in her rose like bile and clawed at her throat. How she utterly hated feeling out of control.
She would get this out of him. He would tell her his plan. A plan he'd clearly already shared parts of with a small boy. She knew his weaknesses. It should be easy.
She went to the soft armchair opposite him and sat, the fire casting a sharp contrast on her hair and features. Erik, perceptible as always, shifted only slightly in his chair, enough for his good eye to catch her in his periphery. In that moment, Christine's approach was decided. She would be direct tonight. No games. No coquetry. That at least, seemed to earn her voice some respect.
"Will you tell me what your plan is, Erik?" She kept her tone light, careful. Nothing too sweet, or he would recoil from her. He'd always hated blatant sweetness.
"Hmmm." He pretended absorption in his paper. How three-week old news was more interesting than a flesh and blood women before him added to the hypocrisy of the evening. She shifted so her elbows rested on her knees, displaying the modest cut of her dress in the most enticing way.
"Erik, I would like you to share with me what you intend for the town. I would like you to trust me with that knowledge." With infinite slowness, he pressed his finger down, curving the paper in his hand to provide him a full view of her. "I would like you to trust me as much, it seems, as you trust little Sam."
She waited as his gaze appraised her and she couldn't help the flush that rose to her cheeks or how her nipples turned hard when he lingered on her chest.
"There is nothing to tell." He shifted restlessly, "The strike will happen, the company will end it bloodily, and everything in the town will go back to normal." She did not miss his inflection. He'd answered her precisely, specifically. The concerns and plans were not for the town then. Were they even for the strikers?
Now that she had his attention, she sat back in her chair, careful to control her breathing and not think of his masterful hands, how they had been just as deliberate with her as with his paper nights before, "You're not telling me everything."
"No. I'm not." Her eyebrows peaked in surprise. At least he was honest.
"I would like to know everything."
"Knowing what you know is dangerous enough."
"And what do I know, Erik?"
He refused the state the obvious. It was beneath them both. "It's not safe, Christine. You saw what they did to me. Since you would not leave at my request, your ignorance of my contingencies is safest for you."
"They would never expect for you to share your plans with your opera diva mistress."
He dropped his paper in earnest now, nodding. "They would, however, believe I would share them with my lover. And you and I both know Meg Giry has enough incentive to be truthful in that assessment."
Her stomach filled with butterflies. His voice had caressed the term 'lover' so reverently, so truthfully, that she'd heard nothing else. He'd not meant it as another term for mistress; he had meant it in a wholly different way.
Was that what she was to him? His lover? Christine's heart ached at the sweetness in his voice. His eyes darted from hers to her hands and away, an old habit in his nervousness when he discussed affection so directly.
He was testing her boundaries. Carefully crossing the line, inch by inch to see when she would turn away from him. It was a new approach for him, one he was unsure how to navigate properly. Little did he know that she would erase the line completely now, both damned as they were.
It was then that she realized their lovemaking – as she would now remember their passionate first encounter – might have been his first true carnal encounter. Never in all her life had a fact driven her to such hunger before. He was so calm and assured in things. All things, it seemed, but this. What angelic humor that this, passion, was the topic of her greater knowledge. The things she could show him, the wonder she could command – it flustered her thoughts.
Christine no longer resisted the pull of him and rose to stand beside his chair, her hair tumbling messily out of her loose clip. Her previous goal forgotten. At the sight of the errant fastener, Erik lifted his hand, pulling it from the mess of her curls. "How does your leg feel tonight?" she asked.
But Erik was absorbed in the purple bauble; the only thing left of that first wedding ensemble he'd created. He turned it over in his hands. Christine knew he remembered placing it in her hair all those years ago, when another passion had taken him completely. It was the first time his hands had lingered in her hair, testing the feel of it against his bony fingertips.
"Erik?"
"Hmm," he answered absently.
"Love," she tried the word from her own lips, "how does your leg feel tonight?"
His eyes rose to meet hers, and there were unshed tears in them. "You kept this?"
She traced the unmasked side of his face softly with her fingertips, careful not to startle him, and enjoyed the deep crimson blush that rose to his cheek. He closed his eyes at her touch and a tear escaped. "You would not let me keep your ring."
At her words his eyes opened, and she saw all the years of longing for her a tumult in their depths. Erik pulled her down to him and captured her lips. Without releasing her, he drew Christine onto his lap, desperate for the closeness.
She shuddered at the feel of his chest, broad and firm, against hers and sighed into his mouth.
"You called me love," he breathed, a prayer against her own lips.
"Because you are." Her hands roamed his body, unable to feel enough of him under her. Too many clothes. There was too much clothing between them. Christine tugged fruitlessly at his shirt collar, desperate for more skin, hungry to trail kisses along the sharp line of his jaw.
He took her lower lip between his own and tugged, refocusing her fully on what his mouth was doing. And when she moaned at the gentle pressure, his tongue swept in to taste her fully. It was deliciously sinful. Her body burned for him and her heart ached for his unreserved desire.
And it was his desire. Where Erik lead, Christine would follow, heedless into the dark, to oblivion, for all she cared. So long as he would keep kissing her.
Christine's hands rose to rove her fingers through Erik's hair and tugged at his wig. A thoughtless action, she only wanted him closer to her, yet he pulled away at the pressure. His chest heaved against hers and she could feel their hearts racing. Racing together – the same, sharp staccato beat. He tightened his grip on her hips, stilling her over him. She had not realized she was moving.
Erik's mismatched eyes held her gaze, molten and wild, and she could not look away. So much of him – everything he tried to hide, everything he successfully kept hidden – laid bare before her in his eyes.
There was love, unquestioningly. Yet there was also wonder and astonishment, regret, desire. They warred within him just as they warred within her. Christine's throat went dry with all the truths she longed to tell him. She wanted to speak her love out loud. Finally. Completely. To bind him to her with words he'd longed to hear.
Without breaking their gaze, Erik leaned toward her and kissed the soft flesh just above her heart. Christine took a deep breath at the contact. His hot breath ghosted over her skin, "You are not my mistress."
"No?" It was a question. It was statement. Did it matter if she was his mistress? Christine couldn't think with his mouth on her.
His lips traveled up her neck with gentle nips of his teeth, "You are my love."
She shivered.
"Yes."
Against her ear he murmured, "And I am yours."
And so he spoke the binding words when she could not. He bound them together, defiance and desire heavy in his voice. Did he know that she loved him with just as much passion as he loved her?
Christine took Erik's head in her hands, forcing him to look in her eyes, "Always." There was no cold tension in his body at her word, no shadows in his eyes. He believed her. Whether or not the past mattered, in this moment he believed Christine claimed him as her own.
She gave thanks to God for miracles to hopeless sinners. And then she took his lips ravenously, sealing her affirmation like a covenant between them.
She felt his fingers curl onto the back edge of her dress, pulling at the fabric and couldn't help but smile. She'd successfully, somehow, undone his vest and several buttons on his shirt.
"You deserve a proper wooing."
"I believe this is a proper wooing." More than proper. What could possibly be more proper? Christine shifted her weight on the chair and Erik winced as she impacted his hurt leg. The discomfort seemed to remind him of something, and he gently set her back from him.
"Erik, no."
His voice was soft, careful not her hurt her, "You must practice. And you deserve a soft bed, at least."
