"Level with me, Erik, won't you?"

Erik was not sure whether or not to be pleased when, upon returning to Newport, Armand had promptly invited him and Christine to spend the day visiting their home. On the one hand, Armand was at least familiar; Erik knew what to expect from him, and this was usually enough to set him somewhat at ease. Familiarity alone was a welcome change from the couple of days spent surrounded by people who were barely acquaintances and who kept staring at him as though he was a spectacle brought in for their amusement. On the other hand, he had also known Armand well enough to expect a question like this, and he had not been looking forward to the conversation.

"I don't know what you mean," Erik replied dryly, not really even trying to convince Armand that this was the case.

"I am referring to your lovely wife," Armand said, nodding to where Christine played with his children across the lawn, his wife Isabella looking on fondly.

Erik's eyes remained on Christine, smiling and laughing as the young children looked up at her adoringly. She certainly seemed to have done a good job of charming everyone she'd met, quickly ingratiating herself with the Newport crowd despite her lowly status. Of course there were still those who kept their distance, who eyed her with a look of mild disdain and who undoubtedly wondered what the world was coming to when people like them were expected to socialize with performers. But even those people were not outwardly unpleasant to her, as it was clear that she had been welcomed by most of the Harrisons' guests. He'd noticed that even the board members, who had been set for battle against him, had softened a little when she'd entered the room. At least he could hold this up to Armand as evidence that this arrangement was serving its intended purpose.

"What about my wife?" he asked, eliciting an annoyed sigh from Armand.

"Erik, I am talking about the fact that one day you scoffed at the idea of ever getting married, and a week later you were betrothed. Whatever this relationship is, I am certain it is not a traditional marriage."

Erik glanced at Armand before returning his gaze to Christine. "We have an agreement," he said quietly. "To help each other."

Armand hummed thoughtfully. "And that is why you have been pushing so hard to cast her?"

"No," Erik said quickly, bristling a little at the suggestion that Christine did not fully deserve to be where she was. "No, the plan was simply for me to continue teaching her. Casting her as Marguerite is purely a result of her talent and dedication."

"And what has it cost you?"

Erik sighed. "I have been warned that I am on thin ice. Despite the fact that the board approved of her casting, they were not happy about the difficulty I have been causing them. Even the slightest wrong move from here will cost me the position. I am to be fully compliant in all matters, and even that will guarantee nothing." He turned to Armand, meeting his gaze. "Christine does not know that my situation is this precarious, and I do not want her to find out. She will put too much pressure on herself to succeed."

Even more than that, Erik simply did not like the idea of her being worried for him, and he knew that she would worry enough as it was. She gave her care and concern so freely, and surely he was not deserving of it. He thought back to the morning before, when she had pleaded with him not to put himself at risk by fighting for her to be cast. The way she had looked at him was seared into his memory—the crease between her brows, her wide, imploring eyes. He had not been able to remember the last time someone had cared about him that much. If he let her, she would torture herself with worry for him, and that felt far too close to hurting her himself. And anyway, she ought to be enjoying the excitement of the start of her career. He had no doubt that this would be the beginning of great things for her, even if it proved to be the end for him. The upcoming months would be hectic and nerve-wracking and thrilling for her, and she deserved to relish every moment of it. No, it wouldn't do for her to worry about him.

"So the two of you get on well enough?" Armand asked, drawing Erik's attention back to the present, and he hummed in confirmation.

"We think alike. I confess that I like her company more than I expected."

"High praise coming from you."

Armand wasn't wrong—it was more than Erik could say for anyone else. Even as well as they normally got along, he had expected her presence to become trying over their visit to Newport, if only because it meant that he would never be by himself. But he had found himself looking forward to the nights when they would return to their room and it would only be the two of them again. He could not have accurately imagined how soothing and simultaneously electrifying it was to feel her warmth beside him as he lay there in the dark, lying perfectly still so as not to risk disturbing her, listening to the soft sound of her breathing until sleep took him. And then that first night, when she had held his hand as if she was desperate for the contact… Her grip had loosened as she'd returned to sleep, but she had never pulled her hand away from his. He had thought that the foreignness of her touch would keep him awake, but the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes as the early morning light seeped into the room, feeling more comfortable than he could remember ever feeling before. He was warmer than normal, he'd noticed, and it had taken him a second to realize that Christine was the source of the warmth; she'd moved closer to him and her face had been pressed into his shoulder, their fingers still loosely entwined. He had wanted to remain there to savor her nearness, but the thought had jolted him back to the reality of the situation, and he had carefully but quickly extracted himself. She surely would not be happy to know that he'd been so close to her.

And then the next night, when they had returned to the room exhausted but gratified, having won a victory that day, it had almost seemed normal for them to climb into their shared bed. There had been a certain comfort to it. He'd turned out the light, and Christine had rolled over onto her side to face him.

"Thank you," she'd said quietly, and he'd been confused.

"For what?"

"For everything you've done to help me." There was a softness to her voice—he might have called it tenderness under different circumstances—that told him she was referring to more than just the casting that day. His impulse had been to assure her that there was no need to thank him, that his actions were motivated by objectivity (although, if he was painfully honest with himself, some level of fondness for her might sway him a bit occasionally). He had wanted to tell her that she was doing far more good for him than he was for her. But he'd turned to face her, only the dim outline of her features visible in the darkness, and the words hadn't felt right. It was a moment before he had replied, and even then the words had felt simultaneously too much and not enough.

"I'll always help you."

He could faintly see her smile at this, and it had made his breath catch. He had wanted to take her hand again but didn't dare reach for her, instead staying frozen where he was until her breathing had slowed and he'd known she was asleep. He'd laid awake long after that, trying to figure out what exactly had gotten into him. Why was he finding himself not just happy to see her, but actually craving her attention? He would have to be an absolute fool to allow himself to become… infatuated with her to any degree. She was like the dawn—beautiful and breathtaking, on the cusp of reaching her full, blinding brilliance. He supposed it was natural that he be drawn to her, but he knew he could never get any closer to her, never be able to reach out and touch her. He could admire her, bask in her light and warmth, but that would have to be enough. It was enough—it was more than he ever thought he would attain. The soft smile that she always greeted him with, the caress of her voice during the hours that they spent together for their lessons, the earnest warmth of her expression as she tilted her face up to look at him when they took their evening walks… It was all far too much of a privilege for him to even entertain thoughts of wanting more, and he was determined to bury that vague longing that caused the ache in his chest now.

This was their arrangement, and there was safety in that; there was safety in knowing that he could never stray beyond these bounds, no matter how much he might want to. And if there was no possibility of that, then there was no use in wanting it. But the arrangement had already changed, part of him wanted to argue. They had agreed to help each other, but wasn't it more than that? The time that they spent together outside of their lessons hadn't been part of their deal. Christine's unwavering compassion and support hadn't been part of it either, although Erik supposed it was so natural to her that she couldn't help but be kind to him. But then the day before when they had stood on the beach and she had let him take off his mask, had that been more than just her innate compassion? He had stood there holding his mask in trembling hands, his heart racing, bracing himself for something to happen. And she had simply stood quietly with him, her back pressed to his. That had been… companionship. It had been tender and warm and, for a brief moment, he'd felt whole. Surely he hadn't completely imagined the connection he'd felt between them then.

Of course, the thought of that companionship still made something in him uneasy. The thought of wanting that companionship—much less wanting anything beyond it, which he certainly did not—made a vague sense of foreboding settle in his stomach. Nothing good had ever come from his being close to someone, not even with his own mother. While logically he understood that the cancer that had taken her had not been his fault, they had not been on the best of terms for a while at that point, and he couldn't help but feel that the frustration and pain he'd caused her had accelerated her decline. And while his attachment to Christine could very well cost him his career, he had to admit that he was far more frightened of what it would mean for him when she inevitably grew tired of him, when she finally could not tolerate him any longer. It was bound to happen. He tried to convince himself that the inevitability meant very little to him, as it would only mean a return to the life he'd grown quite comfortable in before their marriage. But the idea of losing her company, of losing her smile and her warmth and her gentleness, left him feeling bereft, although he tried his best to convince himself that this was not the case.

There was a delighted shriek across the lawn as Christine chased the children around, strands of her hair coming loose from their arrangement as she ran, and Erik tried not to think about how her dark curls cascaded over her shoulders and down her back when she let her hair down at night, or how they framed her face so enticingly as she slept in the early morning. This was too much, and if he had any sense, he would distance himself from her immediately, returning to the letter of their arrangement and no more. But then she caught his eye and beamed at him, and he was helpless to do anything but return her smile. This helplessness would have enraged him had the cause been anyone but her.

"Well," Armand was saying. "You have your Marguerite. You have your charming wife. What's next in this master plan of yours?"

Erik shook his head. The plan had been left behind a long time ago. "I suppose it would be wise to focus on trying to stay afloat until the season starts."

"Try not to sound so upset about it," Armand said lightly. "You have what you want. Now you need to make sure it's successful."

He did have what he wanted, didn't he? The singer of his choice would be leading the season-opening production; her triumph on stage would usher in a season that was more or less of his creation, and if all went well there would be many more to come. That influence was exactly what he had wanted. But now that success was seeming less all-consumingly important than it had before. There was a twinge of longing that he was doing his best to ignore, even as stubborn as it was growing. He couldn't let himself name it, but he was having more and more difficulty denying that he could feel it. It was irrefutable in the ache in his chest when Christine smiled at him, in the electric thrill her touch sent through him. As fruitless and painful as this longing was bound to be, it was there, and he couldn't seem to rid himself of it.

Erik was certain his relief was palpable when, later that day, he and Christine were thanking their hosts for their hospitality as their luggage was loaded onto the carriage, but he didn't bother trying to hide it. There was some satisfaction in watching Christine bid goodbye to the women she'd spent time with, receiving genuinely fond embraces and warm congratulations from them—it was both assurance that, as he had hoped, people could not help but like her, and assurance that she had not spent the past few days as alienated as he had felt. The other guests were civil but kept their distance from him, and while he supposed that this was better than just about any alternative, it still left him feeling uneasy, and he was eager to return to the privacy of his own home where he could not constantly feel eyes on him.

Still, he knew, it could have been worse. The only person he had actually come to dislike was George Wright, who was now leaning against the wall opposite him and observing the farewells. He did not like the man's arrogant self-assuredness or the way his voice boomed when he spoke as if he knew that everyone in the vicinity wished to hear what he had to say. Erik had done his best to avoid him and had been happy enough to be met with disdainful disinterest from him most of the time, but when they had happened into the same conversation, Erik had found everything about the man particularly aggravating. What had sealed his dislike, though, was the predatory gleam he'd noticed in George's eyes when he looked at Christine, which was far too often for his liking. Just one more reason to be thankful that their stay in Newport was finally at an end.

George must have noticed him watching and, much to Erik's dismay, was now sauntering over to speak to him.

"Seems my wife is quite taken with yours," he said. "It will be all I can do to prevent her from pursuing a career on the stage now. She has a terrible habit of getting these fanciful notions stuck in her head. It's a good thing she doesn't need her head for much else."

He paused as if expecting Erik to agree, and when no response came, he continued.

"Anyway, I suppose it's a good bit of fun for them, isn't it? It's good of you to go along with Christine's whims like this."

Just the sound of his voice made Erik bristle, and he bit back a reply, knowing that anything he said would likely only encourage him. Sure enough, when he received neither camaraderie nor defensiveness, George wandered off without another word. And then Christine was at his side, taking his arm as she always did, and he felt the tightness leave his chest.

"Not a pleasant man, is he?" she said low enough so only he could hear, and he nearly laughed.

"At least he has no artistic inclinations," Erik replied. "If I had to answer to him on the board, I would have given up my position by now."

Erik did not think he had ever been so glad to be at a train station in his life as he was when the carriage dropped them off at the Newport station. The stares of strangers were always easier to bear than the stares of acquaintances—they were less probing, as he was just a passing curiosity and not a person they knew and interacted with—and in a matter of hours he and Christine would be safely within the confines of his home again. Perhaps there the board's harsh scrutiny and the looming threat of dismissal would fade into the background a bit and he would be able to focus on his work without constant anxiety. Things would begin to come together quickly now, and his days would be more occupied than ever. And even with as much pressure as was on him now, he couldn't help but look forward to it. Armand had been right: this was what he had wanted. He would finally see all of his planning come together, and Christine was the most important piece.

He watched her as they boarded the train and they took their seats, a bit surprised when she settled in the seat beside him rather than the one across from him. Nerves pooled in his stomach as he imagined what she must feel returning home with him after tasting the glittering and exciting world of the elite in Newport. It must seem terribly dull to go back to their isolated life in the city. Soon enough she would be busy with rehearsals, and of course she would be able to keep more company once high society returned to the city at the end of the summer, but he couldn't quite help the prickle of fear at the thought that she might come to resent him for the quiet, lonely days in between. Her face was content and serene, though, and after a moment he ventured to question her.

"Did you enjoy your stay?"

"I did," she said. "I found it more enjoyable than I expected. It was refreshing to leave the city for a while, and it felt so peaceful to be by the sea."

"The other ladies seemed quite fond of you."

"Some of them were," she laughed lightly. "I believe that some of them would not spare me a glance if they passed me on the street and were only being polite today, but everyone was kind, at least. And they were pleasant company."

"I am glad you found them agreeable."

"I'm sorry that the past few days have been more trying for you, though," Christine continued. "Did you at least find the company at all pleasant?"

Erik smiled a bit at this—while the company by and large had not been as painful and disastrous as it certainly could have been, the only company he had actually enjoyed had been hers. There was a slight pang in his chest at the thought that he would not have her warm, sleeping form beside him tonight, but he quickly pushed the thought away. He was fortunate enough to have her company at all, and allowing himself to desire more than this could not be anything but ruinous.

"It was not entirely unpleasant," he told her. "Although I cannot say that I would choose to stay longer."

"Nor could I. I'm happy to be going home."

Erik shifted so he could see her face better, but she did not appear to be anything but genuine when she said this. Warmth rushed through him at the realization that she had called it home—not just his home, but their home. And she was happy to be going back, to return to their lessons and their companionable suppers and their peaceful walks in the evenings. It made little sense to him that she could truly value such things, but here she was, giving him a soft smile that felt wholly contented. When he spoke, his voice came out weakly.

"I am glad to hear that."

There was a pause before she spoke again. "You know I think it was very brave of you to go against those men to defend your vision," she said softly.

He opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure of what to say. Eventually he settled for a quiet "thank you," not enough to express the way his heart now thrummed in his ears or the not unpleasant heat that rose to his face beneath the mask, but at least a coherent reply, which seemed as much as he could hope to achieve just now.

And then, looping her arm through his to draw herself closer, she leaned her head on his shoulder, and for a moment he couldn't breathe. Her hair brushed his collar and tickled his skin, and even through the layers of fabric between them, the pressure of her arm against his sent shivers through him. He waited for her to quickly pull away, but she did not, and after a moment he half-wondered if she'd noticed an acquaintance nearby watching them and was simply playing the part of the devoted young wife. But he glanced around the train carriage and recognized no one, and it began to sink in that perhaps this was a genuine show of affection. The idea sent his heart hammering and he felt pleasantly lightheaded. Very carefully, he reached over to cover the hand that rested on his arm with his, and she did not pull away then, either. Hazarding a glance at her face, he saw that she had closed her eyes, her lips resting in a gentle smile.

He sat as motionless as possible as the train pulled away from the station, fearful that the slightest disturbance might make Christine shift away from him. But the minutes passed and still she stayed nestled into his side, and as the country flew past them, Erik thought that if they could remain just like this, he would gladly delay their return home a bit longer.