Erik could feel Christine's excitement as she sat beside him in the carriage; it radiated from her, even as she sat with her hands demurely folded in her lap, her expression calm as she watched the streets slowly pass by them. It was in the alertness of her gaze, the way her lips twitched as if she was trying to contain a smile, the way her fingers unconsciously twisted the fabric of her skirt. It was infectious, and he had to remind himself not to fidget impatiently as they drew closer to their destination. When they finally reached 39th and Broadway, Christine practically leaped from the carriage, pausing to wait for him only when she stood looking up at the pale brick of the opera house.

"Does it look different?" he asked lightly as he came to stand beside her, and she laughed a little.

"It feels different, at least, knowing that the inside is coming together again."

"And knowing that you'll be performing here soon?"

Smiling, she looped her arm through his. "That, too."

While Erik made a point of coming to the opera house regularly to view the reconstruction efforts, it had only been in the past few weeks that the progress had become more visible—the opera house was finally beginning to look like it had before the fire. Debris had been cleared out, repairs to the structure had been made, and while the auditorium was still a nearly unrecognizable mess, the new stage was at least a comforting sight. There had even been talk of holding some small concerts in the portions of the opera house that had been spared from the fire now that the rest of the building was not an absolute wreckage. With so much having come together already, Erik found that the opera house was taking on a new energy, one of hope and renewal; it promised to be even more brilliant than it had before.

It had seemed like an appropriate time to ask Christine to walk through it with him, and her response had been as eager as he'd expected.

"Well?" he glanced over to find her gaze still fixed on the opera house. "Shall we go in?"

She turned and met his eyes, then, giving him a dazzling smile. "Oh, yes."

They crossed the street arm-in-arm and, breezing past shuttered ticket stalls and slightly faded posters advertising performances that hadn't happened, Erik guided her inside. The lobby was plush and so silent that it had the feeling of not having been disturbed in years. It was almost difficult to imagine how this space would, not too long from now, be filled with people in all their finery, the buzz of their conversations and bursts of laughter nearly deafening. Christine paused beside him to take it in, and the awe and excitement that were written plainly on her face were enough to keep him standing patiently beside her.

"You realize," he said gently after a minute, a smile tugging at his lips, "that this part is mostly unchanged."

"I know that," Christine replied. "But it's still lovely, don't you think?"

He hummed in affirmation, though it was only now that he really looked at the space. He'd been here many times over the years, from the few times he'd dared to sit among the throngs in the gallery to the multitude of times he'd shared a box with some acquaintance, usually Armand or one of his close associates, who seemed at best only mildly interested in his company. Then there were all the times he had passed through this room under the banner of employee, his title much less grand than it was now but still present. By then he was already determined to have some influence over this place, to make it grand and innovative as only he could. He wasn't sure when he had stopped seeing his surroundings as Christine saw them now—perhaps he'd never viewed them with that much wonder or reverence, even the first time he'd entered the building. But he could feel a touch of it now, and it made his nerves prickle, not unpleasantly.

Once Christine looked back at him, confirming that she was ready to move on, he guided her through empty corridors, pausing now and then so she could look at something. He found himself almost automatically explaining aspects of the architecture, beginning with the new elevators that had been installed, and to his surprise she listened to his explanations intently, nodding and asking questions that showed greater understanding than he'd expected; she really had been studying the books in his library, he realized with a little surge of pride. They continued on like that until reaching the backstage area, where Christine left his side to wander through the mess of barely begun sets and equipment that had not yet found its proper place. It smelled of sawdust and paint and the faint staleness of disuse. Erik stood back and watched Christine as she drifted through the chaos of it, letting his mind drift to the nights she would soon be spending here. He could see her carefully making her way through the dimness, giving greeting smiles to the stagehands and other performers as she passed them. And then she would emerge onto the stage and proceed to captivate thousands of people, making even the most social of opera-goers pause their visiting to listen to her.

He blinked, then, and as his vision returned to the present, he realized that Christine was watching him. He could feel the soft smile on his face and realized his gaze must have fixed on her as his thoughts had wandered, but he did not look away now. Instead he motioned for her to follow him.

"This way."

She did as he said, and in a moment they were stepping out onto the stage, the click of her heeled boots against the new wood rapidly swallowed up by the empty auditorium that stretched out in front of them.

Erik held his breath as he watched Christine step out onto the stage, her eyes wide and her lips parted in silent awe. He wished that the auditorium was complete and that she could feel the full effect of its splendor, although she didn't seem disappointed. A thrill ran through him as she crossed the bare stage and he thought of a night only a matter of months from now when her voice would fill the hall, enchanting and sweet and perfect. No one would doubt, then, that she was brilliant. The applause that would rain down on her that night would only be the beginning of the acclaim she would undoubtedly receive over her long and successful career.

But today, it was only the two of them; he was the only one to observe the excitement and disbelief in her features as she looked around her. When her gaze landed on him, she beamed.

"It feels so big."

Erik chuckled. "You'll grow accustomed to it. Sing something. See how it feels."

"What, right now?" Her voice grew soft. "What if someone hears me?"

"Then they will have had the privilege of hearing you before most." He gave her an encouraging smile; he wanted a glimpse of how her voice would make the space feel alive, wanted her to have a glimpse of the thrill that awaited her. "Go on."

She smiled and bit her lip, considering for a few seconds before turning to face the dismantled auditorium. Then, carefully, she began the Jewel Song, only making it through a few notes before cutting off and clapping a hand over her mouth, a nervous giggle escaping her lips. She looked to Erik and he nodded for her to begin again, and after pausing to compose herself, she did. Her voice rang out more confidently this time, acquiring an unearthly quality as it echoed through the empty space. Erik felt his breath catch, warmth blooming in his chest as she sang. This was what she was meant for, and he hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told her that hearing her now was a privilege. He could hear in her voice that this was her passion, that she couldn't help but reveal a bit of her soul when she sang. Even during their lessons, her joy and tenderness and sorrow were infectious, touching some compassion in him that he had long thought buried and dormant. She moved him in a way that nothing else ever had. And seeing her now, on the cusp of greatness, felt like a great honor.

After a minute Christine glanced back at him, her smile growing when she found him watching her, and then she broke again, stumbling back in a fit of giddy laughter. Her entire face was alight, and the sight of it was dazzling.

"I cannot believe it," she was saying breathlessly. "I cannot believe that this is real."

Erik moved to stand beside her. "It will become realer still. Not long from now, you'll be making your debut on this stage." His hands itched to reach out and touch her, to caress her cheek or entwine their fingers—an urge that he had found himself having to suppress more and more. In a particularly desperate moment, he had even pondered finding a reason to return to Newport, where he would have the excuse of needing to make their marriage look convincing to place his hand on her back or, perhaps if he felt that more boldness was called for, even brush his lips over her gloved knuckles. He had banished the thought as soon as it had occurred to him, chastising himself for even allowing his mind to drift into such fantasy. He shouldn't desire such things.

"I cannot let myself think about that yet. I have too much progress left to make and too little time to make it."

"You will be ready," Erik told her gently. "You could perform for an audience this very moment and do perfectly well. Anything that we have left to work on is only a matter of perfecting your skills."

Christine looked doubtful but didn't argue. "You will have an office here, won't you?" she asked instead.

"I will."

"Is it finished? Can we go and see it?"

He smiled in amusement. "It's only an empty room."

"And this is only an empty stage," she countered. "The first successful season under your direction is worth anticipating at least as much as my debut. And I should like to see where you will be working."

"I still believe that you will be disappointed," he replied. "But we can see it if you insist."

Retracing their path through the chaos of the backstage area, Erik led her up into the hall of offices—mostly unscathed by the fire, but near enough to the damage that they had been kept cleared out nonetheless. The office that would be his sat completely empty at the end of the hall, but to his surprise, Christine was watching him with excitement as they approached it. He pushed open the door to reveal the bare room, the light from the hall catching the dust particles floating in the air. Still, Christine stepped in brightly, looking around the small space with genuine interest as he watched her from the doorway.

"When will you be able to use it?" she asked.

"Probably just before rehearsals start. Are you eager to have me at home less?"

"Just the opposite—I am relieved that I will not be alone long before I have rehearsals to occupy me. And perhaps you will be able to view some of the rehearsals when you are not too busy with other matters."

"I plan to."

She grinned at this. "Good. I trust your judgment more than anyone else's."

The comment gave him more pleasure than it should have, but he tried not to think about it. They spent the remainder of the morning exploring, taking advantage of the unusual lack of activity until it eventually became somewhat of a game to find the most obscure nooks and crannies—something that Erik had much more of a natural talent for, but Christine seemed perfectly happy to follow his lead. They were both laughing and giddy by the time they returned to the waiting carriage. The streets seemed busier than normal in contrast to the vast quietness that had surrounded them for the last few hours, but the fact didn't strike him as harshly as reemerging into the world after hours of happy solitude usually did.

No, with Christine at his side, looking as utterly happy as she did, he didn't imagine anything could seem wholly unpleasant.

The note had been waiting for them when they had returned from the opera house. Christine's head had still be buzzing with the excitement of it all and she almost hadn't noticed the pristine white cardstock that had been left on the table near the door. She had picked it up to examine it, feeling Erik step up behind her.

"What do you have there?"

"It's an invitation." She had read carefully through the neat handwriting until reaching Mrs. Harrison's signature at the bottom. "The Harrisons are hosting a ball at the start of the season and they would like us to attend."

"They would like you to attend, my dear," Erik had replied lightly. "I am incidental."

"Isn't this what you wanted, though?" she had pointed out. "Didn't you marry me with the hope that I would help open these kinds of doors for you?"

"I suppose so," he'd said with a sigh. "Although I would have been perfectly happy gaining favor without attending social events."

"I don't know if such a thing is possible when it comes to New York society. Besides, you've gone to plenty of these parties—you told me yourself that playing at events like this was how you began to make acquaintances from the opera. I should think you know what to expect by now."

"I have attended more than my share of events as it is, and I do know what to expect. Hence why I am less than excited about the prospect of attending another." He had already been heading down the hall toward his study, and Christine had let him go. She could hear in the tone of his voice that he was not upset, exactly—likely more agitated. He was under enough pressure as it was making preparations for the season at the opera, and she could find more than a few reasons he would not relish the added stress of taking the social season into account. But this had been what he had wanted when he'd proposed their arrangement and, she supposed that in a way, it was time to hold up her end of the bargain.

She'd decided to let the idea of the ball settle with him and had not mentioned it the rest of the afternoon or over supper. That night, though, found the two of them sitting quietly in the garden, Christine fanning herself gently as she watched Erik meander restlessly around the small plot, examining the roses growing with more focus than was called for.

"You know it will be fine—all of this." She spoke softly, her voice carrying easily in the quiet night. "This is what you've planned for. They're giving you the chance to ingratiate yourself. I know that you won't rest easier until the season has proved successful, and it will. But perhaps this could be some assurance in the meantime."

Erik nodded but didn't turn to face her, not needing to clarify what she was referring to. "You're right. I just… dislike these kinds of occasions. It is not pleasant to be gawked at, to be an oddity."

The words were spoken so quietly that Christine almost couldn't hear them, and she wondered if perhaps she hadn't been meant to hear. Standing, she crossed the garden until she was beside him, the scent of the roses on the warm night air enveloping them both.

"Then we will not go," she said simply. "If it causes you so much discomfort, it is not worth it."

He did look at her, then, giving her an appreciative smile that only made the tightness in her chest increase. "Thank you for offering, but you were right before—we will go and make the most of it. This is what I wanted. And I suppose that if I am to remain the opera's musical director, I will have to get used to being seen at these events."

"It won't be so bad," she assured him. "It will only be one evening, not like Newport. And I will be there with you."

His smile grew at this. "I am grateful for that."

"We can dance whenever you do not wish to talk to someone," she added lightly, earning a small chuckle.

"I ought to warn you that I am not an experienced dancer."

"Then we shall practice." The gradual lift in his mood encouraged her, and she wished to draw him out further, even if she was not sure she fully understood what exactly was burdening him at this moment. The shift in his mood had been sudden when they'd received the invitation, like a door closing, and she knew that she had barely glimpsed what was behind that door on the best of days. It was easy enough to understand his worries about being gawked at, and how the idea must add to the unpleasantness of the scrutiny he was already under at the opera. But it seemed to her that there was more than that, a heaviness that ran deeper than what she could see. Whatever it was, she did not like the way it had stolen him away after their pleasant morning at the opera house, and she was determined to bring back some semblance of that lightness.

He looked at her, the question clear in the quirk of his lips, and she gave him a playful smile in return as she took a step back, lifting her arms and swaying as if dancing with a partner while quietly humming a lilting waltz. A soft smile spread across his lips as he watched her, and she gave him a pointed look as she continued to dance until he gave in to her invitation. Grinning as he stepped toward her, she eagerly took his hand, placing her other lightly on his shoulder while his came to rest on her waist, his touch so gentle that she could barely feel the pressure of it. He joined her in humming the tune and the sound of his voice blending with hers sent a thrill up her spine.

They fell into step, a bit stumblingly at first. But Christine had come to doubt that Erik could be unskilled at anything musical, and this proved to be true of his dancing as well; at first his steps were cautious and faltering, but he quickly began to ease into it, as if it was physically impossible for his body not to line up with the music. It wasn't long before he was smiling and laughing with her as they danced merrily through the garden, their steps quickening as the glee accelerated their singing. Christine was breathless and giddy when they reached the end of the song, and pausing to catch her breath, she closed her eyes and leaned her head forward to rest it on Erik's chest.

Everything went very still, then. She could feel the rapid beating of his heart, matching the thrum of her own pulse in her ears. The silk of his waistcoat was smooth against her forehead—in the summer heat he had taken to removing his jacket at home. He did not tense at the contact but almost seemed to be holding his breath, as if he was afraid that the slightest movement might scare her away. But there was something lovely about this moment, and she did not want to move.

She felt the vibration in his chest before she heard him begin to quietly hum a new melody, this one soft and slow, and she leaned into him more without quite realizing it. All she was aware of was him, was the warmth and sturdiness of him. There was a longing in the melody he sang that made her ache and want to hold onto him all the more. Her feet moved, but only in small, shuffling steps, just as his did. The feeling of his thumb running across the back of her hand made her breath catch, and then he drew her closer almost imperceptibly and she could suddenly feel tears pricking her eyes.

There had been so many nights since Mama's death when she had lain awake in the darkness, longing to be held. Loneliness would fill her like a great, gaping chasm until she felt so empty that she thought she might collapse in on herself. She would close her eyes and try to remember what it felt like to be a small child in her father's arms—the love, the comfort, the absolute safety of it. Now, standing here in the garden with Erik holding her so close, those painful nights seemed far away. There was such tenderness in how he held her, and it made her feel warm to her very core, made her feel peaceful and secure in a way she hadn't felt in a very long time. But there was more than that; she wanted to hold him, too. She wanted to be that source of comfort for him, to banish the sadness that would sometimes creep into his voice without him noticing, to wrap her arms around him tightly enough to convince him that he was not alone and that she—

That she what? The thought nearly made her pull away from him in surprise. But she remained where she was, tucked securely into Erik's chest and suddenly very confused about why she wanted to be there so badly. There was no denying that she had come to care for Erik, certainly, but she had never considered the possibility of something more than that. She had always been truthful when she'd told Meg that she hadn't wanted more, that more was too painful and impractical and she was better off without it. And yet here she was, feeling that stirring in her stomach, and she couldn't even find it in herself to want the feeling to go away. Whatever happened next, this, right now, was too pleasant to give up. Perhaps it wouldn't be bad to allow herself to sink into it, just for a little while. She would enjoy the feeling for now but eventually come to her senses, because that was what she always did.

She told herself that it didn't have to hurt.