It was an unseasonably warm February afternoon when Christine went into labor. She braced herself against the dining room wall, her knees buckling as she felt the flush of fluid down her legs.
Gustave looked up from his lunch, "Mama, are you okay?"
"Gustave, go get your father."
While Erik had kept his promise to set up the nursery, he had yet to remove the bed saying it would be better for her to give birth there. Upper body propped up on pillows, Christine wailed as another contraction happened. She squeezed Erik's hand, crushing his fingers as she pushed her heels into the bed.
The Phantom grimaced at the pain but said nothing; he knew it was nothing compared to what caused his wife to squeeze his hand. With his free hand, he lifted the wet hand towel and wiped her sweaty forehead.
"Where is the doctor and the midwife?" Christine asked taking deep breaths. "The contractions are getting closer together."
"You know I sent for them. It's probably the melting snow on the streets. And you're coming along faster than you did with Charlotte."
They heard the door open and, in a few seconds, a short older woman walked through entrance way where the vestibule used to be. "I see I am first to arrive," she walked over to the bed with her black bag. "How are we doing, Mrs. Y?"
"The baby is coming faster than we thought," Mr. Y spoke instead.
"Well let's just see," The midwife lifted Christine's nightgown and pushed her legs open wider. Her eyes widen, "Oh Dear, yes it is!" She looked up at the small table in the room, "I see you two sat up what we could possibly need for the delivery."
The Soprano moaned and shifted as another contraction started. Once it was over, Erik lifted a glass of water to her lips and she took a sip.
The older woman moved a wooden chair to the edge of the bed, sitting down in front of Christine's spread legs. "Roll up your sleeves, Mr. Y. This baby is coming without the doctor."
Unlike the doctor with Charlotte, the midwife said nothing other than, "It's a girl!" when the crying could be heard. Father and mother waited with baited breath neither of them wanting to acknowledge their shared thought.
The old woman stood, the child bundled in a clean blanket and placed it in Christine's arms. The mother made short work of undoing the blanket; the red wrinkled, small thing squirmed. Ten fingers, ten toes, her skull and face completely formed; there was even barely visible fuzzy hair on her head. On the right side of her face, just under her chin, a small port wine birthmark.
"She's small but she's very healthy," The midwife smiled. "Congratulations!"
Christine smiled at the baby as she wrapped her back up in the blanket and held her tight, "Isn't she beautiful, Erik?" She looked up at her husband, only to see tears running down his cheeks.
"She's…she's…perfect," He whispered. "What happened this time? How can I poison one girl and not another? And Gustave a perfect boy." He stormed past the midwife into the nursery and sat down onto the chaise lounge. The Phantom tossed his mask to the floor and cried into his hands.
At that moment, the door opened and the doctor finally walked in. He gasped seeing the distressed father.
"Mr. Y is everything okay? Am I too late?"
"She's perfect. My daughter is perfect and my wife is fine," he didn't look up not waning to expose his face.