Chapter 3

When next I awoke, I was once again momentarily lost as to where I was. The room looked different with sunlight pouring in through the windows, the white drapes providing an ethereal effect to the light and making the whole room look more like a dream. I could more clearly see the furniture of the room in this new light and appreciate the calming colour of the walls. Across from me was a tall wardrobe and beside it a rather pleasingly curved dresser, though I doubted how full both would be with clothes. My unusual stature and build made it quite difficult to find any kind of apparel in standard sizes that did not make me look like a boy outgrown his trousers or the same boy wearing his father's suit. To my left was a bedside table with the lamp I had noted the night before. The dome on the lamp had a painting of roses on it. I generally preferred the boldness of red roses, but the pink ones on the glass were quite pleasing to look at. To my right, beneath the windows, was a small writing desk. It was the only piece of wooden furniture in the room that was not made of light oak and its darker tone did more to comfort me than I would have expected.

Feeling rather warm and somewhat restless in the bed, I sat up, feeling the ache in my side. Remembering the previous night in faint bursts made me wonder how Christine's embrace did not aggravate the wound. I supposed it was partially from my shock at her action.

This thought led me to wonder where she was. By the light in the window, I suspected she would already be up and about. She was generally an early riser with the exception of when she lived with me. Lack of natural light and windows made it hard to tell the time of day in my home under the earth. Her training at the Opera had made her accustomed to starting the morning early so as to get in practice with the ballet. She had never lost this, even when she no longer was a dancer.

Sliding out of bed, I was grateful that the floor was not cold on my bare feet. I had not been aware of my state of undress the previous night, but now I was. I walked over to the wardrobe and opened it without much hope. I was surprised, therefore, to find that two pairs of trousers and three shirts hanging up. There was also a black jacket and further inspection proved that two waistcoats were folded neatly in the dresser along with a scant few pairs of under garments. My face flushed some to realise that Christine may have had to find and arrange all of these things, but I quickly banished the thought. I was still dressed in a pair of pyjamas that were pleasantly striped in light blue. These too must have been altered to fit me as they did a remarkable job in doing so.

I dressed with moderate speed, being careful of the bandages around my ribs and the pain that came from lifting my arms too high because of it. Bending over to put on shoes was too much for the pain in my side, so I forwent them, hoping Christine would not object. I took the brushes that were in one of the drawers of the dresser I now presumed to be mine and straightened out what I could of my messy hair. It had always been odd in its growth and how fine the strands were. Christine had said once that I had soft hair, which I took to be the highest of compliments. Getting its dark strands to obey me and organise, I finally looked in the rest of the drawers of the dresser. I was not sure my hope would be answered, but I had to try.

In the top most drawer lay what I sought. Cracked and chipped though it was, the familiar black ribbons of my mask felt like home as I tied them behind my head. I realised that Christine had generously not provided me with a mirror. She remembered my utter distaste for them and lack of them in my own home. This warmed my heart to consider as I left the room.

I did have to shield my eyes just the slightest bit when I stepped out into the dining room. I had not realised the night before how many windows were in the house. Two faced me now and their drapes were pulled back to let in the morning light. I saw now that the dining room was a gentle lavender colour with white trim and the top half of the walls being white and lavender wallpaper. It was a pleasant enough room, though quite feminine in tastes. A glance to the living room showed a light grassy colour to the walls with darker furniture. It had a bay window beside the front door with a cushion set in it and books stacked beneath the bench. A part of me envisioned Christine curled up there, the sun shining through her dark curls as she smiled gently at whatever she was reading. My visions of her often put her in a white dress that would glow in the light, making her look even more like the angel I had long imagined her to be. She would look beautiful in this home. I could see touches of her all around me and it nearly brought me to tears to think I was surrounded by her essence. This was her home and I was granted time within it.

A lilting tune echoed from the kitchen to my right, sunlight peaking through the open doorway. I could tell that this room was peach and its warmth reminded me of her smile. I could hear the sounds of cooking and though my instincts said to flee and not burden her further, I found my feet rooted in anticipation of her. I was enchanted by her as always, and though she was not trying hard at the song, I could not help how her voice made my heart cease to race and my mind to calm.

Before I could think of anything more to do, she came through the doorway. Her curls were completely loose and spilling every which way in an abandon I had only dreamt of. Her blue eyes sparkled in the light like stars and when she turned them on me, my breath caught to see her smile.

'Good morning,' she chimed, her voice still following a tune.

I knew I stood there like an idiot, frozen, likely mouth agape, but I could not bring myself to uproot myself or stain the moment by speaking.

'Did you sleep well?' she continued, her care and attention to me making me want to beg forgiveness for my every sin.

Dumbly, I found myself nodding. I had known upon waking that what had transpired the night before had not been a dream, but some part of me still had doubted until this moment. All question as to the reality of my current position flew from my mind in a mad dash of ecstatic joy.

Despite my lack of intelligent response, she still smiled broadly at me; perhaps it was the humour in my mental block that had her grinning, but in either case I could not begrudge the sight of her happiness or entertainment. She hummed sweetly and went about setting the table with the plates I had only just noticed she had brought with her. She already had silverware lined up on the round table, set for two, and was putting down breakfast foods.

I still gazed at her, completely lost as to what I should do, until she told me to sit, pulling out a chair in invitation to me. A gentleman could not deny a lady's request when put so kindly.

'I made you some tea,' she explained as she headed back to the kitchen momentarily. I had to fight the urge to lean out to keep looking at her, hating to part with the sight of her loveliness. She quickly returned, her eyes set on the cup in her hands. It was simple china that suited the cleanliness of the styling in the home. 'I hope I made it all right,' she said, finally letting out a hint of the insecurities she held so deep within her.

'I am sure it will be fine.' I, as always, tried to instantly reassure her. It was not so much that I did not love her insecurities as they were as much a part of her as any other trait, but I did not want them to rule her. Her joy and innocence and confidence should not be quashed by the black cloud of loneliness and hesitation that is this uncertainty.

She smiled but I could see the teasing hint in her eye of 'wait until you have tasted it'. I found my lips tugging to match her expression some as I raised the cup. It was my favourite black tea, making me wonder if she had brought it with her from my home. Taking a sip, I felt my tongue instantly want to curl back into my throat. It was bitterer than I generally liked, though she had not been without reason to think so after all of the times I had complained to her over her copious use of sugar in her own tea. I managed to swallow, however, though my smile felt forced as I nodded to her expectant face. I could not bring my throat to emit words, but given how the corners of her eyes pinched in her smile, I knew the jig was up.

'That bad, huh?' She put her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing in internal laughter. 'I'll bring you some coffee instead, then.'

I wanted to protest that it was bad for the voice to drink coffee, but I was lucky enough to have gotten away without disappointing her. She appreciated my efforts to spare her feelings, so it would be rude to push.

'One day,' she said from the kitchen, 'I will get your tea right.'

I withheld the smart-aleck comment that threatened to ruin the pleasant moment we were having and let her remark slide.

She quickly returned with two cups of coffee, placing one before myself and her own plates. 'I didn't think the tea would work so I made extra coffee,' she explained at my curious expression. How she could read my expression through the mask that covered most of my face was beyond me, but I chalked it up to her diligence in being kind.

I looked down to my plate to see a piece of toast with an egg in the middle, some fresh strawberries and blueberries, and a bit of bacon. Surprised to see so much food, I glanced over to Christine.

'You know, at some point I will have to make you a Swedish breakfast. It's mostly a thousand different ways to make porridge and cured meats, but I think it would be fun,' she said as though we had breakfast like this every morning. The way she was acting was starting to make me anxious. She made it sound like this would go on forever and she would not disappear as soon as I left the room. Though I felt certain that she was here now and last night had not been a dream, a part of me could not let go of the fear that this all soon would fade away into nothingness and I would be left to fall back into my endless despair. She would announce something along the lines of 'well, I have to go back to my husband' or 'I only wanted to make you see what you ruined for yourself' or even 'welcome to Hell'. The last I could see quite easily being true. I would be forced to live this beautiful morning over and over only to have to be faced with watching her leave me again and again.

Her hand on mine woke me up to the fact that I had been spiralling into my own twisted mind and my heart and breath were now racing. I looked at her frantically, hoping none of what I had just imaged would come to pass.

She seemed at a loss for words as she stared into my eyes with nothing but genuine concern. At last, she found words, though once they were said I could tell they were not what she had been hoping for. 'You do not have to eat it all if you don't feel you can.'

Just like that, my heart calmed and my mouth uttered the truest laugh in the world. I could not hold it in and I just kept shaking with my mirth. She looked startled by the noise but quickly giggled as she realised that her words were no where near as elegant as she had wished. We laughed for some seconds and I did not want it to end. I had not seen her this carefree around me since I had been her Angel of Music. She would laugh at my jokes before she knew it was a hideous excuse of a man who told them.

Best of all, her hand remained on mine, our skin touching in such a way I thought I would die of bliss. Her skin was so soft and smooth while I knew my own hand to be rough from callouses built up over the years. I had a violinist's fingers, but they were far more spindly than most. Still, she kept the contact even as our mirth faded to simple smiles.

I could have stared into her eyes forever, but she realised how the situation had changed and turned her gaze down to her food. I did the same, noting her slight embarrassment. I should have known better also and quickly let the moment pass.

Eating with the mask on had always been difficult, but over the years I had managed to perfect it to an art. Though it was by no means a beautiful or pleasant art, I could still achieve my goal relatively well. I even surprised myself in my efficiency and overwhelming appetite when it came to the breakfast she had prepared for me. I ate all of the berries, all of my toast, and one of the two pieces of bacon. On a regular day, I would not have eaten even half of my plate, regardless of who made it for me.

Christine looked as impressed as I was when she saw how well I had done. For half a moment I felt like a child who should be rewarded for my job well done. My mother would have made me finish completely, but she would have potentially breathed a sigh of relief. She was always determined that my eating would help me look more human.

'I must say that I am surprised,' Christine admitted. 'I don't think I have ever seen you eat this much before.'

I was about to agree with her when a sound reached my ears. It was akin to a whooshing sloshing noise. It sounded like the sea.

Looking behind me to the front door, I missed her getting up, gathering the plates, and heading off to the kitchen.

'Let me wash these and when I come back, we will replace the bandages on your wound,' she said, already moving off to the other room.

I followed my line of sight to the living room area, finding a small upright piano against the opposite wall from the fireplace. This only distracted me for a moment, its keys calling to me. I was somewhat shocked as music had held no promise for me since that night, but now with Christine back in my life—however briefly—I felt inspiration tugging at my mind once more.

The sound I had heard earlier and realised I had been hearing since last night—and not paid attention to—came again. I opened the front door and stood on the threshold, listening to the sounds of waves that were not too distant.

As if guided by some unknown force, I felt my legs carrying me out through the small garden, past the flowers, under the trellis that was hung with wisteria, and into the grass beyond. I did not even think about the fact that I was now exposed to the light of day and any passers by, though I did note that I was alone. I kept walking until I reached the very crest of the grass before it dropped off to the steep dunes of the beach. Before me lay the ocean.

It had been years since I had come to the shore, though I had followed Christine the night she came to see her father's grave in—

'Perros-Guirec,' I muttered, letting my voice be carried off by the sea wind.

I had heard her approaching, but my confusion and shock had not fully addressed her until I spoke. I could sense her beside me, gazing out at the view same as me. I looked down at her and realised this was the first thing I had said all morning. With this, I felt all the barriers I had not know where erected come crashing down.

Tears spilled over my eyes as I looked down at her in sudden despair. She looked so perfect with her pale skin and long curls blowing in the breeze. She was even wearing a white dress as I had always imagined. She looked like an angel.

'Why?' I asked before I could stop the break in my voice. I felt my knees buckling as she gazed up at me in concern and pity.

'Why, what?'

'Why did you bring me here? Why did you come find me? Why did you save me? Why are you not with your Vicomte?'

Partway through my questioning my legs gave out. I crumpled before her as I had so long ago when she had seen my face and I had begged for forgiveness. I reached out to her skirts, billowing and light in the wind. She was not wearing a dress so much as a fancier version of a nightgown. I wanted to smile to imagine what the ladies of Paris would say if they saw her informal attire, but I was too preoccupied by the fact that the fabric I sought to burry my face into was eluding me.

Christine knelt down in front of me, much as she had the previous night, and took me into her arms. This time I had more experience and more desperation. I clung to her, pressing her body to mine as I held my face as close as I could to her shoulder. Distantly I hoped the mask would not dig into her skin, but my tears were too prevalent to check. I could not let go. I could not let her go again and this thought scared me even more. If she should wish to leave, I would not allow it. She would be my prisoner again and I would be ruining my one remaining chance—a second chance I did not deserve in the first place—to be happy with her.

I felt her look out to the sea as I continued to cry. I knew she must be trying to find words to answer my questions with, though at that moment I did not care if she did. I could not afford to face the fact that she may not know why she did what she did. All I cared about was that she stayed with me; that she let me hold her just this one time, that she remained for as long as she was able, and that she not look back when she left.

'Some people are afraid of the ocean,' she said at last, thoughtfully. 'They are afraid of the strength and power, but I find it enchanting. The ocean can be frightening, but it can also be so gentle and beautiful.'

I stopped crying as hard. Something told me she was no longer talking about the sea.

'I have a lot of good memories of this place. I wanted to share some with you.'

I pulled back to look at her, hoping to see her real purpose in those honest eyes, but all I saw was patience beyond measure and the tenderness that never failed to exist in her. Even when she was furious with me or crying over what I had done, there was always a softness hidden down in the depths of those blue eyes. It was her light that shone even in the dark, illuminating her from within and it was the proof I needed for my theory of her seraphic nature.

'Come,' she said, standing up and helping me to follow suit. 'Let us go and redress your bandages.'

I nodded mutely, having lost my voice to the power of her kindness. She took my arm as we walked, making it seem for all the world that we were nothing but an ordinary couple headed home. I was struck by this, feeling the tug of memory for one of my dreams.

'Christine,' I asked softly, savouring her name as I often did. 'What day is it?'

'It is June 5th,' she answered plainly.

My mind had to stretch to remember what day she had left me on. It had been at least a month since that night. 'What day of the week is it?'

She blushed, realising that was partially what I had wanted to hear in the first question. 'Sunday,' she answered gently.

I looked down at our arms entwined as we walked towards the house. Here I was, walking with Christine on a Sunday in the broad daylight like any other man.

Straightening my posture and holding my head high, I walked with more purpose and thought than I had in years. I was walking my beloved back to the home we were currently sharing. I almost dared someone to walk by, challenging their questioning looks at someone like me walking with an angel like Christine. Yes, I thought, I am walking with the most beautiful woman in the world on my arm.

Coming up to the lavender door of the house, I found myself opening it for her. My gentlemanly behaviour was in full force once again and she did not seem to mind. I could just make out the smirk of secret pride on her lips, but I might have been imaging things. She did not know of my desires in this form. I may have mentioned it to her once in one of my sobbing rants, but I doubted she would remember. It was hard for me to recall which conversations I had with her and which with the Daroga. My mind was fuzzy still, but I hoped she could find some pleasure in walking beside me so as to allow the occurrence to repeat. I did not hold my breath for this, but with one dream already come true, who was to stop me from making more?