After an hour of music and laughter, Christine tired of standing on her healing feet, so Erik picked her up and carried her to her bed, earning a whoop of surprise and a peck on the cheek. It was very nice to have her arms around his neck again, but he relinquished his hold and set her atop the quilt. She flopped back against the pillows with a contented sigh. He would have stood there to admire her in silence for a few more minutes had her brow not wrinkled with concern. "What is it, Christine?" Was she having second thoughts? Did she want him to wear the mask after all? One can never be too careful.
"Two things," she began, and he braced himself. "Are you disappointed in my lack of practice? You did not say…" It was true- he had held back on any criticisms, more focused on spending some leisure time with Christine than on molding her voice. Now, though, he almost wished he had pointed out the spots of rust on her pipes. "I've lost a few notes from the top of my tessitura," she muttered abashedly. "Goodness knows what other mistakes I've made."
"An inability to reach a high E is not a mistake-" my love, he almost said. "Extending your range again will take weeks of work, as you well know. That is, if you have any desire to," he added hurriedly. "Otherwise… Otherwise I would be perfectly content to proceed just as we have, if only to pass the time in your company."
She tilted her head to the side in thought. After a moment, she shook her head. "Music deserves nothing less than a wholehearted effort," Christine smiled and folded her hands. "You taught me that."
"That I did..." Erik acknowledged. He did not expect her to remember all her lessons after she left with the vicomte. "Well, if you wish to proceed with your music, allow me to be your humble accompanist."
"And something else, too," she interjected. That's right, she had two things to say. "Can we go outside again, just for a little bit? I promise I'll stay hidden," she added. "It doesn't even have to be tonight. We could go tomorrow, or next week. Please?"
He didn't even try to resist those pleading blue eyes of hers. "Tomorrow night," Erik acquiesced. "And I have a little surprise for you then."
Christine gasped. "What is it? Another kitten?" Ahmar, pacing on the bedcovers, mewed in protest. Having to share food and space with another cat did not appeal to her royal sensibilities. Erik stroked the kitten from head to tail and chuckled.
"No, not another kitten- though if you would like one, I'm sure I can provide."
"Then what is it?" She leaned forward, eyes wide.
"You must wait and find out."
"Not fair! You just keep it from me for your amusement."
"Good night, Christine," he teased, slipping through the doorway. Once outside, he closed the door and leaned back against it with a sigh. He was not a good man. If ever anyone deserved hell, he did, and more. Yet, in some gracious roll of the dice, he was happier than he'd ever been: he had music, he had company (in the form of a very entitled cat), and he had the love of his life sleeping in the bedroom just a few feet away. Above all, he knew he would do anything in his power to keep the contentment that settled over them both- even if it meant Christine would never know the entirety of his story.
…
When people came calling for private inspector Moreau, and a woman answered the door, they usually assumed she was the housekeeper, or maybe a well-paid maid. After all, a well-sized house in the midst of a crowded city like Paris was expensive. Paying for one required a lucrative career, not just the typical telegraph operator or secretary job.
Some walked away when she explained that she was, in fact, Inspector Moreau. It was during a dry spell (of cases, not the weather) that detective Amata Moreau sat sipping tea and enjoying the latest installment of her favorite author's romance series. Just because she worked in a man's world didn't mean she had to be a man.
Knock-knock-knock.
Her dark eyes flicked up from the book. A man, probably, that was so loud. Three knocks, clearly separated. He means business- and possibly good money. She unfurled herself from her reading chair, slipped her feet into a pair of slippers, and made her way to the front door. When she opened it and recognized the Comte de Chagny, a wave of pleasant surprise washed over her. It's never been so good to be right.
"M. le Comte, good evening," she greeted. "How may I be of service?"
He smiled, and she narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. With the heavy rain and dim lamplight outside, it was hard to tell, but Amata knew malign smile when she saw one. All right, maybe it's not that good. The man stood tall enough to make eye contact even a step below the threshold. "I think you know what sort of service, Mlle. Moreau."
"Ah. Won't you come in?"
"Please." Amata moved aside to let him through, mildly uncomfortable with how broad he was. Without asking, he stripped his hat and coat off and hung it by the door, then followed her lead to the parlor. When he sat, she retrieved a notepad and a pen. "So, who would you like me to investigate?"
The count leaned back and folded his hands. "I'd rather talk about money first, mademoiselle." His hair, tied back in a short horsetail, was damp from the rain. "Provided you hold up your end of the agreement, there's a good sum of money to be made for both you and I."
She sat in her chair and flipped to the first available page of her notebook. "And what sort of agreement is that?" He still wore that slightly smug, too-cold smile.
"I want you to investigate someone I don't know. It will be dangerous, but I suppose your line of work involves catching criminals anyway- or am I wrong?"
Amata decided she didn't like his condescending tone at all. "What do you want me to do, investigate someone or capture them?"
"Both." From his coat pocket he drew a roll of papers, all very official-looking and newly printed. Amata took them in hand and flipped through them. Interesting… An assassin? And with a bounty on his head in several countries, no less. Still, bounty hunting in France is illegal as far as I know. The nobleman gestured towards the papers. "I do have the funds for trips out of Europe, once you discern this man's location."
She scanned the pages. "Well, you seem to have done some preliminary research, but I'll have to get documents mailed in from the Ottoman and Iran. I assume you'll reimburse me as well as pay for hours on the job?"
"Oh, I'll do more than reimburse you. How would you like a cut of the bounty? All exchanged for francs at the proper rate, I assure you." She looked up in surprise.
"I don't charge extra. It's my policy." Indeed, she made a habit of charging reasonably for those wives looking for their cheating and deadbeat husbands, those orphans who wanted to know their birth parents, businessmen who wanted background on suspicious employees. She'd done quite well for herself, and had no need for extra incentive. The whole reason she'd chosen this line of work was to help those in need.
"Mlle. Moreau, I am offering you the opportunity to become a millionaire," de Chagny said with a raised eyebrow.
"And I am telling you that I do not need or want your money- aside from my normal rate of fifteen francs per hour plus the cost of the job."
He smiled that nasty smile again. "How charitable of you, considering I found you out by reputation. Word on the street is you are both skilled and discreet."
"Work is work." She flipped through the papers again, most of which were reward posts. "I don't normally get clients like you, but I'm bored, so I'll do it." And this looks like a challenge- this man is a criminal in some places, a hero in others, and travelled quite a lot, by the looks of it. I wonder how much it costs to get shipments from Persia?
De Chagny chuckled. "You certainly know your worth. I admire that." She glanced up and saw his admiration was mostly for her form, but that wasn't unusual. It was just uncomfortable. "And how do you take payments?"
"Weekly, by mail. Cash is preferable, but if you must write a check, make it out to Det. Amata Moreau."
He stood and stuck his hand out. "A deal, then?" When she rose and also went for a solid shake, he lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. She had to breathe deep and hide her shudder.
"Yes…a deal. Leave a return address on the pay envelope and I will send information of the progress of the case." After too long a moment, he released her hand and headed towards the door.
"I look forward to it." He pulled his coat on again and let himself out. "Good evening, Mlle. Moreau."
Her eyes followed him until he hailed a passing cab and disappeared into the night. Then, with a sigh, she closed the door and paced back to her reading chair. Well. That was rather unsavory. She surveyed the documents one more time. Still, for an intriguing job like this…I'd put up with almost anything. The thrill of an upcoming chase coursed through her. It had been ages since she'd done anything really fun.
A missing Persian assassin? Tens of thousands in rewards, and not even a ticket stub to track his movements? I wouldn't miss this for the world.
…
Much to Erik's dismay, the freezing rain of Monday night continued through Tuesday, effectively cancelling their expedition outside. He had so hoped to make Christine happy, but the combination of heavy sleet and damaged skin would make her ill, and that was the last thing he desired. Instead of going out and implementing his plan to cure her fears of fire, he bundled her up in no less than three blankets (one cotton, one wool, and one quilted) and tucked a hot water bottle down in the folds of fabric.
"Erik," she said from beneath the layers, "I'm not going to catch my death from a bit of cold. And I can't find my book!" Very helpfully, he pulled the book out from under the pile and held it up where she could see. Much to his surprise, however, she was not satisfied by this. "Really, if you're going to hold the book you might as well sit and read it to me. I can't hold it when I'm confined by blankets."
He just blinked.
Christine sighed. "Please sit down."
"As you wish," he answered rather stiffly, and sat very upright on the settee beside her, book in hand. When he did, she wriggled around in the blankets and pushed two layers off and onto Erik's lap. "Christine!" he chided. "You must keep warm! Winter is coming, you know."
"And if I have to wear blankets, you do too," she insisted. "Your perpetual suit is not as warm as outerwear, and I daresay you have less meat on you than I do." It was true that he had gained a bit of weight since the advent of regular meals, but he was still nowhere near normal.
"Oh, very well…" he muttered, secretly enjoying her fussing. It also helped to know they were under the same blanket. And she was right- it was more comfortable with accumulated body heat shielding his legs from the cold air. "You were reading…the tale of Loki's binding beneath the world tree? That's a rather dark story for night reading."
She tucked her arms back under her portion of quilt and pulled it up to her chin. "Would you read it to me, please?"
"I thought you preferred to do things yourself," he prodded. After all, she was healing and now did most things on her own, even bandage changes.
"I like to hear your voice." And just like that, he caved to her request. Plenty of people heard his hypnotic ghost's voice and were captured, but only Christine professed an affection for his speech. For once, he was glad for his early years with the gypsy freak show: she was very entertained by his ability to speak in all the different characters' voices.
For what seemed like a long time, he gave life to the tale of the golden god Baldur's death and the giant Loki's subsequent capture and torture. He detailed the giant's prank on the Aesir and the victim's mortal wounding via a twig of holly, and his shape-shift into a fish in an attempt to escape the angry gods. At last, he came to the gruesome details of the torture: Loki's sons turned into wolves, one of which killed the other. In the typical barbaric fashion of the far north, Loki was tied to the world tree with his son's own entrails, constantly in agony from snake's venom dripped into his eyes.
On one hand, Erik was glad the harrowing tale was over. On the other hand, he disliked the loss of Christine's rapt attention. Seeing that this story was the last in the volume, he set the book aside and looked to her. "That was an end befitting such a villain, was it not?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so. Those Aesir gods have a terrible way of taking justice too far. Really, to have to watch your children kill and eat each other?" A shudder wracked her shoulders despite the warmth of the blankets. "Horrible. After millennia trapped under a tree, it's no wonder he'd want to destroy the world!"
"Ah, but Loki was more than just a prankster- he did commit murder," Erik reasoned. Vaguely, he wondered how he looked, conversing normally. He hadn't had the chance to really look at himself since childhood.
"True, and I don't condone murder, especially for amusement," Christine mused, "but I do see him more as misunderstood than villainous. After all, he's responsible for many of the gods' special attributes, like Sif's golden hair, and Odin's horse- who also happens to be his son."
"So you consider context as important as one's actual deeds?" If so, it's no wonder she puts up with me. She has enough of my context to discount some of my crimes. Even so, if she knew everything…would she be so kind? He forced the thought from his mind. If he had his way, she'd never know of his grievous sins in Persia.
"In some cases… At any rate, Loki was simply different, and thus ostracized," she concluded with a slight yawn. "Only his wife Sigyn stayed by him in the end, and I admire her for that." Erik smiled. It was hard to be conscious of his face when his beloved treated him so normally, and even affectionately. He'd never imagined he would discuss ancient Norse tales with a blanket over his lap and a pure-hearted woman beside him.
"And now, my dear, I believe it is time for you to sleep."
"Ah, I suppose," she agreed with another, wider yawn. He winced as her chapped lips almost cracked, and made a mental note to retrieve lip salve the next time he went out. Christine walked the short distance to bed and climbed in, not bothering with the covers.
"Is there anything else you require?" he asked, reluctant to leave her presence just yet.
She frowned for a moment. "Do you have a bed that you sleep in?"
The question took him aback. "Ah- I was not aware my sleeping situation mattered. I sleep much less than you do," he justified, "so I do not require a whole bed. The settee suits me well enough."
"Then will you do something for me?" An uncharacteristic slyness crossed her face. "I'll kiss you goodnight if you promise to do it."
A goodnight kiss? On these lips? Oh, how wonderful that sounds! But… Erik's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why the bribe, Christine?"
"Because…you might be reluctant?" Her shoulders went up and down in a small shrug. "I know a new bed will cost something, and might be hard to deliver or build…"
"You require a new bed? Is this one not to your satisfaction?" To his knowledge, the full-size bed bed frame was both sturdy and aesthetically pleasing, and the mattress was soft down.
"Oh no- it would just be… Well, I know we aren't married, or anything like that, but…" Those soft eyes went down with embarrassment. "There isn't any room for your bed anywhere else but in this room." She clutched the blankets again as if they could shield her from embarrassment. "Everyone needs a comfortable place to sleep."
He folded his arms in thought. I have no complaint against sharing quarters with Christine. The experience could be rather pleasant. After a while, he nodded to himself. Yes, there was a practical solution; it was just a matter of whether Christine accepted his offer. "Well, you are right; it would be terribly hard to cart an entire bed down here. However, if you are so concerned with my sleeping arrangement, there is a simpler solution." The words were out before he considered the consequences. You'll frighten her again, mocked an inner voice. Remember what happened the last time you proposed?
Do shut up, Erik snapped back- but his palms sweat, his heart rate increased, and his mouth went dry.
"What is it?" Her brow creased in that adorable way he loved.
"Hypothetically-" he stammered out, "hypothetically- we could marry and share the one bed already here."