Although Christine knew her attempts at persuading Erik to join her at mass were fruitless, it did not stop her from trying. Her only consolation, however, was that he was set on joining her after the sermon. A blasphemous smile kept finding its way to her mouth later that morning as she listened to pieces of quoted scripture and a choir of pure tone fill the church. Her countenance reflected that of an excited schoolgirl rather than a servant of God and she hurriedly told herself to repent for her thoughts later. Now, however, she was overwhelmed by the urge to glance towards the doors, knowing that her husband waited for her in a carriage just beyond.
When the sermon ended, she slowly rose from her seat but did not even stop to greet Father Augustin on her way out. Of course, she felt guilty over this, but her guilt did not stay with her for long. As soon as she spotted the carriage, she made her way over to it, her feet carrying her as swiftly and as elegantly as though the wind itself was pushing her forward.
"That was a particularly long sermon," Erik muttered once she sat herself down beside him. Looking over at him, she saw that the rattle of the carriage had done nothing to remove his stiff upper lip.
"Oh? I did not notice," she replied, hiding her smile. Sliding her gloves onto her hands, she then sighed happily and glanced out of the window at the throng of people. Many a couple walked arm in arm down the streets, and soon they would walk among them. Her gaze remained focused on the streets as her fingers blindly sought out his, but when she was met with nothing but an empty space, she frowned and shifted in her seat.
His clasped hands lay in his lap and his eyes were pointedly turned down to the compartment under their feet. Calming breaths moved his shoulders up and down, but Christine knew that he was not as collected as he appeared to be. Resting her hand on his knee, she drew his attention to her.
"I do not think this was a good idea," he admitted, peering down at the fingers that were now stroking him soothingly. For the first time since he had stepped out into the light that day, he reached up to skittishly touch his recently fashioned mask. "Does it... Does it look normal?" he asked, his jaw clenched.
A man with a child's voice—it was how she would have described him in that moment and, with a slight grimace, she leaned back and surveyed his face with a serious eye. The disguise he wore now, right down to the spectacles resting on his prosthetic nose, reminded her greatly of how he had looked the day of Mamma Valérius' funeral. A sudden wave of sadness claimed her as she thought of her guardian, but she was quick to swallow the feeling as she concentrated on her tense husband.
"You will not frighten anyone," she concluded dryly, removing her hand to her own lap.
Erik pursed his lips and turned his head away from her, staring out of the window with feigned interest. "Why is it then, that you appear so unnerved?"
Christine sighed and looked out of her own window, briefly lamenting the happy hours they had shared the previous evening. She had indeed been foolish to think that all his insecurities would disappear in the first day or two of their marriage. A miracle had not been what she was expecting, but she supposed she had quickly become attached to the newfound carefree attitude that he had shown her.
"If I am unnerved it is because I do not like looking at that disguise," she explained, her eyes catching the movement of two children—siblings, she would have guessed—squabbling with one another as their governess attempted to calm them. By the brief glance she had taken of the woman's flustered face, her work was too much of a strain, but Christine's lip curled up at this, wondering if one day she would be in a similar position. Coming back to the present and into the confinement of the carriage, Christine once again grew solemn.
"How could the disguise possibly be the thing to unnerve you?" Erik asked, grasping his knees. "You implied its effectiveness, so I fail to see what is so horrible about it!"
Suppressing a groan at his stubbornness, she shuffled over to him and rested her head against his shoulder, recalling how she had done so that morning, when all had been right with the world. "When I look at you now," she began, looking up at him, "I do not see the face of my husband."
His attention piqued, Erik stared down at his lap before meeting her eyes. "What do you see?"
"A stranger," she mused, sitting up to study him once more. "Another face in the crowd."
To her surprise, and slight dismay, her answer proved pleasing to him and his eyes lit up with renewed hope. Huffing, she rested her head against the back of the seat and attempted to see things from his point of view. For his entire life, he had been standing at the gates of the world of the living, looking through the bars as a prisoner of his own body. Now, his disguise would act as the key to finally allow him to pass from one world into the other—allowing him to step from the darkness and into the light.
"Forgive me for not understanding," she whispered over the drone of city life as they neared the Tuileries Garden. Silence prevailed until the carriage rolled to a stop and neither man nor wife made to open a door.
Gritting his teeth, Erik breathed deeply and gripped the material of his trousers in aggravation. His head shook as he dared to glance at her, his eyes relenting as he took in her neutral features. "You are not at fault, Christine," he insisted, wishing to clutch at her hand but remained where he was. "You most certainly are not at fault. I cannot expect you to become in tune with all my..." Here, he cleared his throat, "idiosyncrasies."
Christine, too, breathed deeply and hummed her surrender. "So that is what you call them," she muttered. Without another word, she wrenched open the door and stepped outside.
The refreshing breeze felt like a Godsend now that she was out of that stuffy carriage. Sighing, she allowed the cold to nip at her cheeks as she paused to check her gloves. A moment later, Erik appeared next to her. Slowly, she looked up at him, noting immediately the stiff manner about him; his taut back, his twitching fingers and the way he would move his head about like a frightened animal. Her heart ached at the sight and, wanting nothing more than to reassure him, she confidently placed her hand in the crook of his arm and smiled warmly.
"Shall we walk, husband?"
His pace matched that of any other couple who happened to be strolling through the Garden, but Christine could still feel the tension he held below her hand. Whenever someone would glance at them uninterestedly, her hand would press more firmly against his arm and he, in turn, pressed her hand more closely to him.
"It would appear you are a success," she commented, hoping to lighten the mood.
"Yes," he replied, his expression—or, rather, what she could see of it—vacant.
Unconsciously, she began to lean nearer to him as they walked. "What can I say to distract you, I wonder?" she said to herself before her instinct to prattle on about inconsequential subjects took over. "We shall have to sell Mamma's house," she began, "and I had hoped that we would finalise our arrangements before we leave. The Valérius' solicitor has already urged the selling of the property and has contacted me with several potential buyers." She paused. "Due to the recent... unpleasantness we could face by remaining in Paris, would it not be better to make those plans now rather than later?"
A frown appeared on Erik's face, though the mask did well to hide it. Of course, their imminent departure had always been present in his mind, but he did not wish to dwell on such unsavoury thoughts, not while they enjoyed their first days as man and wife. He knew, however, that they could not remain above the clouds for the rest of their lives. As much as he despised reality, he had to learn to plant his feet to the ground again.
Looking down at his wife, he saw only the epitome of a woman changed. Her grief had hardened her and she now seemed to be able to tackle life's little indiscretions with more steely determination and with more of a level head than before. She was accepting of the problems she was faced with but she was resolute that she would not allow them to defeat her; to crush her as they once feared they might. Her strength shone in every decision she made and though Erik loved her desperately for it, he had yet to conclude whether this would be good for her or not.
A stranger caught his eye at that moment, a portly gentleman who obligingly tipped his hat to them but whose eyes lingered too long on both of their faces. Beside her Erik shifted, unconsciously glancing over his shoulder at the man before raising a hand to his face.
"Yes, sooner rather than later," he echoed shakily, appeased when the man's behaviour or gait did not alter. He did not even look back at them. Nodding to himself, Erik turned his attention back to his wife, who seemed to hold herself higher in the light of their outing. Curiously, he studied her, noting her half-veiled eyes, the slight curve of the corner of her lips and the way she welcomed every breeze as though it were an embrace.
He knew she would not be content to live in the shadows anymore.
"What say you, Christine? Shall we travel to your homeland to hear the birds you spoke of?"
Stopping in her stride, she peered up at him with an expression of unconstrained delight. "Oh! Do you truly mean it?" she exclaimed happily, to which he nodded, finding her mood almost infectious. "You do not realise how much this means to me, Erik. Thank you." Moving her head closer to his arm, she then whispered, "If we were not in public, I would not hesitate to kiss you."
His heart thudded at this and was suddenly overcome by shyness at her brazen conduct. Proud as he was to have her on his arm, walking amongst the living, he would not wish for any public display of affection beyond that. Her beautiful kisses, her kind touches and every intimate moment they shared would remain as such. The prying eyes of strangers would not be privy to even the most modest displays of their affection—it would be for them alone.
"Are you not at all worried?" he asked her then, glancing at her from under the wide rim of his hat. "Your career will have to be built up again almost from the bottom, and our livelihood shall dwindle in the meantime. I have a substantial amount for us both to live upon, but there will come a time when employment must be sought. It... might be hard to obtain a stable position in some circumstances—" He missed the troubled look his wife threw at him here, for she knew he spoke of the mask, "—but we shall persevere, shall we not?" Beaming with a renewed sense of purpose, a feeling that his life was only just beginning, he squeezed her hand. "You have taught me that."
A smile teased at her lips at his words and she returned the gesture on his fingers. "Do not fear for us, Erik. Think on it as an adventure in our marriage—it will not be easy, nothing ever is, but as you said, we shall persevere. To Sweden, my love, and then the rest of our lives."
o0o
It took all but a few days for the arrangements to be made.
It was a thrilling sensation for Christine, to know that she would soon return to the land in which she had been raised, had laughed and played, had listened to her father's gentle plucking on his violin. On the day of their departure, she sat peacefully on the settee with Erik as she told him more stories of her childhood, a single flower resting between her fingers as she spoke.
"I adored my father's stories," she began, gazing down at the small petals and lightly brushing them against her skin. "I was an... impressionable child, unfortunately, and I soon took to claiming that I could see faeries from our kitchen window. I would sometimes even cry when I wasn't allowed to run outside in the dark and search for them."
Beside her, her husband chuckled, watching her twirl the flower around in the air before sliding it into her hair above her ear. His breath caught at the lovely picture before him, at how bohemian and at ease she appeared at this moment. An image came to mind of his wife walking barefoot across a field, her hair and dress billowing behind her in a warm breeze as her hand trailed across the tops of the blades of grass. Her laughter would carry upon the wind like music and she would suddenly stop to look over her shoulder at him, a loving smile on her lips and a fondness to her eyes. This was how he wished to see her; happy and utterly free.
Unable to resist, he leaned forward until his head was nestled between her shoulder and neck, his hand reached up to feel the ends of her braided hair intertwine with the long stretches of thin ribbon that had tied it.
"I cannot imagine he was very pleased," he commented, tilting his chin up to catch her eye.
Biting back a smile, she shook her head and held him close. "No, he wasn't." He felt her sigh under his touch and when he next looked up, he was startled to see how her lip had begun to tremble.
"Christine?" Sitting up, he traced her cheeks and jaw with his fingertips, his eyes desperately searching her face to understand the sudden change that had come over her. "What is it? What is wrong?"
Bowing her head, she captured his flapping hands and drew them to her lap. "I miss him, Erik. I miss Mamma and my real mother and..." She looked up, her expression one of hope. "I think being back in Sweden will help me be closer to them."
And in her heart, she truly believed it. Deep inside herself, there was a child she had locked away, a version of her younger self she had forgotten in recent years. That same child was now emerging into the sun and with every mention of Sweden, she could feel her soul lightening.
This would be a fresh start for her, for both of them, and she was not about to waste this opportunity to try to integrate Erik into society... into her family. He knew all too well the burdens of being an unwanted outcast, but Christine was determined to show him that cruelty did not run in the blood of every person who walked this earth. And if he would let her, she would adore him, dote on him and persuade him to make something of himself. She had wept upon thinking how much of his life had been lost by having driven him into the shadows and how his talents still continued to go unnoticed and untapped. Only days before, he had indirectly voiced these worries about their future and she vowed that their new life would be a full one.
This was their chance to remedy their hardships and to build their careers one step at a time, and they would do so together.
If Christine regretted one thing about their impromptu arrangement, however, it was that she was not given a suitable amount of time in which to say her farewells to her friends. Their decision to move would surely be an indefinite one, at least for the foreseeable future, and Christine did not wish to leave them so coldly. As soon as their plans had been laid out several days ago, she had sent a letter to each of the Girys, expressing her gratitude and her love for the women, and vowing that she would return for Meg's nuptials.
Christine smiled at this. From the first moment they had met, Meg had been a friendly, warm, but rather outspoken companion to her. She admired the dancer for her excelling talents and her ability to speak her mind openly, despite the mindful looks she would often garner. But Meg had a stout heart and a wonderful nature, and she had taken to Christine quickly. Her mother also held a similar attitude and under their guidance and friendship, Christine had banished all her worries over transitioning into this society. When with them, she no longer felt like a stranger.
"Thinking happy thoughts, my wife?" Erik said suddenly, pulling her out of her reverie. His fingertip gently tapped the crease at the corner of her mouth he was so fond of, causing her to look down at him.
"Very happy thoughts, my husband," she concurred, bending down to kiss him.
His hand came to cup the back of her head shyly, anchoring her to him and deepening their kiss as she laid her palm across his heart. This quiet intimacy, he concluded, would never fail to render him pliable and helpless to her every whim. He wondered how that revered tenderness could make a man want for everything and nothing all at once. The skin of her fingers brushed against the bare skin of his jaw and Erik shuddered, never wanting to forget the sensation, never wanting to be without her touch.
"You do not regret our marriage?" he found himself asking her then, staring up into those comely eyes.
Leaning away from him, she considered his question, her hand slowly slipping from his chest as she turned her head to the side. "Do you?"
It was not an affirmation, but nor was it a denial and Erik sat up quickly, his eyes turned to the floor as his mind whirled around the meaning behind her answer. Peering over his shoulder, he saw that she was still not looking at him and that her head was now resting upon her hand on the edge of the settee. Was this the ugly side to marriage, he wondered? In his dreams, in his fantasies, he had never thought of it to be anything but a splendid union, but as he drank in the suddenly cold nature of his wife, he swiftly began to realise his thoughts had been not been grounded.
"How could you ask me something like that?" he rasped, startled when she immediately retaliated by asking him the very same question.
"We must be strong now, Erik," she told him firmly, finally looking at him. "We cannot start doubting ourselves or we shall have no cause to move forward together. Do you understand what I am saying?"
The muscles in his jaw visibly moved and Christine shifted closer to him, leaning forward with the intention of laying her hand upon his forearm. In his peripheral vision, he saw her approach, but before she could touch him, he coyly brought his arm further from her reach. Having not expected him to shy from her, she did not alter her hand's position from the air for a few moments. His action had not been aggressive, but it had been hurtful and slowly she curled her fingers into her palm, lowering it to her lap as she too stared at the floor.
"Why do you not answer directly?" was all he could whisper, loathing himself for not accepting her touch but not allowing the dark thoughts of his mind to disperse.
Exasperated, Christine pressed her face into her palms and breathed deeply; an argument was the very last thing she wanted to provoke from him. "I cannot continue to give you the same reassurances, Erik," she told him softly, hoping the sound of her voice would be enough to draw him out of his uncertainties. "It is different from before, we are married now; we are bound. Can you not put your faith and your trust in us? Can you not believe in us?"
"I..." His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides. "I do not know. I... I cannot help—"
"I know," she quickly said, meeting his eye with loving acceptance. "But please... try. I want there to be a day when you do not question my affection; that you can look into my eyes and not doubt what you see there." When he said nothing, she shifted even closer, touching her fingers to his jaw and turning his head around to her. Feeling more courageous now that he did not attempt to shield himself from her, she took both of his cheeks in her hands and brought their faces close to each other.
"You know I love you," she said, not relinquishing her hold on him, even as his fingers crept up to loosely curl around her wrists.
His eyes closed, lost to the undeniable comfort her presence provided him as he focused his mind on the fast pace of her breaths and the way her skin felt against his. Tightening his grip slightly, he nodded and opened his eyes only to see her smiling sadly at him. Tilting his face, he pressed his lips in worship upon her brow before pressing them against her temple.
With a long sigh, he withdrew from her and rose to his feet. His gaze landed on the adjacent windows and noted that there would only be an hour or so of daylight left. Their train would not arrive at the station for another two, but by then darkness would have covered Paris in shadow. He found it curious that spring should be around the corner but most of their days should be shrouded in blackness.
"I must return to the Opéra one last time," he murmured, folding his hands behind his back.
"So soon?" Christine also rose to her feet and began to walk over to him. He must have sensed her approach, but did not indicate having done so. Resisting the urge to touch his shoulder, lest she scare him, she cautiously rested her head against his arm. "It is still early in the afternoon. Will you not stay?"
"I must retrieve the last of my belongings," was his reply. "The Daroga shall help me, fret not. I shall arrive on time." Here, he glanced down at her, tilting her chin up with a strong finger. "You know what you are to do?"
Yes, she knew. At her own discretion, she would travel to the station alone and board their compartment—he would be there, already waiting for her, he had vowed. She had smiled at this when he told her and she could not help her smile now. When she nodded her acknowledgement, he released her and reached for his mask, which had been laying inconspicuously on the floor.
"Your ticket is atop your luggage by the door," he informed her as he slipped the horrid thing onto his face.
Christine fell silent as he gathered his hat, scarf and cloak and watched as his figure became buried beneath the layers. Stepping towards her afterwards, he smiled, earning him a small one in return. Wrapping her fingers within the folds of his cloak, she pulled him to her, her pulse racing as he bent down to trace the growing blush on her cheek with his lips.
"Soon we shall be free," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as he moved his mouth to hers in a swift and chaste kiss.
"I shall meet you on the train."
A chill ran through her as he left and with her arms wrapped around herself, she walked towards the window. The sky above was drawing clouds over the city and she wondered if she would be caught in the rain when she left. In a short while, they would be lighting the gaslights and the streets would be paved once again in a hazy, romantic glow. Closing her eyes, she listened to the drone of carriages, the clear tones of hooves hitting the roads, the murmur of men and women returning to their homes. She recalled the smell of pasties on her afternoon walks, the taste of the ocean at the markets... These were the things she would miss about Paris, not memories of a time gone by, but the city as it was, as it would always be.
"Never change," she whispered in secret before turning from the window and clearing her head.
Passing her luggage on her way upstairs, she noted that her ticket was indeed on the top before she quickly surveyed the rest of her cases. Everything seemed to be in order, but one last search around the house would not hinder her.
As she entered her room, she glanced about at the surroundings that had been a home to her for the past two months. Promises had been made, certainties exchanged, vows of adoration given and acts of love shown... This room had experienced a life's worth in a small amount of time.
Smiling faintly, she walked along the edges, checking that everything had been cleared properly. Satisfied, she then turned to her bed and knelt beside it, peeling back the cover draping near to the floor. There, hidden almost completely by the shadows, was a box—a box she had not thought on in the most recent years. It had been a blind chance, a stroke of luck that it was still laying beneath the bed and had not been moved or even thrown out. Biting her lip, she stretched her arm across to it and managed to drag it over to her and into the light.
The dust that had accumulated over time and had covered the object mercilessly tickled her nose. A sneeze or two left her mouth as she wiped the wood clean and gazed down at the small hand-painted scene that decorated the middle of the lid. Her fingers ran across the faded painting, remembering the day that her father had created it.
"What is that, Papa? Is that for me?" she had asked him, eagerly reaching towards the wet paint with grubby fingers.
Her father had chuckled melodically and gently kept her at bay. "Yes, Christine. For you. If you do not want to forget something, you can put it in the box and keep the memory forever."
"Oh," she said in mock understanding. "Papa... How do the memories stay in the box?"
She hesitated now before opening it, and quickly snatched the hefty weight of it up into her arms and carried it down the hall. Her otherwise enthusiastic pace slowed, however, when she reached her guardian's old room, the floorboards creaking beneath her as she decided whether to enter or walk away. Summoning the courage to quieten her quaking heart, she slowly opened the door, immediately feeling her body shiver upon entering.
The room was still and quiet, with only the sound of her breathing to remind her that she was not in a tormenting purgatory. She stood as unmoving as carved stone, like a statue overlooking the graves of the departed—a guardian of the dead, ever constant, ever worshipping. Despite the eerie atmosphere, she smiled, committing the chamber to memory before going to sit on the stripped bed. She placed the box next to her and turned to it, briefly reminded of how she had sat in this very spot and had held Mamma Valérius' frail hand.
Lifting the lid truly felt like she had opened the door to the forgotten corners of her mind. The objects in the box were representations of her past, of who she used to be, and she felt her chest tighten as she explored its contents. Lying on the top was a framed photograph; a beautiful woman sat in her wedding dress and a man, tall and bearded, stood proudly by her side, his hand resting on her shoulder. The faces of her mother and father looked up at her and she lovingly traced every one of their features with her fingertip before clutching the portrait to her breast.
Peering down into the box, she felt a rush of old memories come flooding back to her in the form of a book of short stories, torn sheet music, a necklace that had belonged to her mother, a few strings that she remembered had broken off her father's violin one day, the obituary from just after his death... and a red scarf.
Lowering the photograph to the box, she exchanged it for the long piece of material, holding it up in the light as she studied it closely. Under her touch, she noted that it had become slightly rough. The ravages of time had not left this untouched, it seemed. She held it close to her neck as she thought of its significance, of how a young boy, eager to impress, had chased it along the briny sands after the wind had stolen it out of her hands.
Raoul. Her eyes closed. Dear Raoul. How cruel she had been to him. She had not even had the heart to send him a letter to tell him of her departure from France. Was she so thoughtless as to leave him, her childhood friend, without a last kind word? Laying the scarf back into the box and closing it, she nodded her head at her sudden decision. There was still time; a letter could surely be written and sent in the brief time she had remaining.
o0o
The sound of her hired brougham rolling through the streets was a comfort to her otherwise quiet journey to the station. A fog had begun to gather near her feet as she had helped the driver to load her luggage when she had stopped suddenly, wrapping her jacket closer to her body as she peered about her. In truth, she had thought it silly to be affected so by the cold air, but the fog now prohibited her from seeing much beyond the shape of the white horses in front of her and the occasional figure breaking their way through the grey mist.
She fiddled with the reticule in her lap, occasionally opening it up to rummage through until she felt the familiar shape of her ticket against her glove. No matter how many times she told herself not to worry, she could not help but shake the feeling that she had forgotten something. It was nonsense, of course; she had succeeded in posting her letter, had packed her memory box away amongst her belongings and had double-checked everything before she had locked the door behind her. Perhaps it was sentimentality that had her carry the key with her now, but its presence made her feel content.
This evening had begun as a quiet one, but as she neared the Gare-du-Nord, the murmur of the crowds once again filtered in through her ears and she took comfort in the sound. By this time, the fog had begun to disperse and Christine was able to see several people through the brightly lit windows of the surrounding cafés. Ignorance was indeed a delightful thing.
The crowds did not thin as the brougham stopped outside the station, and Christine had to awkwardly side step several parties, whose bulky luggage managed to clear a large path for them. Tightening her grip on her relatively small cases, she took a deep breath and set off through the station, wincing whenever she accidentally brushed arms with another bystander. A quick glance up at the clock outside had indicated that she had arrived with time to spare, but she still hurried to the platform, wanting nothing more than to stand alone.
A gulp of air upon breaking through the last of the crowds proved more hazardous than relieving, however. As she stood before the wide, open platforms, she craned her head and saw great clouds of smoke propelling upwards from the train, rising until they reached the glass panels on the roof. The smell was quite overwhelming, but she soldiered on, determined to enter their compartment before she inhaled more than was necessary.
The sound of her boots was lost to her as she walked along the platform, shifting one suitcase to her other hand so that she could easily reach for the side door. A glimpse at her husband was all she needed before she saw to her luggage. Wrapping her fingers around the door, she pulled. She froze.
The compartment was empty.
Her hand dropped to her side as she peered around her at the throng of people. Briefly, she wondered if he was simply in a disguise she did not recognise, to avoid suspicion. But as the seconds passed, she began to grow more anxious, so much so that she closed the side door and stepped back to the other side of the platform. They had foolishly not planned what to do if one of them was detained—it had not crossed her mind that Erik should run late, it did not seem possible.
Several times, she almost returned to the compartment, believing that perhaps she had arrived a moment too soon, or that he was simply waiting on the other side. She knew her husband better than that, however. She knew that had he already arrived, he would have made his presence known to her.
Holding her cases in front of her legs, she rubbed her thumb along the thick handle as she raised herself up onto her toes so that she might see above the tops of heads. Alas, there was still no sign of her husband. The minutes began to accumulate and Christine felt her heart beating in time with every tick of the clock.
What would he have wanted her to do in this circumstance? Board the train and continue their journey alone, waiting patiently for him to at last join her? It was a daunting possibility, but a thrilling one as well, and had it not been for the dangers hanging over their heads at present, she would have truly considered travelling alone. However, she could not ignore the alternative, more devastating possibilities that had begun to take over her sensibilities.
A sharp whistle and a man's voice broke through her worrying and she glanced up again to see the platform clearing and the train beginning to move. Wistfully, she watched it creep along the tracks and away from her, the steadily increasing churn of the wheels fuelling her steps in the opposite direction.
If their roles had been reversed, Erik would not have thought twice. The compartment would have remained empty and he would have risked his safety to find her whereabouts. Why should she not do the same now?