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Erik confines me to bed rest. Not the physician, who tells me I am of course free to move around for the next few months. However, Erik tells me very strictly that I am not to leave either the bed or the sofa.

I agree with him rather dispassionately, knowing there is really no use in arguing with him. And when he leaves me, I still lay on the small sofa, bound not by physical restraints, but by the image of Erik's figure standing over me.

My baby turns over inside of me. I pat my stomach and say, "I know. I want to move around as well. But Papa knows best." Right now, I feel him as my son. He probably understands. He'll probably be just like Erik.

Snow is already over the ground. It was my wish to go down into town this year to celebrate the holiday with all the festivals and traditions, but I know Erik will put his foot down.

I'm quite sure the baby can hear my thoughts as well, and she kicks me. I pat her again. In my mind, she's turned into my daughter.

"He's not being mean." I say consolingly. "He worries about us."

"Who are you talking to?" Erik demands, appearing in the doorway. His eyes suspiciously comb the room. Does Erik really think I've snuck someone into the house from my sofa?

"Our baby." I explain.

He looks disdainful. "It can't hear you."

"Yes, she can!" I explode indignantly.

His thin eyebrows arch. "Yesterday, you said, 'he'".

I close my eyes. "You're right," I say. "Perhaps it is a boy." I think for a moment. "No. It's a girl today." I really can't explain it. It could be a girl, it could be a boy. I wish I knew for certain.

"Have you eaten anything?" he questions, ignoring me.

I huff at him. "Am I permitted to go into the kitchen?"

"No." he says, frowning at me when I make a face at him. "You stay here. I will be right back."

Slightly irritated that my husband is back to treating me like a child, I sit up distractedly, swinging my legs over to touch the floor. If he is going to be ridiculous, then I am not forced to follow his orders. If I be the only one in this house with common sense, then I will make the decisions.

Appearing out of nowhere, like he always does, Erik takes both of my wrists in his stony grip, making my heart stop in my chest.

I wonder if our child will be strong, like Erik?

"Did I say, get up?" he thunders, making me squeak in fear. "I do not understand why you will not listen to me, ever! Am I not making myself very clear? Do you think I am being silly?"

"Erik," I whimper, pulling my hands up and clutching my face in terror while he keeps his hold on my wrists. "I am fine, truly I am." I should have waited until he was in the kitchen…

He shakes his head, both of his own hands releasing me and coming up to cup my face.

I let him push me back down, and say, "I know how you feel, Erik. Or at least, I'm trying to know… Are you worried about me?" My hand finds its way to my midsection. "About us?"

He looks at me blankly. "If the baby dies, Christine will be unhappy."

I touch his chest lightly. "And you? You would be unhappy, too?"

"Erik is always unhappy if Christine is unhappy."

I stroke him lovingly, trying to see him in the light that he sees himself. He is simply overly worried, that is all. I must say the right things to calm him, and he will be back to normal. "Now, now, I'm not unhappy. And neither are you. We'll be very, very happy when this baby is born."

"Right." he agrees softly. "I understand."

I wonder if our child will be happy?

My lips part a little, but I decide that I do not want to say anything else. I have a bit of a headache. I wonder if Erik will put his hands on my forehead, if I ask.

I wonder what Erik was like as an infant? Did he cry often, begging for the love and attention that was surely and cruelly denied to him? Or perhaps he was a quiet baby, one of those children with sad eyes, the ones who always look much older than they really are. Just thinking about Erik, him being neglected as a child, makes me reach out and lay my arms around him protectively, because he's mine.

Erik doesn't seem perturbed by my touch. Looking a little confused, but willing nonetheless, he lets my hands go up to his face, my fingertips feeling his smooth skin. I let my fingers go everywhere from the creases under his eyes, to his soft temples, to the area around his lips, to make sure that I am the person who knows him best. I love him the most, and I deserve him the most. Everyone who has hated him, who has hurt him, they don't deserve him. I must make sure that n one knows him better than I.

"No one does, I assure you." he says quietly, and he smiles when I turn red, realizing I had begun to speak aloud towards the end.

I hope she smiles like him, our baby. I would never say that aloud, however. Even to someone else, someone who doesn't know him, I think that Erik would not look so scary if he smiled. Papa used to tell me that when you smiled, the little fairies from the North would come to you in your sleep and sprinkle their magic dust over you, to make your features lovely. A silly tale, beloved by me, and still slightly believed...

I touch his face on last time. "You must be true to our child, as well. No hiding away, no masks around her. Him. You would frighten him more. Her. Whichever."

"No," Erik says disapprovingly. "You, my beautiful, may be used to me and my horrible face, but it would most certainly frighten the child."

"Not if it's all they know of you." I say back, and he looks shocked.

"My face would be the only face your child would know?" he asks, looking at me as thought he expects me to reveal I am only jesting. "How cruel of you!"

I cannot quite think of anything to say to this, so I turn away. He will see, in time, when the child is here. He won't hide from our child, not ever. Our child will be brought up to see that only the inside matters.

"I am not going to be lying down for the next few months." I tell him boldly, deciding to overlook our conversation altogether... "If I would like to go into the kitchen, I will. When I am tired, I will lie down. You may take care of me, but you are not confining me."

He leans back and crosses his arms. "You dare not to do what I tell you to do?"

I see an image of his personality years ago at the Opera, when his word was law and I followed it without question.

I wonder if our child will be stubborn?

"When the baby is born," I say lazily, not answering him. "You will have to help me take care of him. I cannot manage by myself. Remember, it is our baby."

Erik rolls his eyes, just a little. "Ah, so it is a boy again?"

I tilt my head at him. "Would you like a son or a daughter?" I ask innocently. Half of me wants to give him a son, to follow in his footsteps and make him proud, and half of me wants to give him a daughter to cherish and take care of with all of his heart.

Something flickers in his eyes, for just a moment. "Erik wants a happy wife. And child." he adds rather unwillingly under my sharp gaze. He offers a hopeful smile, apologetic. "Perhaps I will get used to saying that in a while."

"You had better." I mutter, putting my hand over my stomach.

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