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After I put Adora to sleep, I wander over to our bed, where Erik is writing quietly. I lay on my side next to him, looking at the precise music notes scratched on the parchment.

"How can you write music without hearing it?" I ask aloud. He turns to look at me, looking rather startled, as if he hadn't realized I was there. He turns back to his music, thoughtfully.

"I can hear the music," he murmurs. "And you ought to be able too, if you were sight-singing properly. Would you sing it if I gave your starting note?"

The music has much too many chords, and no melody line. I find a simple measure and say, "I know the distance there." I point to an interval. "But how do I know what note to start on? What if I'm singing in one key and writing it down in another?"

"Perfect pitch is given to few," he sighs. "Most need a starting pitch, as I said. Were you not listening, silly woman? If I gave you an E, would you be able to sing an A?"

"It's a perfect fourth." I announce proudly, humming it. It reminds me of the Wagnerian Wedding March from Lohengrin. I loll back onto my arms, resting my chin in my hands. "Adora's birthday was nice, don't you agree?"

He nods slowly. It had been a fun day last week. Karl and Marianne were over, and we'd had small cakes and opened a few presents. Mari gave Adora her very first pair of lace-up boots—"For the snow, when she's walking, of course."—and ribbons for her hair—"I hope she has curls like you, Christine, dear."

Erik had much preferred to linger in the kitchen most of the time, although he had thanked Marianne for the gifts. By the afternoon, he had disappeared, probably off into his music room, but it didn't bother me he had been exceptionally well-behaved, and I certainly did not expect him to be exoteric.

But Adora had been a good child as well, so both of my beloveds had been rewarded: Adora with a cracker, and Erik with a kiss.

Although the weather is beginning to grow slightly warmer, we still lack any heat in our home. I snuggle against Erik. While his thin frame was not what others would typically classify as comfortable, it provides a strong security for me. What would I ever do without him?

He sighs and lays his music down, gathering me into his arms. I peck his forehead lightly to show I appreciate the sacrifice. He scoffs.

"I just surrendered my music for a woman," he says rather despairingly. "When did I ever grow so shallow?"

"You must be very shallow." I agree. "Music is much more important. Think of how special music is to you, how much it does for you! Obviously, music and your wife cannot be in the same room together. The music is much too distracting."

He gives me an odd, little look, as if he is not sure if I am mocking him, and settles on looking perplexed. "Music is very distracting." he concurs, pulling his long fingers across my abdomen. I sigh in contentment, although on a different note, my dress feels very thick and out of place at the moment.

"What makes music so special for you?" I ask. "What makes you… surrender to it every time? There must be something…"

His lips skim my forehead. "Music is warm." I give him a very obvious look, and he nods fervently, pressing my hand to his cold face. "Oh, yes, my dearest, do not look at me like that! I speak nothing but the truth." He continues to move my hand over his face. "Simple cause and effect. I put my soul into music, and it gives back to me, see? Restores me. Heals me."

"I see…"

"I am sure there are more rational reasons," he says quietly, and his hands grasp me and pull me against him, cradling me. "I'm not sure about other music… but my music is beautiful. Even when… when the rest of the world may reject me—music welcomes me with open arms."

"Are you sure you're speaking about mu—"

"Yes, I am. Music is wonderful. Music saved me. Flawless. Angelic. I love music…"

We are both silent for a long time.

"You know," I finally say conversationally. "I do believe you may be speaking in metaphors."

"Is that so?" he asks, staring at the ceiling. My fingers are still linked with his. "I was writing a beautiful song until your propinquity… distracted me."

He leans to kiss me again, and I grab onto him, pulling his downward, and I hear a little sigh that is certainly not from my husband. Adora is standing in her crib, watching us with a moody expression.

"You should be asleep!" I tell her, sitting up quickly to retrieve her. She beams at me when she realizes she is getting her way, and lifts her hands. I am beginning to grow afraid that Adora has inherited the odd gene that apparently grants incredible stamina and an ability to go without sleep for… well, longer than a person should. "Why are you like your father?" I mutter to her as I lean her against my shoulder.

Erik chuckles as I bring her over, and she scampers straight to him. He silently offers her his hand, and she presses her nose into his palm, like a shy animal, and then giggles as if she's never done anything funnier. He withdraws a little, clenching his fist at the sudden contact.

I sit next to her, and she leans against my skirts, staring at me innocently.

"Go to sleep." I say. "That's right. Sleep."

She makes a kissing noise at me.

I tuck her in against the pillows, to elucidate my point. "Good night, Adora. Night. Nighttime."

Her little toes kick a little, and she rolls into a tiny ball, her eyes wide open. I echo her sigh; I ought to take her into her room and rock her.

Erik starts to sing, a vaguely familiar song I am sure he has sung to me before—Adora instantly grows still, her brown curls resting around her head like a crown.

"Will you carry her to bed?" I whisper to Erik. Without ceasing his song, he gives me a look that says very plainly, Good trying, Christine, and continues to weave his melody, while staying firmly seated on the bed.

I carry her to her crib myself, watching her closed eyes. She has such long eyelashes—she is too beautiful.

Erik's voice fades out as I climb back into bed. "You could keep singing for me." I suggest hopefully, but all I hear is the steady and reassuring sound of Adora's breathing.

"She looks like you." he murmurs.

"And you." I mutter back.

"She is a good girl," he answers. "You take good care of her. Our little one. She belongs to us. Erik and Christine."

"Yes, ours." I add simply.

"We must never let anything happen to her. I take care of my Christine, because she belongs to me. And we must take care of Adora, because she belongs to us."

"I understand." I whisper, and I search his eyes, wishing more than anything that I could be a part of Erik, and see the truth in his eyes and soul. What does he mean when he utters things like such? I so long to see how he views the world, but I cannot. All we can do is bring our own views and share them with each other, share them with love. And I want to think that if I ever were to see in Erik's soul, I wouldn't find his fits of anger, nor his uncontrollable fury; I wouldn't find all of his hidden sorrows or his melancholy too deep to express. I would just find his love.

He leans over again, taking both of my hands, looking at me. I have come to expect anything and everything from Erik, but I am surprised at how gentle he seems to be now.

"Do you love me?" he asks.

"I do."

He furrows his eyebrows, almost in pain, and says, "Ask me!", his voice sounding eager. "Ask me, Christine!" and he sounds frantic.

"Do you love me, Erik?"

"Yes. Yes. I do, yes."

I pull him against me as he kisses my forehead, and he comes on top of me as I try my absolute best to pull him into my world. And in my world, no one cares about his ugly, terrible face, or his hands cold as death. My soul searches only for love, and I know that despite everything, in the end, that is all Erik's is looking for too.

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