Chapter Seven

My emotional breakdown and the way Christine handled me, with such dignity and patience, completely changed my view of her. I no longer saw her as a silly young girl with fanciful hopes and dreams, but as a mature, well-adjusted, worldly woman who could take complete care of me if she wanted to. For the first few weeks after that morning I allowed her to tend to me entirely as I slowly regained my health and normal disposition and attitude. Each day I made small progressions toward where I wanted to be, one day dressing myself completely, the next day bathing, the following week completing a novel.

Each time one of these achievements was reached Christine would praise me as a mother does a child. The day when I had wept with her had set us both, whether I'd intended it or not, on the same emotional plane somehow. She'd become in-tune with me, and at that point in time she could sense I craved nurturing which I'd been long denied. I accepted her words as encouragement and continued on, until one morning I woke early and was feeling entirely myself and ready to face the day.

I washed my hideous face and replaced the mask before dressing in shirt sleeves and a pair of trousers. My strength was at last restored in me, and I felt younger than I had in years. I ventured downstairs to find Christine was not yet in the kitchen.

Her bedroom door was ajar, and I could not resist the temptation to peak inside at her sleeping form, as she'd stolen glances at what she thought was mine.

The unguarded sight of her dozing struck an entirely unexpected chord of tenderness within me. She seemed so young once more, so innocent, yet not in a way which repulsed or amused me, but in a way which made me wish to hold her in my arms and protect her from the evils of our world. Her long curls were loose and flowing, spread about her pillow, though a few strays followed the gentle curve of her breast which rose and fell with each deep, even breath she drew. Her cheeks were slightly rosy, her petal-pink lips slightly parted. Such tenderness had poured from them on my behalf...

I then remembered our conversation from months earlier, after Faust. When she awoke I decided that I'd have her sing for me at the piano, a simple tune, nothing too difficult.

I froze as I saw her stir, her limbs stretching, before those blue eyes of hers were turned to where I stood. I could not move, and we simply stared at each other for a moment which seemed to span hours, my black, lightless eyes getting lost in hers. She opened her mouth to speak. I noticed just in the nick of time and made myself scarce before she could say a word.

After she'd risen and we'd dined, I'd suggested that she sing for me and she'd reluctantly agreed. Nothing was mentioned of our early morning encounter.

I led her to the piano, assuring her that I was merely curious and that she should not be nervous. I was not expecting much, assuming her voice would be mediocre at best. It was no personal insult to Christine, of course; I simply knew I was a harsh critic when matters came to music.

I played a chord to guide her, and instructed her to sing a scale to warm up. Even from a simple octave I was amazed -- beyond amazed, astounded! At my very eager grasp was the most beautiful, celestial, pure voice my ears had ever beheld, all waiting to be molded and shaped into something beyond mortal imagination.

When she'd finished the scale, I immediately snapped, "Continue! Now! Anything!"

She likely took my sharpness as displeasure, but she continued on to sing a haunting melody of her native Swedish tongue which I was not familiar with but could identify. The lullaby seemed to be capable of going on as long as she wished for it to, much to my pleasure. She sang to me for an immeasurable amount of time, and when she finished, she eyed me nervously, anxious for whatever praise or criticism I had.

I merely sat there with my eyes closed for some time, before finally I whispered, "Christine, you have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard."

I paused for a response, but she simply stood and stared at me, wide-eyed.

"Please," I continued with a sudden burst of energy, rising to my feet and taking her hand in mine, "you must allow me to instruct you, to work with you, to give you a taste of the genius you could easily have!" She seemed a bit overwhelmed and shocked, though pleased. "Please," I said again, bringing her hand reverently to my mouth and allowing my lips to linger on the soft flesh, as if kissing the hand of a goddess, "that voice of yours was meant for great things."

"If you believe so, monsieur," she replied softly, my praise apparently taking her completely off guard.

"Don't bother with the formalities!" I exclaimed. "We are on the same level, my dear, two slaves to almighty music."

"Erik," she corrected herself breathlessly, caressing the name as it never had been before. I had no time to dwell on her reaction in my creative frenzy.

"Come! We have work to do!"