Chapter Twelve

Several days later, Miford had reached the first of his three towns, this one only a few kilometers due South of Kalmat. Exiting the coach, his single suitcase in hand, he first checked into an inn and booked himself a room for that night. Once that was settled, he set himself to asking around for any masked men who might live in the town.

The first person he asked was a docile old woman sitting on a bench outside the inn. She'd only seemed confused at his question, and replied that she was waiting for her husband. Miford noticed there was no wedding ring on her finger. He thanked her anyway and moved along.

The next person he asked was a young girl, one of many in a small, gossiping group on a street corner. When he asked about a masked man, her posse reacted sooner than she did, in a mixture of giggles and gasps. The girl turned to one of her companions and whispered to her behind a cupped hand before responding, "Our fathers know of a masked man, who -- "

She was cut off by the girl standing next to her. "Who never trades with anyone, though he claims to be an established merchant!"

"Every time someone does try to trade, his stableboy Karl -- " the name brought another round of giggles, and Miford noticed the first girl's cheeks were flushed " -- answers the door and says his 'master' has nothing for them!"

"Yes, yes, where does man live?" Miford managed in polite Swedish, though the exhilaration of victory close at hand was beginning to intoxicate him.

A third girl replied this time, the only one who hadn't been giggling mindlessly along with the others. She gestured to a far off house close to the seashore, isolated from town and any close-by neighbors. "There is where he and his wife live."

Wife?

Miford hurriedly thanked the girls and set off toward the house on foot, too determined to wait for a free cab. Silently he added a fraudulent marriage to his mental list of their crimes.

I have them.

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Christine could not bear to go downstairs to eat, though she was fairly certain Erik was not in the kitchen. Knowing him, he'd likely shut himself up in his private music room, a room where he'd never allowed her to tread but which he'd frequently used in the past. Leaving the room would make things too real. She'd have no way of telling herself that none of it had happened if she faced the morning to find it was not like any of the others, that Erik would not be in the kitchen waiting for her with a smile and kind words. Perhaps he never would be again.

She'd not wept last night for what they'd done, though it was clear now that Erik did not understand that. What they'd done had been beautifully forbidden...ethereal while it had lasted, before she'd had to realize the consequences. She'd explored every part of that body so tortured, and he'd responded in kind. When they'd come together, there had been exquisite pain, far worse than she'd expected, but with his gentle coaxing, she'd eventually been repaid with exquisite pleasure.

Afterwards, though, was when the thoughts came. As Erik lay beside her, tense and unsure, Christine remembered her girlish fantasies of her and Raoul's wedding night, and how different this had been, in more ways than one. Then, inevitably, it dawned on her that it was over: she'd committed the ultimate betrayal, and in her eyes, subsequently joined the ranks of the evilest women imaginable. She'd wept, Erik had misunderstood and left before she could explain. She slept alone after many hours of tossing and turning.

Thus drew to a close what should have been a night of wonder, warmth and love.

Christine rose from the bed and pulled on a clean nightgown to maintain at least some semblance of modesty. In the drawer beneath it, she found a small cotton pouch, within it two rings that she'd refused to look at in some time. One, a plain gold band; the other, a heavy, slightly pretentious diamond one; one representing a simple, yet oddly artistic life; the other representing a life any poor girl would dream of, a life of feasts, beautiful gowns, and summer homes. She now had neither. Without thinking of what she did, she slid them both onto her wedding finger, a perfect representation of her mindset at the moment.

Just then, a sharp, urgent knock came upon the door. She froze. It was not often that they had callers; actually, she wasn't sure if they ever had. She'd never greeted one, anyway, though perhaps Erik had made sure of that personally. Could it be Erik himself? Perhaps he'd left the house and Karl had locked the door behind him this morning on his way to the market, leaving Erik with no way back in.

Christine pictured the scene for a moment: he surly, disheveled and hung over, she drawn and sleepless, a thin nightgown scarcely concealing hips which bore his bruises. At the thought, she donned her robe as well, when the knock came again, bringing her back to her current task.

Perhaps it was someone else...? Whomever it was, Christine realized she had no choice but to answer. They seemed too persistent to leave her in peace.

She descended the stairs and opened the front door to find a wan-looking man whom she vaguely recognized...but from where?

Her lips parted to ask, "Can I help you?" as Erik burst forth from the music room and cried, "Christine, don't answer the door!" not realizing he was too late, and that the caller had heard his words.

Before she knew what was happening, the encroacher muscled his way through the door and slammed it closed behind him.

"So," he hissed, "I finally meet the infamous Opera Ghost face to face."