Don't worry. Erik will be appearing soon. The basics need to be established first, though. Just be strong and hang in there a few more chapters!

Introductions

It is hard to adjust to this life, but I do so eventually. It is hard for me to become comfortable with Raoul still coming regularly, but I suppose more time is needed for this.

For the most part, I keep to my room. I venture out in the mornings for breakfast. It has taken me four tries to be able to find the kitchen without getting lost. There, I eat quickly and then deliver Raoul his meal. That is what a wife does; she delivers her husband breakfast. It does not matter if I have cooked it or not. I am the one to deliver it.

He never stays at night. He goes back to his own bedroom, and I am grateful for that. I will knock on his door quietly and enter to place the heavy tray wherever he wants it. He is usually doing something different. The first time I came, he was bending over some paperwork, muttering distractedly to himself, hassled. On the second time, he was just rising from bed, looking at me interestedly from his messy sheets as I placed his breakfast on the desk. Once, he didn't look at me at all, but merely stared out of his window and ignored my presence. I do not care what he does. The only real interaction we have is at night; I blush at the thought.

I find a magnificent library while lost one afternoon. Pausing to look, I finger old dusty novels and see titles I have never seen. The most books any family has are the ten thick volumes distributed by the Oligarchy. Most stories are oral. I look at the books with fascination and am about to pull one out before a man dressed in black enters. He looks stricken to find me there.

"What are you doing?" he says. "You cannot be in here; this is a private library!"

He shoos me out of the room, and I manage to find my way back to my bedroom, thoroughly flustered. I have never seen so many books. I wonder what they are about – perhaps unfinished memoirs of the current Oligarchy, or documentaries of current battles. Nevertheless, I am too nervous to go back, and I am unsure if I will find the library again if I tried.

A few days later, as I am finishing up an embroidery project, a woman in black enters.

"You are to dine tonight with your husband, his brother, and his wife," she says at once. "Put on something presentable, and I shall fetch you soon."

Reluctantly, I set aside my sewing and go to the wardrobe. I reach in and pull out a dress at random, but instantly put it away. The cut is…exposing, and I feel the heat rush to my neck at the thought of wearing it. It takes me a few minutes to find something, and I struggle to pull it on. When the woman comes back in, however, she demands that I take it off.

"How can you be seen wearing something like this in such company?" she says. "Wear this one." And she puts the revealing dress into my hands. She is deaf to my feeble protests, so I put the dress on and try not to think of it. When I am dressed to her satisfaction, she leads me downstairs to a great dining hall. A wide glass door shows shrubs and trees on the other side. The woman in black leaves, and I direct my attention toward the table.

Another woman is sitting there, a woman so perfectly beautiful that I feel momentary disgust at myself. High cheekbones, a straight, small nose, round lips, and wide, dark eyes all come together to present her in such a way that I try to make myself as less noticeable as possible. Her hair is what interests me, however. It is not brown, but it is not red. It is somewhere in between, and it shines as the evening sun casts shadows into the room. Slowly, I walk toward the table and take a seat.

Without looking at me, she says, "That is Raoul's seat."

I jump up at once and take another chair.

"That is Philippe's seat."

She gives a small inclination with her head toward the seat next to hers, and I take that one. Still, she has not looked at me once. Unsure of myself, I watch her out of the corner of my eye and copy her movements exactly. Raoul and his brother enter, talking seriously, and take their places. They are served immediately, as are we. However, the woman does not pick up her utensil and merely stares at the wall. It is some time before we are addressed.

"Oh, Clara," says Philippe, glancing over. "Eat."

Raoul catches my eye and gives me a nod with his customary half-smile. The woman and I clear our plates – which is much less than what the men received – and we sit still once again. When all plates are clear and Raoul and Philippe are now speaking with much less severity, Clara stands.

"We are going to the gardens," says she.

Philippe hardly notices her, and she turns before tugging lightly on my sleeve. I stand and follow her out the glass door into the fresh air. The gardens are a piece of paradise. Warm winds blow lazily, while the scents of flowers intoxicate the very air I breathe. I follow Clara deeper and deeper into them until she has found the spot she wishes. Quietly and elegantly, she sits down on a simple stone bench and settles herself for a minute before peering up at me.

"When you first discovered to whom you would be wed," she says, "what was your first thought?"

I try to remember back to those months ago. I was outside, enjoying the sun, when my mother came up, looking the happiest I have ever seen her.

"I…I suppose I couldn't care," I say uncomfortably. "I knew I was to be married; all the choices seemed to be the same."

"But they aren't the same. You have been placed in the middle of the Oligarchy." She pauses for a moment. "What would you say if I told you I am a spy?"

"A spy?" I repeat stupidly.

"Yes, a spy. I am gathering information and passing it on to rebels who would like nothing more than to pull down the Oligarchy."

I frown. "You wouldn't have useful information, though. Not unless he tells you his plans in bed."

There is a pressing silence, and I wonder for a moment if she is going to scream at me. However, she stands, and a smile comes to her lips.

"Christine," she says, taking my arm, "I think we shall be very good friends."

----

The next afternoon, I am summoned once again. I walk nervously down to a room close to the dining room to find four men and Clara waiting for me. Clara gives no indication that we have ever spoken; she merely stares at the wall is if truly fascinated by the flowery paper. Raoul and Philippe are there. One in the room is the pale, thin, white-haired man who interrogated me on the wedding day. He is also ignoring me. The last man is someone I have never seen. He has a dark complexion and looks genuinely kind. For a moment, my heart flutters as he smiles at me. It has been a very long time since someone has done that with sincerity.

"This is she?" he says, addressing Raoul, who nods. "It seems," he continues, now looking at me, "that rumor of your talent has not been confined in the walls of your home. Forgive me, but I hoped you would indulge us for a little while. There is a piano over there."

A rush of blood floods my face, and I stumble over to the large piano. I have taken an unusual liking for music and have been taught for years, but I am still nervous as I sit down and lightly touch the ivory keys. Casting a glance toward the men who are all staring elsewhere, I quietly begin to play. It is a simple song that will hopefully relax my fingers and my heart, and, when I am finished, there is a smattering of applause, though it quiets quickly.

"I am sure that's not all," says the man. "You have a voice to show, from what I have heard."

It is not as if I could simply refuse. I could not get up, bid them a good evening, and return to my room. These are the most powerful men; I am trembling. So, again, I start with something easy. After a slow introduction, I join with my voice, timid at first, but then it grows comfortable as I lose myself in the piano.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!

I hope that this song will placate them; it is a praise song to the Oligarchy, one of the oldest and best-loved.

And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease:

I feel someone move behind me, yet resist the urge to look and continue toward the end.

Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit,
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute.
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

The applause is much the same, but the kind man brings his hands together jovially.

"The rumors hardly do you justice!" he says, smiling around the room. "I do not believe I've ever heard something quite like that."

I allow a polite and thankful smile to cross my lips before looking at Raoul, unsure whether he wishes for me to stay or leave.

"That will do, Khan," says Philippe, looking at the man who is still bringing his hands together lightly. He stops but does not look abashed. Instead, he looks at me with even more interest.

"Come here," he says, and I do so, feeling more and more out of place and awkward. Keeping my eyes on the floor, I wait for…whatever it is he is going to do. "Look at me," he finally says, and, as I raise my eyes to meet his, I see Raoul on the couch move suddenly, as if to pull him away from me. Raoul seems to think better of himself and instead stands, watching intently.

"Look at this, Schurochka," says Khan, and the white-haired man stands from his seat to stare at my eyes, too. I try not to let a hard blush show, but it is sneaking up my neck, and I cannot stop it.

"It will not be passed on." Raoul finally speaks, and his voice is clipped and cold. "Brown will be the color of their eyes."

"Yes, I'm sure," says Khan distractedly. "Yet, even so…it is most unusual…distinctive, if you will."

"Speaking of this," says Schurochka, looking at Raoul, "how much longer will it be?"

"Not much," says Raoul at once. "She hasn't been here long, but I am hopeful. " His tone suggests that there is nothing more to discuss. He addresses me. "Christine, you are excused."

I thank him and hurry back to my room, trying not to think too much of what they discussed. Finally, I am able to close the door and take off my stuffy dress. Subconsciously, I glance at my stomach, as if expecting to see a large bump. But it is still flat and unoccupied. Somewhere in my head and heart, I am secretly thankful.