Small house though it was, Christine succeeded in avoiding me for nearly three days after our argument. It was always a bad time, or we were not alone, or Masson needed seeing to. Finally I managed to waylay her in the corridor outside our former bedroom. I caught her by the arm as she prepared to breeze past me. She snatched it out of my grasp violently.

"Christine, we must talk," I insisted.

"There is nothing to talk about until you've seen the bishop." Her eyes were cold.

"But we can't behave this way."

She considered; nodded. "You're right."

I exhaled deeply, relieved.

But then she continued. "I'll have to find someplace else." Her face darkened; she raised her hand to her furrowed brow. "I wonder how much it costs to let a flat," she sighed.

"No, Christine, you can't leave!"

"Well, I can't stay here. Reza is your friend, I can't deprive him of your company," she declared flatly. I honestly had no idea if she was pretending to misunderstand to hurt me, or if she genuinely thought I was discussing physical living arrangements.

"You can't shut me out; Masson needs us both. He needs a father," I urged.

"I didn't say he wouldn't have a father," she replied flatly. "It doesn't have to be you."

"What? What are you saying? He knows me! We love each other."

"Mm." She agreed as if what I'd said had no bearing on anything. I felt as if I was in a foreign land where I could not understand the street signs.

"You'd take my son away from me? You would do that?"

This infuriated her. "Oh, I see; very nice! All you're worried about is your precious son!" she spat.

Rage bubbled in my guts and prickled up and down my spine. "Christine, if you would consider carefully, I'm sure you would realize that I've been worried about you since you were in books. That's a most obtuse thing to say." I said this in as controlled a way as I could.

"Oh, I'm obtuse now?" she flared.

"No, for heaven's sake, are you determined to take absolutely everything I say as cause to fight? Christine, please, come to the clerk's office with me; let's have the civil ceremony, as a show of my good faith."

She began to cry. "I want to go to heaven, Erik!"

What struck me at that moment was how incredibly compartmentalized Christine's brain was. That day long ago in my lair, she had told me that I had a way to make things alright in my own mind...yes? Suddenly she had to be married in the church; her immortal salvation depended upon my telling the bishop that Masson was my son. What? My cranium was about to explode.

"Christine, for Christ's sake, you've been living in adultery for—"

"But I don't want it to be like that! I want to be properly married and be forgiven!" she wailed. "That's the difference between you and me; I want to be good!"

I recoiled from her words as though she'd slapped me. I stared at her stupidly, open-mouthed and stunned. I had no physical sensation of myself anymore; I was floating, incorporeal.

"You really do think I'm a monster after all," I murmured. I drifted away from her, an opera ghost once again.

"Erik, I'm quite sure she didn't mean it the way it sounded," Reza protested. "How could she have been with you all this time if she really felt that way?"

"I have no idea, Reza. If we were talking about a man, what you say would make sense. MEN make sense, but women? Goddammit, this has been a mistake from the beginning," I wagged my finger at him, nodding. "I knew it, too. Somewhere deep down there was a little voice saying DON'T DO IT ERIK! Did I listen? No. Am I an idiot? Yes."

The pendulum of my mind had been swinging wildly between abject grief and blind fury ever since I'd left Christine in the hallway hours before. When I was grieving, I sided with Reza that there had to be some other explanation; I just couldn't believe it. But when I was angry…the urge to do violence was so strong I had to grip the arms of my chair, lest I rush from the house and go on a rampage.

"Well, I am holding the thought that once you two have a bit of time to cool off, you'll be able to talk things through. I'm praying for it."

"We have to talk things through somehow. I don't intend to lose my son; I can't lose my son."

Reza sat with me in companionable silence while I cried.

Several days later, I paced in the front hall while Reza waited in the carriage to take us to Darius' wedding. Nothing. More nothing. I stuck my head out the door and gave Reza a sign to wait just another moment. I took the stairs two at a time and threw the bedroom door open.

They were sitting on the bed, playing, and neither one in fine clothes.

"What the devil are you doing? We're going to be late for the wedding!"

"We're not going to the wedding. They're your friends," she said pointedly. Instantly, I was furious.

"Darius will be hurt if you're not there. I am not going to let you ruin his day." I tore her closet door open, dug through for a suitable dress. I found a lavender and lace floral that would do. I threw it onto the bed and appraised the condition of her hair. "Put that on. Your hair looks alright."

"I told you—"

"You can dress yourself, or I can help you, Darling," I threatened through clenched teeth.

Fortunately, she realized that I was serious. I dressed Masson and we were off in about ten minutes. I seethed the entire way in the carriage. Masson bounced with excitement.

Anci looked very pretty, if overwhelmed. Darius was positively glowing with pride. I was so very happy for them. While she put on a good show for the couple and the other guests, Christine availed herself of the opportunity to glare at me at every turn.

It was a traditional Persian celebration; it seemed every Persian in Paris was there. There was limitless fabulous food, the intoxicating rhythms of Eastern music, and comely entertainment. Masson was transfixed by the dancing girls.

"Papa, look," he whispered, awestruck.

"Yes, I see."

"Pretty, I fell in love with her." He said this about each performer in turn, but he was especially fond of the 'red sparkly one'.

My son was the hit of the party; everyone was amazed at the darling, articulate angel child with the beautiful curls. I found a marvelous way to infuriate Christine. I picked him up and carried him around, introducing him to everyone. On their break, all five of the dancers ringed around Masson and me, giggling and cooing. They passed him around like a chubby bottle of wine; pinching his cheeks, hugging and kissing him. He smiled and was his most charming self, resting his fat baby paws on their bejeweled bosoms. I was absolutely positive he knew what he was doing. Christine seethed from across the room; silly girl. The dancers were not there for me—but it was an interesting lesson. Babies make excellent bait.

I remained in a foul mood; Christine and I spoke as little as possible. After some days of this, I noticed Masson becoming weepier and more clingy; if he lost sight of Christine the kitty he went hysterical; he did not venture so far away when we took our walks, and he was demanding twenty-four hour access to Christine's breasts again. No matter how careful we were, trying to pretend all was well, our son was not fooled. He sensed it was not right with Mama and Papa.

"Christine, do you see how this is affecting him?" I murmured in passing when we'd returned from the park one day.

"You don't know that's what it is; perhaps he's teething again."

"No, you're wrong. I do know what it is, it's us!" I argued.

"You're an expert on children now?" she smirked.

"No; but I know him, and so do you. You know he's upset; you just can't bring yourself to agree with me."

"Once again, it's all about Masson," she sighed. "Well, since he's the center of the universe, let me get him his bath."