When I return home, Christine is nowhere to be found. I shove a bit of bread and cheese into my pocket and take a quick slug of wine before I head out to search the corridors for her. I am accustomed to the normal sounds in my caverns, so it does not take long before I hear her whimpering. I render another bit of thanks to god that she didn't come to grief in any of my traps. I shall have to scold her about that sufficiently to frighten her.

"Christine!"

"ERIK! ERIK! Oh, please! I'm–I don't know, I don't know where I am!" she wails.

"I know where you are, Christine," I sing. "I'm coming; wait for me, Angel. I am almost there now. Just another minute and Christine is found; Christine is safe. Here I am, my love." I kneel to help her to her feet. "Christine, good god, you're cold as the grave," I worry.

She throws herself against me and nearly knocks me from my feet. "Erik, Erik," she burrows into my neck. "Where were you? Don't leave me anymore, you mustn't leave me here!"

"Wait, child, let me get my coat around you," I murmur. I wrap her up and carry her home. Even my humming to calm her has little effect. Ironically, the best thing to do to warm her is run a hot bath and bring her a mug of mulled wine.

"Erik, your leg!" she cries. "What have you done?"

"Well, I had a bit of a swordfight, Angel; it's not much of a slice, really," I fib.

"But–who–"

"I went to fetch your clothing, and your friend was not inclined to give it up."

"Raoul!" she gasps. Again. "Is he–"

"He has a minor cut to his forehead, Christine. Of the two, your husband is much the worse for wear, I assure you." I snap. When I see how crestfallen she becomes, I regret the irritable moment. "Here, hop in the bath, little wife; I'll heat you some wine. I hope you haven't caught a chill."

I put the wine on to simmer with some spices; no lemons or oranges around, and I adore her, but I'm damned if I'm going up for fruit. Using a wet towel and blasphemy, I peel the crusty trousers from my wound, opening it again. I have to sew myself up; it is deep and about five inches long. As I stitch, I nurse fantasies of sewing his insolent mouth shut…or those dreamy eyes stitched closed forever. Ahhh…all finished. I slip into fresh trousers and shrug a shirt on. Christine has nothing to wear, really: I grab another shirt for her. I will go upstairs directly and get her some clothing, just enough that she can go out decently for herself. That bastard; if I think on this my blood will boil.

"Here you are, Angel." She is hiding, big eyed, in a mountain of fragrant foam; the hand peeks out to accept the wine. "I brought you a shirt of mine. I am afraid it will have to do until I can get you enough clothing so that you can go and shop for yourself. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. Thank you."

"Christine, you mustn't wander in the caverns, Darling. It is extremely dangerous for someone who doesn't know her way. I will show you a quick, safe way out, but where did you think you were going?"

Like a naughty child, she thrusts her lip out. "I don't know! What could I do? I waited, I called for you everywhere! I was hungry, and cold, and naked; I had to get out!" She dissolved into tears again. "Never leave me, Erik! Never leave me!"

I kneel beside the tub. She checks her bubble coverage anxiously.

"Christine, surely you have more faith in me than that!"

She falls silent and turns pale. "Why did you go after my clothes anyway? You want me to go, don't you, after…"

"I don't want you to go."

Nonplussed, she shakes her head. "But after you found out that I–"

"I do not doubt your virtue, my Angel. I understand that you were fond of him; you were alone, lonely. He pressed his advantage; it's not your fault. You're a good girl," I smile.

"He didn't press his advantage–"

"Of course he did, Christine. He kissed you? Touched you perhaps?"

She flushes. "No. He kissed me, but he didn't do anything bad, and anyway if he did, I wanted him to!" She ends defiantly.

"It's alright, Christine, I tell you it's alright. I understand how you may have …made the mistake and said what you did last night. I can't say I wasn't taken aback, and I…hope it will not happen again…but I love you; nothing is changed."

She leaps up out of the bubbles angrily, nudity be damned, and splashes from the tub. Wrapping a towel around her dripping self, she glares at me. "NO! How can nothing be changed? How can you keep me?"

Suddenly my head begins to ache. I don't feel very well. What is she asking? "Christine…I don't understand this. What is it you want me to say? I do not blame you for what you said, or for what may have passed between you and your young suitor. I love you…do you want me to be cross with you about it? Why?"

"You said you loved me before and you let me go! Why won't you let me go?" she demands.

My mouth is so dry that I can barely speak. There must be some mistake. "Let you go? But you don't--I'm not feeling too well," I confess weakly. "I'm going to sit down."

She follows me, hovering as I stretch out. My hands are shaking again. "Erik? What is it? You aren't ill?"

"No…" I close my eyes, trying to be still. Christine takes my hand in hers and I want to weep; god help me, please, for once.

"You're not feverish…I hope it isn't your wound. Will you let me see?" she worries. Before I find the words to refuse her, she has slipped my trousers half off and her hands are on my thigh. There is no mistake; she does care for me. She is worried, she wants to comfort me. She loves me. She is young and confused, and I know perfectly who to blame, but she loves me: this I know. "You bled a great deal, didn't you? Oh, Erik!" she cries, dismayed.

"Christine," I sigh. I want her; in a moment she'll know it, no point in pretending otherwise. As I draw her down beside me, her towel falls away, useless. I remove my mask, making no attempt to hide the hunger in my gaze from her. "Christine, you're a goddess, I swear it."

"Erik, no," she whines.

"Yes. Yes. I hurt, Christine; make it better." I guide her hand someplace. "Touch me," I whisper. "No one has ever touched me, Christine; but you, you shall touch me…you do love your little husband, don't you?" I work her hand up and down my shaft. She whimpers and wants to shrink from it, but I press her down with kisses.

"Erik, don't. I don't want to touch it!"

"Don't be cross with your loving husband, Christine. You would be most unhappy if I were to tell you that I don't want to touch this…" I illustrate my point. She is being contrary in the extreme.

"I wouldn't; I don't want you to touch me!" she insists.

"That's not what you said last night," I remind her, flicking her earlobe with my tongue. "Christine, be my wife. I want you, darling."

"No, no; no more. Please, be my Strange Angel again," she begs, wriggling infuriatingly as I move to take her. "I want my Angel, not this!"

"I am no angel, Christine," I protest. "It is a man you married."

She begins to warm to my touch, if reluctantly. Out of hours, we shall have to address this. It must be difficult for a woman to suddenly believe that the very thing she must never do is now not only acceptable, but desirable, all because of a few words being pronounced.

"Shall I sing to you, Darling? Is it better if Erik sings to Christine?" I don't want to send her into a reverie every time I touch her, but if it is so very difficult for her in these first weeks, I will sing to her. I cannot torture her, but neither can I accept her refusal anymore. She is my drug. Having her all to myself has rendered my obsession with her even more complete.

"No," she replies softly. "I must learn…." She tries to relax like a good girl.

I renew my caresses. "Yes…and the learning shall not be so tedious, I promise you," I murmur. Each time she begins to enjoy my touch, I feel her tense and refuse the pleasure. Her body belies her chilly response; my finger slides inside her easily.

Immediately she protests the invasion. "Don't do that! OH!" She gasps and sighs, even as she tries to push me away.

"Hush, silly girl," I scold. "You tell me no, even as you open yourself." I kiss her once, twice; by the third she admits her need to herself. "Here, Christine," I make her touch me again. "Guide your husband inside. Show me."

Her eyes search for permission to disobey, but my gaze, full of love though it is, tells her that it is past the time for refusals. She draws me to the door of the sanctuary and bites her lip as I glide fully home.

"You see, it's well that you like it," I reassure her. She nods shyly; perhaps she'll cry again. "There's no shame here, do you see?"

"Yes. I see now," she admits. She offers her throat up for kisses, fingers in my hair. "I see," she shudders and wraps her legs around me. She admits the feelings our bodies conjure and this time when she cries out, it is for me. Further inflamed by my name on her lips, I love her violently, but she cries again and matches my passion–no. No, she urges me on, dares me to use her harder. Is it heaven when she loves me as I love her? I shudder and collapse, mindless. "Christine…" I roll away, fearful of my weight on my dearest bride. She won't release me, won't stop kissing me.

"But what about Raoul? I love Raoul," she frets tearfully.

"No, you don't. You don't love him, Christine," I pant. "Don't say it again, as you live and I love you." I'm too spent to demonstrate my anger.

She weeps even as she kisses me. "It was Raoul I was meant to marry."

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO SAY IT AGAIN! GET AWAY FROM ME! STAY ALONE UNTIL YOU LEARN RESPECT FOR YOUR HUSBAND!"

She runs to the bath. My wound has stiffened my whole leg, and it slows me, or I would have had her. As it is, she's slammed and locked the door several beats before I arrive. I throw myself against it, kick at it. The wood splits and splinters, slowly giving way. With each shuddering crack, Christine shrieks and weeps within.

"DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU!" Finally the door is broken and Christine cowers naked in the far corner. Her eyes reflect the figure of a madman back to me, and I run from her…