I stare at the comforting blackness all around me. Darkness and the sounds of these vaults are my friends. Rats scuttling, water dripping; these comfort me. I can think when I am here.

When I first sit down I am beside myself. I do not know what Christine means by what she has said, but she is displeased with me, and this is enough to send me into irrational flights of fancy. I must calm myself or I'll never make sense of her outburst.

I make so many false starts. Just when I think I've settled enough to review the events of the evening calmly, I think of how happy Christine has been these past weeks. Then I hear her shouting 'Why must you always spoil everything?' and I feel sick all over again.

She's right; I'm a monster. I've been a selfish beast, expecting the poor child to accommodate my every whim. As if she should bear the burden of my animal nature and compensate me for decades of loneliness with the sacrifice of her precious flesh.

I've been unable to see it. I search my soul mercilessly; if it happens that I am blinded by brutish lust, I will lie down right here and die of shame. But when I examine the depths of my heart, I see love there, not carnal lust. It's true Christine has suffered and I have been blind, just the same, but I know that it is out of love that I plead for so much of her.

I am not by nature a moderate man; I recognize this. Whatever I feel or do, I feel and do with tremendous ferocity. Christine must have been in hell on our wedding trip, trying to be a good wife to me while I pawed at her endlessly. Then blessed relief for those few weeks. No wonder she lashed out as she did, terrified that her ordeal would begin again. I must find a way to learn moderation.

I weep again; I had thought there were no more tears in me. When I am dry, I realize I cannot delay any longer. If I do not return soon, Christine will panic. I have no idea what I will say to her, and I am so ashamed I don't know how I will face her, let alone speak a word.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine is reading when I arrive home. She rises when she sees me, twirling a handkerchief between her fingers. It seems she cannot bear to look at me. Well, I can hardly blame her for that. All the words I've rehearsed as I walked home vanish from my mind.

I fall at Christine's feet. Kissing the hem of her dress, I swear that I will never lay hands on her again if only she will forgive me and love me. Presently I feel her hands on my back, soothing me as if I was a child. She leads me to bed and tucks me in with a glass of wine.

"Sleep, Erik; you were walking those corridors all night, weren't you? Sleep."

"Don't leave me, Christine; please give me a chance. I will change; I will do anything you ask."

"I will be here when you wake up," she promises me.

-0-0-0-0-

She is there, reading again. Immediately, I set to work on supper. I am still uneasy about meeting her eyes; afraid I may not find love in them. We eat in relative silence. Christine compliments me on the meal; she seems to be trying to put me at ease. After supper, she takes my hand and makes me sit with her.

"We are married in the Church, Erik." I think she means to comfort me by saying this. "I went to confession this morning," she continues. "Anger is one of the seven deadly sins. The priest says I must learn to respect you."

The words fall out of me in a jumble, like potatoes from a barrel. "I'm sorry; I know I've mistreated you, Christine. I didn't realize until you said, but I swear to you I didn't mean it. I would never hurt you! I love you, Christine, I don't know how to love you properly, but I can learn. You can show me."

Her eyes are soft. She touches my temple, just where the mask meets the hairline. My dead flesh warms under her fingertips.

"I don't want to cry anymore," I confess.

"Don't cry."

-0-0-0-0-

We lie in bed staring at the ceiling, not touching.

"You may touch me, Erik," she whispers. She reaches for my hand under the covers.

"Christine, you said–"

"I'm your wife," she interrupts. "The Church--"

"It doesn't matter what the church has to say about it, Christine; I don't want to do anything you don't want. Honestly, I never did want to."

"What would you do? If I said…" She sounds frightened.

I would ache for you every moment. "I would respect your wishes, Christine; what else could I do?"

She is silent for a long time; perhaps ten minutes. Finally, she murmurs "Good night, Erik."

"Good night, Christine. I love you."

She drops off to sleep with her hand in mine.