Either Erik or Christine needs to make a compromise soon. This much tension isn't good for anyone.

I didn't mean for this to be so long, but oh well!

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The sky was dense with clouds, as it had been yesterday. That should have given the world a melancholy veil, but I found it more peaceful than sad. The sea was subdued, with gentle, rolling waves, as if trying its best not to disturb anyone, just like the sun hardly daring to peek out from behind the clouds. The vastness of the waters beyond made my heart flood with sentiment.

I was barefoot in the sand, letting it glide between my toes. I had thought Erik might think it indecent, in one of his odd ways, but he wore a soft, contented expression, just as I did. This was likely only because I did.

The water was cold once it crept up to me, but quite bearable. I shut my eyes and drank it all in, the salty scent and the hum of the tide.

"My scarf!"

"I'll get it, mademoiselle!"

"Christine?"

I opened my eyes. "Sorry, I was thinking."

He hesitated for a moment, as if seeking some means of conversation.

"There's sand in my shoes," he said.

I stared at his serious expression for a moment, then burst into laughter. He stared at me in confusion, his forehead taut.

"Was that amusing to you?" he asked. "My misfortune?"

"Oh, no no no, it was- I don't know what! How you said it, I think." My eyes were beginning to water, but I calmed quickly. "I would never laugh at your misfortune... Why don't you take off your shoes with me, though?"

"It's cold."

"Come on, it's not so bad. Take them off with me. The sand feels lovely-"

"I don't like sand," he replied, his jaw tightening.

"Then feel the water."

"I already said, it's cold."

"Please, Erik. I promise it will be relaxing. It doesn't bite."

He sighed. His features were hard, as if he was forcing himself not to acquiesce. Then, in a moment of decision, he slid his shoes and socks off.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked.

"Are you?" I said, smiling faintly.

He was silent for a moment, pensive. He stared out at the waves.

"There is a soothing aspect to it," he told me. "Especially since the sand is cool, not hot."

"I think the sea is better when it's cool like this. I prefer to look and touch the edge rather than delve into it... Come close to the water with me."

He took a step forward, letting the tide reach the tip of his toes. Then he took another step so as to be next to me. The water lapped up to our feet, then withdrew in an endless cycle.

"I love the sea," I sighed. "Especially the cool sea. Not in the summer, but in the spring. I love how the sand creeps between my toes, and how the water washes it away... It's so beautiful, isn't it?"

"I think we'll be coming here quite often, then," he replied, then he glanced around. He often did that, and I suspected he was seeing if any young men were watching me. I kept my eyes forward.

He grabbed my hand. I jerked away instinctively before settling.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "I only want to hold my wife's hand. Is that wrong?"

"No, but your grip is tight."

It loosened the moment I had said this. He stared forward to the horizon. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, bathing the sand in its glow and reflecting upon the waves. It hid a mere moment after, as if wary of disturbing our calm quiet.

"I wish we could come here every day," I told him.

"Perhaps not every day," he replied, adjusting his grip on my hand, "but quite often, I agree."

"Thank you."

He smiled faintly.

This morning visit to the sea, followed by lunch at a café, indeed became our habit. He was quick to latch onto anything that brought me happiness without sacrificing any of his own, and this was certainly a perfect means for that. I knew he was also delighted by how I prettied myself up whenever we went out, so he could be seen as an equal by other men. A beautiful wife is a sign of status, after all, in a sense. If not that, it meant many more things, all ones Erik must have been happy to receive for the first time in his life. It meant he was wanted. It meant he was happy and could make another happy as well. The stares were never directed at him, but at me, in my fine clothes and hat, with a parasol on sunny days. I felt like some sort of trinket he carried around. I wasn't allowed to speak to anyone but him, and I was dutiful with this, as I didn't want these times snatched away from me. They were far better than being trapped inside a house already filled with awful memories, though I would take that over being beneath the opera house again in a heartbeat.

To my growing dismay, there was a young man who often frequented the beach, just like us. He had sandy hair and blue eyes, and he stood just below Erik's height, with a lean build. The only reason I even knew what he looked like was because Erik eyed him often enough for me to notice. The young man liked to glance at me from time to time, especially when he thought Erik's back was turned, which it never was, not to a man that looked the slightest bit similar to Raoul.

It was beginning to irk me. Erik insisted on me standing close to him, holding his hand, speaking to him, but acted as if I didn't know why he was behaving in such a fashion. He started avoiding that beach, preferring others, but they were rockier and far less pleasant to stand upon. I complained and pestered enough that we returned to the old spot. Alas, there was the young man again. He even waved at me this time, for some odd reason. Perhaps he thought me someone else? Or there was someone behind us whom he knew?

Erik turned us back immediately. My resolve to not be difficult with him had reached a breaking point, and I snapped the moment we had entered the brougham.

"What do you think I'm going to do with that man?" I demanded, my chest hot with indignation. "I'm a married woman! On my husband's arm!"

"I don't want him looking at you," he retorted, "or you at him. Is that an unreasonable request?"

"When you buy me such pretty things to wear and show me off-"

"I do no such thing-"

"Oh yes you do, that's all I am to you when we're out! At home, I'm your wife, but the moment I step foot outside the house with you, I'm nothing more than a shiny bauble on your arm!"

He grabbed my arms and shook me till my eyeballs rattled in my sockets, shouting, "Be quiet!" in a way that I was too afraid to reply to.

I had evidently hit a nerve. He released me and turned away, and I hoped this was because he was ashamed of his outburst. I remained silent for some time, watching him fume at the window. I waited for the fire to dim in his eyes before I touched his shoulder, gingerly.

"What, my dear?" he sighed, his voice low and weary.

"I'm just confused about it all," I replied, keeping my voice soft and reasonable. "If you don't want people to stare at me, then why not keep me plain and have me wear my prettiest things at home?"

He shook his head. "You don't understand."

"What don't I understand?"

"What you mean."

"To you?"

"No- yes, but no. To them."

"That they see you as... normal?"

"No," he said, chuckling at me. "No, they see me as above them. They think highly of me the moment they see you. People are so easily bought."

"So I am just a bauble?"

"Don't you ever say that again," he said dangerously. "Baubles do not sing or keep a bright soul inside them, do they? A man doesn't devote himself to a bauble... And moreover, I don't treat you like that."

"But I feel like that," I told him. Then I added, "In public, that is."

"What you feel is not the truth, though."

"That may be, but... well, can't I speak to someone besides you? A simple 'hello, how are you?' should the opportunity arise?"

"They aren't worth the dirt under your shoes, and they do not deserve to hear your crystal voice."

"And you do?"

"I'm married to you, so I have the right to anything I please."

"Do I not have the right to speak freely, then, if I am worth so much?"

"In my company, certainly... so long as there are certain unmentionables."

"You frustrate me so!" I said in dismay. "You don't listen to a word I say. But I'll stop beating around the bush. Do you or do you not keep me silent because you want to keep me all to yourself, voice and all?"

He stared at me for a moment, and his gaze made me shiver. "Yes," he answered softly. "I want all of you for myself. If I could keep you locked away from the world, I would."

"Why... don't you?" I whispered, unable to comprehend if I was relieved by his awareness, or frightened by it.

"You wouldn't be happy. I've told you before, you're not made to be cooped up. I can still remember how restless you were beneath the opera house, with your leg holding you down like a ball and chain."

"It was misery when I think back on it... It almost feels like a dream, though, like it never happened."

He glanced out the window. "I'm going to tell you now rather than later that we will remain home this week."

I had hardly recovered from my earlier hurt and now he added this.

"But-" I said miserably.

"No. I've spoken to you about your habit of saying 'but-' as if that will change my mind. I make decisions and keep to them."

I shook my head at him. "You contradict yourself far too often. One moment you say you want me to be happy-"

"Would you cease arguing?" he demanded irritably. "I may adore it in small doses, but no more now."

I turned towards my window, shifting as far away from him as possible. After a moment of me trying to keep from crying from being treated and spoken to in such a fashion, Erik reached out for my hand. I pulled it away from his grasp, clutching it to my chest with my other. Did he not realize how upset I was? Why would I ever let him touch me now?

"Christine," he warned.

"I'll scream if you touch me again," I replied, my voice faltering. "I will."

"I can touch you as I please."

"Then I have the right to react as I please."

"You won't scream."

"You never listen to me when I speak, so perhaps I must use a language that you will understand."

He reached out again, daring me to react. I found that I couldn't cry out, though. It was too drastic of a reaction for the circumstance. I simply huddled around myself, keeping my hands against my chest, not even offering him my gaze. Through my arms, I saw his fist clench just before reaching me. It trembled, then relaxed and retreated.

Had I won? I peeked out of my arms, preparing to curl myself up again, but I found him by the window, leaning against it and turned away from me. His breaths caught with tears. I swallowed, hesitant to engage him now, so I waited. I listened to his quiet sobs and watched his back trembling with the weight of them. My anger began to run dry.

"E-Erik?" I whispered, after quite a while of hesitation.

"I only wanted to touch you," he said. "Is that truly so difficult for you to accept?"

"No... no, I'm fine with you touching me. But I was upset, so I didn't want you to, then."

"And now?"

"I'm... better," I told him, though I still couldn't bear the thought of him touching me. It burned my skin to think of.

"Then now, I may, I assume?"

"Erik, I just don't-"

"I asked, didn't I?" he demanded, rounding on me. The crying, vulnerable man vanished. "You accuse me of contradiction, while you promised I could always touch you if I asked."

"But I don't want you to."

"Why not? Give me one good reason why I can't touch you."

"That is my reason!" I exclaimed. "You would make me do things I don't want to do? That make me uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable? It's your hand! You're my wife!"

"But Erik, I don't want to!" I pleaded. "Why won't you let me be? If you love me, you wouldn't force me to do things I don't want to do."

"Give me your hand," he commanded, his voice low and cold.

I averted my eyes.

"Christine."

He grabbed my hand and I burst into tears. He retreated immediately, and I could see the regret in his eyes from pushing me so far, the realization that this wasn't right. Through my blurry vision I could see even shame burning within him.

"I..." he faltered. "I understand now. Don't cry, my dear, I won't touch you... When we get home, I want you to rest for a while. I fear you may not be well."

If that was the excuse he needed as an explanation, I accepted it gladly. He didn't speak to me at all as we exited the brougham, and I shuffled upstairs to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I wished it had a lock. Perhaps I could ask him for a simple bolt for it? Just for privacy? He could break that down quite easily if needed, so he might just acquiesce. I needed to be careful with him, though, present the matter gently. Accusing him never got me anywhere.

I sat down on my bed. He had bought a new mattress and bedsheets weeks ago to help me rid myself of that awful night, even though it did not exist now. He couldn't bear to think about it, so poof! there the memory went, and he expected me to behave accordingly. But I would live with the touch of him upon me for the rest of my life, and the lingering terror of what had happened after. I often had nightmares that he was drowning me or pulling a noose right about my neck, though I always woke from them with a start. Oddly enough, he never violated me in dreams. He only tried to kill me.

I removed my shoes, still leaking sand, then my dress and bustle. I sank onto the bed in my chemise. The blankets were warm and soft, and I wanted to be away from Erik for a time, surrounded by darkness or dreams. Figaro chirped at intervals to disturb my slumber, but I didn't mind it. The sound was cheery.

Erik was such a pitiful man, I found myself thinking as my consciousness unraveled. Such a poor, pitiful man, who thinks he must cling to power at the expense of others, and receives joy from their envy. Poor Erik who thinks he has to keep me all to himself because I'm all he has ever had, and doesn't know how to make me love him. Poor Erik, who thinks he must assert his authority over me whenever I offer the slightest threat to it. What never being loved or feeling safe does to a person...

When I woke from my restless nap, the light was fading from my room. The sun dipped behind the houses and trees in the distance.

There was a pounding in my forehead, right along my left eyebrow. I rubbed it desperately as I went to feed Figaro. He cocked his head and chirped excitedly as my hand entered his cage. If only I could be so happy from a handful of seed.

The only reason I went downstairs afterward was to get rid of my headache. I had no desire to see Erik again for the rest of the day. I found myself still fatigued as well, regardless of my nap. Perhaps I was catching a cold.

"Erik?" I called from the staircase.

He emerged from the dining room. "Yes, my dear? How did you sleep?"

"Well. But I have an awful headache for some reason."

He beckoned me to sit down at the table, and said he would prepare me something. I continued kneading my forehead.

He returned rather quickly with a tonic for me in a glass. It had a rosy color to it. I downed it eagerly. There was a sweet taste to it amid the herbal notes.

"Are you hungry for dinner?" he asked.

"I'm not," I replied. "Maybe when my headache goes away..."

"Do you think you're falling ill?"

"Maybe... I'm a bit weak."

"Maybe..." he whispered. "Go get some rest, then. Perhaps it will go away tonight and you'll feel better tomorrow."

I nodded, sitting up from my chair. The room swam in my vision for a moment, but I didn't let him know this. I shuffled back upstairs and shut the door to my bedroom.

"There must be bad days," I reminded myself bitterly, "or else there would be no good ones."

...

Erik kept his word about staying at home. I didn't ask him about it, hoping that perhaps he might make the decision on his own to return, as he would never obey my pestering. There was none of that, however; he had no desire to return to the beach, or anywhere else, for that matter.

I found myself wandering through the garden one morning, as I now frequented it instead of the sandy shore. The flowers had bloomed from the April rain. Honeysuckle had been planted on either side of the marble bench, though they had not budded yet. There was a hint of yellow on the bush, though, a hint.

I glanced at the black iron fence. It was a boundary I had never crossed without Erik at my side, but he had never explicitly told me I could not open the gate and walk out. A nice stroll around the neighborhood would do me good. Besides, the men would all be out working this time of day. There was no possibility of Erik's jealousy... and yet I ought to at least ask him rather than risk my fragile security.

That very moment, the front door opened. Erik wore his white mask, as I hadn't asked him to remove it yet, and he said he preferred it. I couldn't understand that, though. We had spent over a month beneath the opera house without it to separate us, then I had moved him to tears by removing it the first day here, and yet he had gone back to wearing it constantly. I likely would never understand how his mind worked.

He shut the door behind himself and came over to me. I stared forward, pretending to be preoccupied with something in the distance, then a bit of dirt on the hem of my dress. I was wearing the green one that day, the one with dragonflies embroidered on it.

"You remind me of a nymph out here," he told me. "Especially in that dress."

"My wild hair must not help, either," I replied dejectedly. "It wouldn't cooperate one bit... Has your inspiration run dry for the day?"

"For the morning... I think your hair is lovely like that, though."

"You always think I'm lovely."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. Not many women can say that of their husbands, who are often out in search of women more pleasing to the eye than the one they possess. If they knew their good fortune, they would treasure their wives for more than their appearance."

"You act like all men are shallow and unfaithful."

"And you presume to know more about men than I, a man?"

"Well, you presume to know more about women than I, a woman," I retorted, and I was glad of the opportunity to finally say it. "And you hardly have an optimistic view of human nature."

"Why should I?" he replied simply.

"Do I give you little hope in human nature?"

"Yes. The fact that you are the only kind person on this earth, in my experience, and even then, you are not a perfect angel... but you're the closest to one I've ever known."

We were silent for a moment, each pretending to stare at a clover bloom just beyond the bench. A bee was frolicking about mine, then it went along to the next.

"Sit down with me, won't you?" I asked, patting the spot beside me. "It's easier to talk that way."

He did so, quite happily, then clasped his hands in his lap. I reached to take one in mine, to his surprise. It was the first contact I had initiated since his outburst in the brougham.

"You say such wonderful things to me," I told him. "Such beautiful, wonderful things. I could write a book with all your fine compliments... but I only wish... I-I only wish you would treat me the same as the words you say."

"I do treat you like that," he replied immediately, as if he hadn't listened to much of what I had said. "Do you see this garden? The dress you're wearing? The house behind us?"

"That's not what I mean," I insisted, squeezing his hand to emphasize my words. "You're exactly right about material possessions. They're marvelous. Beautiful. I doubt anyone in their right mind would look at all of this and have any doubt that you loved me. And you do love me, but... I've said it before, it's not in the way I want."

"I don't want to discuss this again."

"Raoul didn't love me the way I wanted, either."

His eyes filled with fire. I hastened to continue.

"He treated me like a child almost, like I couldn't be trusted with certain things, like I needed constant supervision and protection. He also wanted a vicomtesse, but I was not that. I wanted to be myself with him again. He was the only person I could truly be myself to at first, but three months must change a person... I fear I am more myself to you than I ever was to him."

"Disregarding the fact that you mentioned that boy," he said, his voice as dangerous as his eyes. "Are you saying I am better to you than he was?"

It seemed that he would pounce on me if my reply was not to his liking.

I told him, "No, but you could be."

I braved myself for his response, but he only tilted his head in confusion.

"Could be?" he asked. "If I let you go frolicking about on your own, you mean?"

"That's not what I said-"

"That's what you meant. You won't cease with this 'freedom' idea, will you?"

"Erik, all I'm asking for is respect. Not freedom anymore, just respect. That means you don't clap a hand over my mouth when I threaten to scream, or treat me like a child."

"Then respect me," he said firmly. "Give me respect, and I will give you yours. I have authority that you refuse to acknowledge."

"I do respect you, but I won't abide you using fear behind your authority."

His fist clenched at his side. "Why do you do this? You're quiet for a few days, all polite and reserved, then you get this spark inside you where you won't be satisfied by anything and you pretend to make conversation when you only want to accuse me of not loving you!"

"You do love me, I know that-"

"But my way of showing it isn't acceptable to you!" he said, rising from the bench to tower over me. "Well, forgive me for not having a father who loved me and the adoration of all Paris! Perhaps I don't know how to love you, certainly not in the way you want, which you have failed to explain coherently, but you do not know the immense pain and joy you give me, and I know it is love of the deepest kind. Whether you like it or not, I do what I do because I love you more than you could ever know!"

He stormed back inside. I was left shaken, and I contemplated his words.

Perhaps I needed to give up. He never listened to me when I spoke about things of importance that he disagreed with. He would never come around on this subject. Why did I bother? Why did I seek out his anger? Besides, this place wasn't so terrible. He wasn't so terrible. I only wanted more than a half-decent life; I wanted an entirely decent life. My hopes had always been high, ever since I was a girl, and I couldn't fathom pulling them down now. One more chink, however, and I feared I might break for good.

As I stood up to continue going about the garden, I found myself lightheaded, and my stomach lurched. For a moment, I stared down at the grass and clover to collect myself. It had been weeks since I had miscarried. I had to have miscarried. My nausea has gone away, after all, and only now had returned. Perhaps I was falling ill again. That explained it.

What of my dresses, though? They had grown tighter about my waist- not unbearable, but tighter, certainly. There also seemed to be a firmness to my stomach and a soreness to my chest. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. I was seeing things, feeling things, that were not there. They couldn't be there.

I missed the surety of the sea.