Sorry about the wait, but I made it long for you guys! Captive in a Sanctuary should update this week when I get time to polish up the chapter, too.
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I began to seek out solitude. I did not ask to go places with Erik anymore, as I found it too tedious. There would be a handsome young man around, or he would insist on buying me an expensive something in an attempt to please me. It had begun to do the exact opposite, causing me great distress whenever I looked through my fine dresses and jewelry, considering all the children in Paris who could be fed from the same amount of money, all the clothes and medicine, and even all the sweets I could buy for little ballet girls practicing until their feet bled, things far more important than for me to wear. I had no need of them, nor did I want them. But Erik never listened to me, so there was no use even bringing up the subject. I suffered in silence.
My melancholy had begun to tear at the painted veil he wore over his eyes. He knew I wasn't happy, and would soon realize absolutely that I would not be happy if he did not make adjustments for me, rather than I for him. I only wanted a single agreement on his part for something I wanted, something that mattered. That day would come, though. He would see our marriage for what it was soon enough.
I wandered downstairs one afternoon, but only because I had heard Erik go into his room and shut the door. There was this melody inside me. It had tormented me all morning until its rhythms became my pulse. There was no accompaniment yet, or words, but the only way to add those was to get it out of me in some form. Obviously, this form was the piano.
Though I did not know how to play it, I knew the notes that corresponded with each key, and found the ones I required. All this music had welled up in my soul, and I expelled it now, without Erik breathing down my neck. I was alone with my music. But then I remembered, I was never alone now. I was two people. It frightened me to remember that something grew inside me. Perhaps the baby had even given me this inspiration.
A creak echoed down the stairs. I turned to find Erik halfway down, his lips parted and his head tilted in curiosity.
"Play that again," he requested.
I placed my hands in my lap. "I don't play for you."
"Then play for yourself, and I will listen."
My fingertips hovered over the keys for a moment, faltering. A part of me wanted him to hear, though. I wanted praise. I wanted criticism. There was no soul better fit for that than Erik. So I pressed the keys down, one note at a time, like a child at her first lesson. Erik's steps pursued me, and when I had finished, he was standing beside me, his features glowing around his mask.
"Let me play with you," he said.
"With me?" I asked, glancing over at him.
"You have the melody, I will add to it."
He sat down at my left, then motioned for me to begin. As he had been respectful of me thus far, I did so, careful to maintain the same tempo and rhythms as before. He waited a moment for me to settle in before following with chords, single notes, even pushing in phrasings he wished me to follow. I repeated my part endlessly before moving onward where my mind led. I was curious if Erik would pursue me there, too. Without hesitation, and without changing the effortless nature of his part, he did.
The music was exquisite. At first, I couldn't describe it. I simply felt. All sorts of emotions can be described in music, but in the best pieces, there are so many overlapping, like a real human heart, that there is no description to be had. It was a feeling. I could express myself more with this than with my own voice.
I ceased. My improvisation had reached its end. Erik turned to me, one of his hands still trembling on a chord.
"You know how to write music?" he asked, grabbing an empty score and a pen.
"I can't remember all we played, though," I replied.
"That is the curse of it."
He began to scratch out notes at a feverish pace, as if he was racing his memory of my piece. I observed silently, deciding to fiddle with my ring in the spare time. I had never asked him the story behind it, as I knew there must be some importance to the black jewel. We were not on good enough terms for that, however. Not anymore.
He set down the pen and presented the music to me, the fresh ink glossy in the light.
"There you are," he informed me, the corners of his lips upturned.
"Thank you..." I replied. "I'll need to write words now."
"That you will, and a fitting ending."
"Yes..." I sought out his gaze. "You liked it, then?"
"I wouldn't have encouraged you had I not," he replied simply. "I hope you will write more."
"You wrote it down, and provided most of the substance. I only had the melody."
"A melody is the most difficult thing to compose."
"Is that your opinion only?"
"Oh no. Most, I should think... perhaps not Mozart, but others."
"You told me. He wrote down the page, melody, chords, everything, all at once, right?"
"Exactly. But every other composer would say the melody is the most difficult, as it is the start of any piece. All the rest provides the underlying colors, as a melody on its own is rather muted..."
He noticed me spinning my wedding ring, as he glanced down at his, watching it glint in the sunlight.
"Have you ever been to a symphony?" he asked.
"I have not," I replied, glancing up towards my bedroom, as I knew our nice conversations were always short-lived.
"There is a famous one in Bordeaux, if you ever wanted to go."
I folded my hands in my lap. "I would like that very much."
He brightened behind his mask. "When?"
"I... I-I don't know. Do they have a schedule of what they're playing?"
"Yes, let me find it. I found a pamphlet the other day."
He rummaged around in his pile of music that occupied the armchair neither of us ever used. Upon finding what he sought, he handed it to me.
"There," he said, pointing to the dates. "We can attend this one- Beethoven's Ninth- if you are so inclined. Have you ever heard it?"
I stared at the sketches of instruments on the page. "No."
"Then that one it is."
"What's the other, though?"
"You want to see two?"
"If that's all right."
"Of course it is."
I glanced down at the list of pieces, then pointed to one a few weeks from now. "Saint-Saëns... He wrote Samson and Delilah, didn't he?"
"Yes. Danse Macabre, I assume?"
"Yes, and a cello concerto. I would quite like to see that."
"Then that, too. We can see one every month, if you so desire."
"That would be wonderful."
"But you will need a new dress for it."
I looked up from the pamphlet in confusion. "A new dress? What's wrong with the ones I have?"
"The only reason most women attend operas and symphonies are to show off their gowns and jewels," he said, surprised at my perceived ignorance. "You will be one of the very few there for the music itself, but I won't have you appearing in any less than they do. I'll find you something to match your necklace."
"Erik..." I bit my lip. "That's kind of you, but... well... I-I don't need another dress. I don't want another dress. I have too much as it is... I've been meaning to tell you, for some time, that it... well, it upsets me, all this luxury, when others have so little. They're all so lovely, though, and I appreciate them very much, I only... can't enjoy knowing the cost of them."
He was silent, pensive. I feared I might have upset him. He tapped his finger on the piano for a moment, then asked, "Does it make you feel guilt?"
"I... suppose so, yes, that the money is not going to more important things."
His expression softened. "Then I'll give the same amount of money I spend on your dress to a charity, if it will make you enjoy your dresses and jewels."
I stared at him in disbelief.
"Thank you," I told him. "Yes, that would help me feel better about it... Will you promise, though?"
"You don't trust me?"
"That's not what I said," I added hastily. "I would like a promise is all."
"Promise me that you won't ask any more favors concerning this, then."
"I promise."
"Then I do, too."
I glanced back at the pamphlet, then smiled to myself at the prospect of spending a day in such a wonderful place, perhaps once a month if it went well. Even if Erik critiqued every single note, it would be easy to drown him out with all that music. There was something special about the music we created together, but I liked hearing other music as well, other interpretations. And there was a glorious thing about all those instruments playing at once, creating one beautiful piece.
"You're so beautiful when your mind is filled with music," he said. "Your eyes light up."
"Like stars?" I offered, concealing my mockery.
"Just like stars..."
I stood up to put the pamphlet back. His footsteps pursued. Whenever he began to talk to me like that, about my beauty, and my voice, anything about me, where his tone grew dulcet, I knew he wanted to kiss me. I had only begrudgingly permitted ones on my forehead recently, to appease him, but he kept trying for more. He evidently thought I was in a good enough mood now for him to take a few affections.
"If I kiss you, will you leave me alone for a time?" I asked, trying desperately to keep my voice gentle.
He blinked in surprise that I had offered that, and he replied, "I leave you alone most of the day now... and so I will continue doing so."
I nodded, considering what exactly to give him. I preferred kissing him myself, as I never knew if he might try for my lips rather than my forehead, as our unspoken rule permitted. But now... oh, what was the harm in it? A quick one would appease him, and he had been so kind to me about the symphony.
He bent down to where I could reach his forehead. I placed a hand on the unmasked side of his face, and he shuddered in surprise. Then, before I could think too hard, I planted a swift kiss on his lips. He stood still as a statue, the whites of his eyes turning to marble.
"I'm going to go read now," I told him, heading upstairs before he could come back to himself.
I glanced back and he was running his hand over his lips, then he began to remove his mask. I hid at the top of the stairs, where he couldn't see me, observing quietly. His fingertips turned to claws on the white surface, and he glanced at the fireplace, which was empty, but his eyes reflected phantom flames.
"Erik?" I called.
He replaced the mask over his hard features. "What, my dear?" he said, unable to contain his excitement at being addressed by me.
"I don't like that mask either, you know."
He was silent for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"I would prefer you not to wear it."
He stared again into the empty fireplace, tapping the side of his leg restlessly. Then, in a moment of decision, he removed his mask and turned to me.
"Are you content?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, delighted by his agreeable mood. "Could you do something for me?"
"What?" He ran a hand over his deformity, his eyes clouded.
"Could you draw me a picture?"
His gaze cleared. "A picture? What of?"
"Anything. I have nothing on my walls, and I like your sketches, so I thought I could put one up, if you want."
"Do you mind if it's a picture of you?"
"With my bird, perhaps?"
"If he can stay still for a moment."
"He's quite content to sit on my shoulder."
"Then I will draw that."
He followed me upstairs, disappearing for a moment to retrieve a piece of paper and his pencils. I took Figaro out of his cage and set him upon my shoulder, where he sat contentedly for a second or two before going over to the other side of me.
"I don't need to see him yet," Erik told me. "I'll tell you when I do"
"What about me?"
"I can draw you from memory. I only require the bird for this."
His pencil began to scratch against the paper.
...
The new dress hung outside my closet, a deep blue satin with a neckline that plunged nearly to indecency. My necklace had to be on display, after all. There were black ribbons about the middle and the shoulders, and at the hem, black fabric peeked out from beneath the rich blue, which was lined, in turn, with dark lace. Erik had been beside himself with delight when I wore it for him the previous day. Tonight I would put it on again, and my hair would be high upon my head, curled into ringlets. In my ears and about my neck would be sapphire teardrops.
"Isn't it lovely?" I whispered to my child, running a hand over my abdomen. "I hope there might be some way to give you such lovely things, too, after all you'll have to endure."
Figaro twittered from his cage. I began to dress, and my mind wandered to thoughts of the evening. What if there were young men who stared? What would Erik do then? With hope, everyone else would be just as finely dressed as I, and I would go unnoticed. I only wanted to hear the music, not be fastened to Erik's arm and paraded about. It was difficult to tell what he would do with me at all. He could have another motivation about going to this as well, one I was unaware of.
"Christine?" he called, knocking on my door. "Are you getting dressed?"
"I am," I replied, adjusting the bustle before starting on the buttons.
"I have a gift for you before we leave."
I feigned excitement. "Oh? What sort of gift?"
"You can open it later and see."
"All right... I'll be done in half an hour, I think, but that depends on if my hair cooperates."
"I'll be waiting downstairs for you."
"Mmhm," I replied, smoothing down the fabric of my dress.
I was soon all prepared, and I found myself quite pleased with my appearance in the mirror. More than that, though, the prospect of a night filled with nothing but music was irresistible, even with Erik beside me.
I came downstairs to find him staring down at a pastel-blue box tied with a white ribbon. It was small, just a bit longer than my hand, and half as wide. He looked up at me, and his lips parted.
"You look wonderful," he said. "Even better than when you tried it on yesterday."
"Thank you," I replied, clasping my hands in front of me.
He glanced down at the box as if he had forgotten it was there. Then he extended it out to me. I took it with a smile, and pushed off the ribbon. Upon opening it, I found a thin bracelet studded with tiny diamonds.
"I'm already so covered in jewels, I fear," I told him.
"Nonsense," he replied, placing it on my wrist himself. "You can't have your arms bare, can you?"
"I suppose not... thank you."
He extended his arm for me to take, then we went out to the waiting brougham. The moment we were seated, he began to ramble on about the piece we were going to hear, both praising and criticizing the work. I hardly listened as I stared out the window at the vineyards stretching to the horizon.
"It'll be a little while more to Bordeaux," I said once he had quieted. "Do you want to play a game with me?"
His eyes narrowed in confusion. "A game?"
"Yes. I say the color of something I see, and you have to guess what it is. It can be inside or out. My father and I made it up to pass the time while we traveled... Do you want to play, or are you too proud?"
"I'll play," he said, glancing out the window absentmindedly.
"Then I see something... blue."
"The sky?"
"Yes, actually."
"Is it supposed to be that easy?"
"It depends on what you decide on. Now tell me."
He glanced at me, then out the window. "Blue."
"My dress?"
"No."
"My necklace?"
"No."
"Um..." I glanced outside. "Oh, the river."
"Yes."
The brougham jolted as we started over a bridge above the wide waters. The sun crept behind the clouds, turning the surface black as ink.
Erik and I continued in our little game, though it was not so amusing, and it made my heart ache. I missed home, all the homes I had had, all the people I had loved... I missed them more than words could express. Perhaps only music could express the weight of it within me.
"Red," Erik said.
"The seats," I replied monotonously.
"You don't seem to be as happy as you were before."
"I got to thinking is all..."
"About what, my love?"
"Too much."
"Be happy, won't you?" he asked, reaching for my hand. I permitted him to hold it. "You've been upset for too long over nothing."
"I suppose it is nothing..." I whispered. "Nothing at all for a woman to want to fulfill her own desires before another's..."
He glanced out the window, having not heard me.
"We're here," he said.
The brougham stopped moments after he had said this, and it deposited us at a nice little restaurant. We had fondue there, which I was hardly able to stomach, but the bread helped. I only dipped the edge in each time.
Once our meal was done, we went to the Grand Theatre, as it was called. It had less character than the Paris Opera, of course, but was lovely in its own respect. Erik murmured a few things about poor architecture, but was mostly silent as we went to our seats. We were at the edge of the center row. The stage was empty before us, though a few violins trickled in, then a bass, pursued by an oboe and a flute. They prepared their instruments in near-silence, and the dull hum of voices in the audience overpowered them.
"I'm excited for this," I told him.
"I should hope so," he replied, shifting in his seat.
More instruments poured onto the stage, their melodic hum overtaking the conversations in the audience. Then came members of the choir, as the piece required.
"I would have wanted you to sing with this piece," Erik said. "But the opportunity never arose."
"I'll likely be singing it all week, though."
"Yes. It does has a rather unforgettable melody, and a happy one, at that."
I nodded, thinking up another topic as more choir members came onstage.
"Didn't you tell me that Beethoven was deaf when he wrote this?" I said. "Imagine not being able to hear one's own music."
"Music is not hearing," he replied. "It is a feeling in one's soul. He still felt the vibrations of it, deep within himself, so he heard it, in his own right."
"What would you do, if you lost your sense of hearing?"
"Oh, I would kill myself."
He said this with such frankness, such surety, that it quite upset me.
"But you just said," I insisted, "the vibrations-"
"Your voice would be invisible to me. I couldn't live without your voice."
"You would honestly rather die?"
"I would. Perhaps that means I am not as strong as Beethoven, or perhaps not as weak as to cling to this world."
I stared down at my lap, into the layered deep-blues of my dress. He watched the stage, oblivious to my conflict. Was it ever better to die than live? Perhaps he was being dramatic, though, thinking it was romantic to say such things. I found it anything but.
The audience erupted in applause, and I followed, raising my head to see the conductor walking across the stage. I glanced at Erik to find him sitting with his hands still in his lap.
"Why don't you applaud?" I whispered.
"I will see if he is a decent conductor before praising him," he replied.
"But you could show some respect," I murmured, but he didn't hear it over the crowd.
The conductor's white baton rose, and with its fall, the piece began. Words could not express the wonder of hearing such a masterpiece performed before my eyes and ears. The music brought me through a thousand emotions, pulling at my heart. I could feel it aching in my chest. There were many times when a cold chill ran down my spine, especially at the introduction of a new melody. I longed for these instances. I longed for all of it, from the cries of the violin to the pounding timpani, and everything in between. How wonderful it was to see it all brought together in such perfect balance! How could Erik see any fault in this?
When it was over, I had to catch my breath. I beamed over at Erik, delighted by the whole of it, and found his lopsided lips in a firm line, obviously unimpressed.
"That was so beautiful," I whispered in awe.
He turned to me, and his mouth softened. "Good."
The return home was quiet. My eyelids grew heavier by the minute, until I found my head on Erik's knee and my body curled up beneath his cloak. His hand wove through my hair, but I was too tired to notice. My head was still buzzing with all the music that had filled it. I hoped the sound would never fade.
"Could you take the pins out of my hair?" I whispered. "They're trying to pierce my skull."
"Of course," he replied. "I thought you were asleep."
I mumbled something in reply, shutting my eyes as I wrapped his cloak tighter about myself. The necklace was quite uncomfortable as well, but that was too valuable to remove. My thoughts drifted away as I sank back into the place between consciousness.
"We're home," Erik whispered to me.
I sat up. He helped me out of the brougham, as I was still bleary-eyed. He brought me into the drawing room before going to hang up his cloak. I sat down on the sofa and rested my head on the side of it, my body leaden with fatigue.
"Who knew listening to music could exhaust you so," he said, taking advantage of it to run his hand through my curls again.
"I never stay up this late... a-anymore," I yawned. "You make me go to bed so early."
"I don't make you."
"You suggest it, though..." I willed myself to stand. "Goodnight, Erik... thank you for taking me to see the symphony. It was wonderful."
He caught and kissed my hand. I smiled nervously, too tired to be upset by his affections, then I headed up to my room. Figaro was asleep on his swing, but gave a start as I entered. I unclasped my necklace, then my earrings, before realizing my bracelet was missing. It didn't concern me so much, but Erik might be upset.
Oh, I was too tired to worry about such things. I could find a way to explain it tomorrow. There was only enough energy within me to undress down to my chemise, and once I slipped into bed, I was asleep.
...
I woke to Figaro singing at the sunrise, and I sat up in bed, berating him. Perhaps, though, Erik was still asleep, and I could have part of the morning to myself, thanks to that little bird.
After dressing, I went downstairs to make breakfast. My stomach was feeling well enough for it, though the idea of milk still sent it reeling. I made an egg and had it with a slice of baguette with jam. The silence in the house was quite welcome, as was the quiet rain outside.
I was feeling so bright and lively that morning that I wandered out into the garden with an umbrella. The ground was covered in dew and puddles. There were still sparse raindrops falling from the sky, but now the sun had begun to peek through the clouds, reflecting on the wet grass and clover.
I had a sudden image of a child, a little boy, with curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes, splashing into the puddles. For the first time since I had realized my state, I smiled at it. But what about a girl? Oh, I put that into my mind as well, a girl with eyes as equally blue but with curly brown hair like mine, all wild atop her round head. What fun a child would be! To dress her, feed her, play with her. Perhaps I could love her enough that whatever Erik did wouldn't matter. I would love her more than anything, because she was mine, and in a sense, my choice. My actions had led to her creation, after all. She was formed out of freedom and choice.
She or he, I reminded myself, smiling down at where the child grew. I ran my hands over the spot, which had become firm. My waistline had not yet grown, however, which was what I dreaded, as Erik would notice then. Perhaps he knew now? He acted like he always knew things, but I doubted that. No one could know everything.
It was then that I turned back towards the house, still smiling faintly, my hands clasped over my unborn child.
And there was Erik on the front step.
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Gotta love cliffhangers. It's becoming a theme for this fic.