XXVII
The three of them made quite a harmonious trio, if Erik did say so himself. He had feared that Christine's confession of Raoul's desire for her would sour the brotherly affection Erik held for the golden-haired de Chagny. He was thankfully mistaken; Raoul proved himself to be an earnest and devoted brother, who seemed genuinely happy for Erik and Christine. It could not be said that the de Chagny household was without conflict, though.
"I don't understand why I have to learn any of this! Why does it matter which bloody fork you use for the salad?" Raoul said, pacing back and forth before the roaring fire in Erik's study. Christine slanted a wry look at Erik, rolling her eyes. Erik smothered a chuckle, dropping a kiss on her brow. The two of them were nestled comfortably in one of the wingback chairs before the fire, pouring over Monsieur Forel's book of etiquette. Gas lamps lit the room in soft, pleasant bubbles. Reading French was still a struggle for her, but she was learning quickly. Raoul, on the other hand . . .
"I told my father the same thing when I was younger than you, Raoul. You know what he said to me?" The younger de Chagny stopped his pacing, filaments of his golden hair falling from its respectable queue. The lad looked very fine when groomed and dressed in the tailored suits of a Vicomte. Gently born ladies would be lining up for him once they tamed that coarse stable-hand's tongue of his.
"What did he say?" Raoul asked, blue eyes wide. Erik grimaced as he straightened his left arm across the back of the chair, his shoulder reminding him he was not yet fully healed. Christine cooed, nuzzling his chest in mute comfort.
"He reminded me that we were de Chagnys, a line that could be traced back to gallant knights and statesmen. A legacy of shining chivalry, centuries long. That was why even a deformed wretch such as myself would learn how to dance." Raoul's scowl was an echo of their father's.
"Was he always such a heartless bastard to you?"
"He sounds like a cruel man," Christine said, eyes glittering dangerously. Erik laughed, faintly flattered at their protective attitude. It was . . . refreshing.
"Not cruel, simply . . . short-sighted. And not always, little brother. He appreciated my aptitude for fencing and marksmanship. They were skills of his own, you see. The only moment I was certain of his pride and regard was when I bested Camille Prevost in a bout." Erik smiled at the memory, then caught Christine's blank look.
"Camille Prevost? He was the son of Pierre Prevost, one of the greatest fencers in France," Erik said. Raoul made a derisive noise in his throat.
"I'd much rather learn to fence and shoot than dance!" He attempted to mime Erik's arched brow and only succeeded in looking very puzzled.
"Come now, Raoul. Dancing isn't so bad. I haven't mashed your toes in at least three lessons!" Christine said. Raoul immediately softened.
"Oh, it's not you, Christine! Dancing is just . . . boring." Erik shared a commiserating grin with Christine, then was struck by inspiration.
"But little brother," Erik said, rising and drawing Christine up with him. Her smile was sunny, but perplexed.
"Dance with me, love," he crooned, framing her in a classic waltz pose. Humming a tune under his breath, he led Christine in a few sweeping steps, gliding effortlessly across the study's carpet.
"You're a natural, darling." What could be better than Christine in his arms, laughing and breathless with her brown eyes sparkling?
"A natural, my foot," she replied, flushing.
"What you see is the product of many hours with poor Monsieur Lambert and many trod-upon toes." Her poor face was beginning to heal, a softer, fading red-purple as opposed to the brutal blue-purple of fresh weals. Regardless, he thought her the epitome of perfection.
Slanting a glance at a bemused Raoul, Erik's voice took up a dry, lecturer's intonation: "Dancing, like fencing, requires strength, agility, and grace. Bodily precision." Erik leaned Christine down into a graceful dip, snatching a quick kiss. Drawing her up, he unfurled his arm, leading her into a spin. She floated like a cloud, her hair rippling like a silk veil. He indulged a moment's fantasy of a masquerade ball with her on his arm, with dancing and champagne and laughter. Maybe at the New Year . . .
"What could be boring about learning the limitations of one's own body, learning the precise balance of control and strength, all the while capturing the sole attention of a beautiful woman?" he asked, unable to stifle his smile.
"Shameless charmer, this one." Christine's raspy voice was teasing, her arms winding around him and nuzzling his throat with a look of such flawless happiness that Erik's chest ached. Erik glanced at his brother and found a look of such sullen pugnaciousness that he was reminded of his father. Jacqueline had given him the same rebellious look when he'd taken her aside to speak of Christine. There was a chink in that armor of grief, though, Erik thought. He had seen Jacqueline soften when Christine mentioned her dead mother and father. His poor orphaned girls, united in their pain.
"I'll take your word, Erik. I shall learn to dance," Raoul said, fiddling with the lacy cravat at his throat, held in place with a stickpin adorned with a de Chagny emerald. The younger de Chagny glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, a smile breaking across his face like the sun from behind a cloud.
"It's three o'clock, Erik. Nadir said I could look at his stock."
Erik smothered a smile in his palm. While Nadir had lost his great stallion during the madness in Paris, his home outside the city had escaped unscathed with the entirety of his Persian broodmares. The mares Nadir had brought with him to tempt Erik were some of the finest, and since laying eyes on them, Raoul had been utterly smitten.
"It is a stroke of luck that Father left you an inheritance with which to buy expensive horses."
Raoul had the grace to look abashed, and Christine poked Erik in the chest, hard.
"Erik, don't tease him. Nadir is only being friendly."
Erik beamed down at her, stroking her wild hair with restless fingers. He loved the simple freedom of being able to look, to talk, to touch . . .
"Friendly like a grinning fox, my dear. Nadir is first and foremost a businessman, who knows a star-struck customer when he sees one," Erik said dryly.
"Go and fawn over the horses, little brother. But try and mind your clothes. I know how Madame Villon prizes your new suits."
"I will!" Raoul said, already tearing off the cravat and bounding out the door.
Christine smiled at the empty doorway, and Erik was eager to reclaim her attention. A subtle shift of palm moved his hand from the formal waltzing clasp to weave their fingers together. Drawing her close, Erik dropped a kiss on the smooth, cool back of her hand.
"Christine," he said softly, just for the pleasure of hearing it.
Again Erik savored the pleasure of rich dark eyes meeting his, free of the crippling uncertainty that had darkened them in Madame's brothel. The hand that rested on his shoulder slid down, tracing the velveteen black of his lapel before sliding into the warm space between coat and shirt. There was something sinuously erotic about her proprietary touch, even when both of them were fully clothed, doing nothing more than holding hands. His free hand skimmed down the russet silk of her bodice. The warm color looked very fetching with her dark hair and creamy skin.
"Erik," she said with equal softness, her voice deliciously hoarse. There was warmth and immediacy in her fallen voice. They had both lost so much, including the perfection of their music. Never again would Erik's left hand play with the same effortless excellence as before. Never again would Christine's voice soar to the highest crystalline notes. Her father would never give her away in marriage and Erik's Thomas would never meet his uncle.
Erik bowed his head, resting his forehead against hers. As she always did when they were alone, Christine peeled off his mask. Maybe one day the sight of his naked face would no longer sting him with shame. He could spend eternity like this: not making love, not even speaking, simply breathing the same air, simply basking in the privilege of her presence.
"Do you find your lessons to be a trial, love? I certainly do not care if you are schooled in the fine art of flower-arrangement, or any other courtly ridiculousness. I was raised thus but . . . it did not occur to me that you might find them as distasteful as I did." I will do anything for your happiness, he almost added with an acolyte's fervid devotion. Erik would treat the love he held for her carefully, lest he smother her with it. Christine chuckled, warm breath caressing his naked face.
"No, I want to learn my place here. I'll learn to arrange bouquets with the best of them." Erik's smile was pained. He did not like the edge that hid in those words, the implication that she must perform to some ridiculous, arbitrary standard.
"Only if you want to. I am happy simply to have you with me, to have you consent to be mine. You don't have to-" Christine quite effectively silenced him with a kiss, parted lips coaxing his mouth open, the wet velvet stroke of her tongue along his lower lip arresting all thought from his head.
The passion that always simmered in her presence roared to a boil, and soon Erik was clutching her close, tongues tangling. Their woven hands remained linked in a parody of dancer's stance, while free hands wandered. That wicked hand under his coat raked a path down his belly with her fingernails. The sensation was blunted by the fine cambric of his shirt, frustratingly so, but his wonderful, devilish love burrowed her hand beneath the waistband of his trousers. Her hot mouth accepted his whimpers, before breaking the kiss. And Christ, her hand-
"I want you, Erik. I want to be your partner and helpmate, your lover and the mother of your children, God willing." Erik nearly cried out at the exquisite agony of those words, coupled with the feel of her cool, skilled hand fondling his hardening shaft.
"I will be whatever you want me to be." An expression of crippling vulnerability molded her cherished features. The kiss he breathed on her lips was one of benediction, as sweet and sacred as a bridal kiss.
"Then be yourself. You please me by breathing, Christine." Her smile was breathtaking, her eyes moist.
"Thank you," she whispered against his lips.
"I want you to feel safe and free . . . I will do anything for your happiness." The words flew from his lips as her hand milked his cock in slow strokes, lubricated by the sticky moisture weeping from the head. Pleasure incinerated restraint and he arched his hips in helpless thrusts against that sweet, knowing hand. He would have sealed the words with a kiss, but she turned her attention to the deformed side of his face, dusting the tortured skin with kisses. God, she knew touching him like that was enough to unravel him! Was she trying to destroy every scrap of his sanity?
"Love me. Love me and keep me with you forever and I will be happy," she whispered in his ear before sucking on his earlobe.
"Oh God, yes!" The heartfelt agreement emerged in a low strangled groan, barely audible over the crackle of the fire. The door was wide open, Elise or Jacqueline could walk in at any moment . . . the thought cooled his ardor enough to keep him from spilling himself in his beloved's tender grasp. Gently, he removed her hand from his trousers, despite her soft murmur of complaint and the adamant protest of his turgid, throbbing flesh.
"Mercy, love. At least close the door." The command was breathless and the sparkling happiness in Christine's eyes unraveled any of the prim protests his brain offered. Erik felt bereft for the brief moment she left his arms to obey his command. He was a bloody mess under a few whispered words and a few bold strokes: shivering soul, pounding heart, hard, aching cock . . .
"Lock it," he rasped. The door secured, Christine turned toward him, a seductive smile curling kiss-swollen lips.
"Come here." Erik wove only the darkest, most seductive tones into his command, a shackle of silk willingly donned. Lips parted, Christine closed the gap between them.
Erik was determined to be a more active participant. He nodded toward the wingback chair where they had spent several quietly studious hours beside one another. There had been affection, tenderness and an almost saccharine amount of love, but not this wild, lustful conflagration. Christine flushed and Erik swallowed hard, fearing she had suddenly reconsidered making love to him in his study in the middle of the day.
"I . . . I have my . . . my blood. I feel . . . I want to touch you, but not . . ." Erik nodded gravely, not wanting to embarrass her. That also explained why she had only sought comfort in his arms the night before. He had a clinical knowledge of a woman's cycle; Claire had always been terse and fitful when Eve's curse was upon her. But Christine's made her hungry for him? Erik spread his hands.
"I am yours to do with as you wish, darling." Some of the tension ebbed from Christine's shoulders, the soft smile on her luscious mouth quickly turning wicked as her eyes wandered over him. Oh yes, he would gladly be her toy, her plaything.
"Take off your coat." The words spoken in Christine's desire-roughened voice was nearly enough to make him come. Stifling a groan, Erik shrugged off the suddenly stifling velvet.
"Good," Christine said, eyes dilated to dark, glistening pools. Her praise drew a small sound from him, too deep to be a whimper, too soft for a sigh. At last, at last, she was touching him, innocently pressing her hand over his pounding heart.
"Christine," Erik growled, gently tugging on the silver chain around her neck until he could see his locket against the glowing golden russet of her bodice. See and glory in his possession of her.
"Erik, my love. Mine." she punctuated her gentle nuzzling of his throat with a sharp nip. Her fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt and untied the flies of his trousers, loosening his clothing, but not removing it. There was an illicit sort of thrill to love-making taken while partially clothed—
Any further thought was erased when Christine's mouth began to learn to topography of his body. Nuzzling through the sparse smattering of chest hair to the peaks of his tight nipples. Heat and pleasure danced through his quivering nerves. She lavished his nipples with languorous strokes of her tongue, then sucking hard in no discernible pattern. God in Heaven, she was going to drive him insane!
Erik had the presence of mind to stifle his cries, to ease onto the chair to make her utter debauchery of him easier. Christine hummed happily, before snuggling between his spread knees and licking his belly and navel like it was some sort of confection. He gripped the arms of the chair as if they were the only things tethering him to the earth, focusing on not whining with each exhaled breath as Christine freed his cock from his trousers. She looked at him as if he were a treat, a treasure, engorged and pathetically eager. When she took his length into her mouth, torturously slow, laving him with tender strokes of her tongue, Erik abandoned what was left of his dignity.
"Christine, goddess!" he cried in a hoarse whisper, hips jerking in time with her strokes. Pleasure made him ache and writhe and moan under her ministrations. Both hands sank into her wild curls, kneading her scalp with shaking fingers.
"Oh my dark-eyed succubus, my sweet, wicked girl . . ." As he watched, one of her hands smoothed over her own body, drifting beneath her skirts. . . a small part of him felt cheated of the pleasure of touching her sweet secret places, but the rest of him was bloody well aroused by the sight of her pleasuring herself as she sucked him. Her head bobbed faster, his balls felt taut and heavy with the weight of his aching lust; he was close, oh so close-
"God yes! Please . . . mercy . . ." Her cry reverberated through him as she found her pleasure, and Erik's roar emerged in a strangled breath. Boiling pleasure surged up through him and he was coming in her mouth, coming so hard stars danced before his eyes. Christine drank it all down, suckling him gently with eyes narrowed in sleepy slits of pleasure.
"Christine, Christine," he chanted, hoarse and weak and needy. Erik hauled her into his lap, blindly seeking the comfort of her lips. He tasted himself there and found it wasn't an unpleasant flavor. Wrecked and shaking, Erik sought her fingers, suckling the taste of her blood and her pleasure from her skin. He did so very gently, mindful of the healing bones. Christine uttered a small sound and soon their mouths met and mated like the world was ending. When they broke away to breathe, Christine narrowed her eyes in a mock-glare.
"So I am going to learn how to arrange flowers and dance and which fork to use with the salad, and that's that." Christine's tone was emphatic, at odds with her gently petting his hair and kissing the tip of his nose. Erik chuckled, as limp-limbed and dreamy as a cat in a windowsill.
"Of course, Comtesse. I wouldn't dream of stopping you."
The crystal door knob twisted, catching on the lock.
"Erik?" Raoul's puzzled voice bled through the door, "Christine? Are you still in there? Come and see, Nadir has a fine little filly that I think would be perfect for a future Comtesse."
"We'll be there in a moment," Erik said, stealing one last kiss that tasted so wickedly of their pleasure, before nudging Christine from his lap. Her hands went to retie his trousers and Erik batted her away.
"No, love. You'll have me hard again. It wouldn't do to scandalize young eyes in such a way," he said, grinning. Biting her lip to stifle her giggles, Christine crouched on the rug in search of his mask while Erik restored his clothes to a semi-respectable state. The velvet coat had a few wrinkles and his shirt clung to sweaty skin in places, Christine's hair was mussed and lips lush and swollen. Taken together, they made a thoroughly disreputable pair.
Mask in place, Erik turned the lock and yanked open the door to find his brother down to his shirtsleeves, his golden hair loose about his shoulders. He cast one shrewd glance between them and his puzzled frown dissolved into a sly grin.
"Rushing me off so you can fu—I mean . . . share convigial society in the middle of the afternoon, hmm?" he said. Christine buried her burning face in her hands.
"It's convivial society, boy. If you're going to mock me, do it properly," Erik said, folding his arms over his chest. Raoul snickered.
"That was quite cultured, Vicomte," Christine offered with a gracious half curtsey. Raoul narrowed his eyes.
"Don't sound so surprised! I've been trying."
"You've done very well," Erik said, clapping a hand on Raoul's slender shoulder.
"I suggest we visit London next season to sample high society." The light mood dimmed a little as each of them remembered the horror of Paris: of a blood red flag and a mob of angry, shouting faces.
"Come, Raoul. Show us this filly of yours," Christine said, twining her fingers through Erik's and ushering the two of them toward the foyer.
XXX
The two de Chagny brothers were studies in contrast. Light and dark, coarse-tongued and silken-voiced, whole and scarred, yet mirrors of each other in so many ways. Christine enjoyed listening to their good-natured banter as the three of them donned coats and gloves to brave the winter's cold. Madame Villon had overseen the decoration for Christmastime and the Château seemed warmer and brighter bedecked in ribbons and pine boughs.
Erik reclaimed his grip on her hand as soon as they were both appropriately garbed, the press of his glancing kiss muted by the leather of her glove. Christine's heart lurched in her chest. She loved him so much. The minor aches and lingering malaise that came with her menses had disappeared, banished by the taste of Erik's pleasure and her own. Her blood made her irritable and restless, the dull heavy ache quickly tipping into lust at the slightest touch from Erik. He was a drug to her and today had been an exercise in frustration for her, sitting so close. Rousing him has been such delicious fun.
A weak winter sun sagged toward the horizon, warming the snow and frozen mud with hints of gold and rose. Raoul led them through the stable, which to Christine's eyes seemed to be a warm, quiet sanctuary, a groom sweeping the aisle as the de Chagny horses dozed peacefully. Christine breathed deep of the scent of hay, leather and horse. It was a warm, homey sort of smell.
"Where is César?" Christine asked, eager to meet the stallion Erik and Raoul both loved.
"We've had to keep him in a separate shed, with all of Nadir's mares here. Nadir prefers to let his mares breed in the spring as they would do naturally. It's better to keep a stallion away, even though none of the mares are in heat," Raoul explained. Christine nodded, offering her flat palm to the curious nosing of a squat little pony. She had been around horses most of her life, carriage horses and the like, so she knew the etiquette, but had never ridden herself.
"This is Sugar Lump, Elise's pony," Erik said, scratching the blond thatch of mane between the pony's ears.
"Sugar Lump?" Christine said, grinning. Erik's green eyes danced with amusement.
"Christened for his favorite snack."
"Poor little lad. Elise wants a grown horse now, after seeing all of Nadir's fine stock," Raoul said, stroking the crooked blaze on Sugar Lump's chestnut nose. Erik's lips thinned.
"She'll get a grown horse when she is grown herself," he said. His thunderous expression cleared and he smiled.
"I must be sure to make that clear at supper. Come, the pen is through here," Erik said, sliding his arm around Christine's waist and guiding her after Raoul's bouncing stride. Christine rested her head on his shoulder, wishing she could hear the thump of his heartbeat. That was swiftly becoming her favorite sound in the world, especially when nightmares gripped her and she woke to its music under her ear, accompanied by the liquid golden croon of a sleepy murmur and the brush of lips against her brow.
A festive mood permeated with frosty air. Elise, Jacqueline and Nadir's Elaine were perched like colorful birds on the uppermost rail of the pen, swathed in blankets and shawls. Nadir held a horse tethered in the center of the pen, bound by only a rope halter. In the dying light, the horse's coat gleamed like bronze, the mane and tail soft, glinting black. Another horse stood quietly in the churned up mud of the pen, breath rising in thick white plumes. Even to Christine's unschooled eyes, she could see their worth in their elegant carriage, the taut snugness of muscle beneath well-groomed coats. Raoul ducked between the slats of the pen and approached the dozing horse with slow, practiced movements and crooned words.
Hearing the tread of their step on the gravel, the three observers turned and greeted them. Even Jacqueline offered an approximation of a smile, though Christine could see how it pained her. Christine forced warmth into her own greeting, a steely determination underlying the sentiment. Erik was hers, and she wasn't going anywhere.
"Oh aren't they pretty, Erik? Nadir says that one there would be good for Christine," Elise, cheeks flushed and eyes alight as she pointed to the one Nadir held tethered.
"Is that so, little ankle biter? What do you think, Jacqueline?" Erik asked, draping his free arm over the rail, keeping her snug against his side. In the harshest daylight, Christine could find glints of silver in his black hair, the faint lines webbing the corners of his eyes, vestiges of frailty in the face of his taut strength, his glittering intelligence. The middle de Chagny sibling paused, frowning at the slender horse Nadir was putting through her paces.
"Since Christine's never ridden before, she should have an older, more experienced horse. Don't you think?" Inwardly, Christine rejoiced at the words. Though cool and neutral, they seemed sincerely meant.
"I wholeheartedly agree, my dear." Erik offered a tender smile to his younger sister. Turning to Christine, he arched a brow.
"Perhaps you would like to learn on one of our older horses, before trying your hand to one of Nadir's fillies?"
"That won't be necessary, my friend. Saba is the soul of gentleness. I've trained her well to respond to a lady's hand," Nadir said, a flick of the whip at the ground in front of the filly enough to make her stop. Coiling the lunge line in precise turns, Nadir led the filly to the fence. A liquid dark eye regarded Christine through the slats of the pen, a fuzzy black muzzle nosing Nadir's sleeve. Up close, the filly's shoulder was roughly even with Christine's eye line.
"But I've never ridden before, Monsieur. I wouldn't want to confuse her with my ignorance," Christine said, a small seed of fear taking root in her belly. The thought of being up so high, with so much muscle and power beneath her and the threat of steel-shod hooves if she fell . . .
"I would like to see you and Saba together, Christine. I'm certain I've made you a good match," Nadir insisted, dark eyes gleaming.
"Be that as it may, Daroga, Christine will ride when and as she wishes." Though the words were spoken with a simple ease, Christine could hear the steel of command hidden in it and was grateful. Nadir blinked, then bowed his head and said, "Of course." The Persian squinted at the setting sun.
"Too late for it today, anyway. Ladies, shall we head inside for supper?"
"Aw, do we have to? I'll stay and help Raoul!" Elise said, jumping down and scampering off before anyone could stop her.
"Mind Raoul, Elise!" Erik called after her. Gallantly, the Persian offered a hand to Elaine. Erik grasped Jacqueline's slim waist and swung her down, not before catching her in a swift, fierce embrace. Christine found herself standing in an odd huddle with Erik and Jacqueline. Erik's smile was encouraging.
"I . . . I think Raoul's in love," Christine said, nodding to the large black horse he petted with such devotion. Jacqueline followed her gaze, a few flyaway strands of brown hair escaping her neat braided bun. Her face softened into a look of incredible tenderness and Christine's heart soared for Raoul's sake.
"He's an idiot over Octavian."
Christine frowned.
"Octavian? That's an odd name for a horse." Jacqueline giggled in reply, combing her hair behind her ear.
"Nadir thought he was being clever. César is Octavian's sire," Erik explained, sharing a sidelong glance with his younger sibling, warm with humor. Christine flailed, mentally sifting through her weeks of study to find a reference. Her Papa had not had money to send her to school, and had taught her from his memory and from any of second- and third-hand books they could find on their travels. She learned her letters, sums, sentences, and music of course, which was a complex language of its own, but science and history had barely been touched upon. A dreadful feeling of inadequacy rose in a hot knot in her throat. Erik noted her unease, of course, and shrugged.
"It's a bad joke, but Raoul was rather proud when I explained it to him: such a distinguished lineage to be named for two such great Roman emperors. And both excellent horsemen, from some accounts." In two sentences, Erik subtly included her in an enveloping sense of camaraderie and soothed her embarrassment by hinting Raoul had been enlightened as well. Christine didn't think she could have loved him more than at that moment. She uttered a breathless little laugh, at a loss for what to add lest she reveal her ignorance.
"Octavian is a beautiful horse. May we visit César before we go inside?" she asked, nestling against Erik's side. The wind was bitterly cold even under her coat and gown. The wind brought snatches of Raoul's and Elise's voices as they chattered away.
"Of course, love. But first, I'd like a word with Raoul," he replied, pressing a kiss against her forehead. He glanced encouragingly between the two of them before bracing his hands on the upper rail. A swift, fluid leap had him within the pen, long legs eating up the distance separating him from his brother.
Jacqueline gathered her coat tighter around her and began to follow Nadir and Elaine's progress leading Saba toward the stable. On impulse, Christine reached out and grabbed the younger girl's forearm. She plucked up her courage and forged ahead, saying the words she'd rehearsed in the mirror a thousand times.
"Jacqueline, Erik has proposed to me, and I've accepted. And . . . and I know I'll never replace Claire and I wouldn't even try to. But I'd like . . . I'd like us to be friends." Christine asked, her rasping voice nearly lost in the wind. Glittering blue eyes, so much like Raoul's met her own brown with startling clarity, maturity. With a jolt, Christine realized she was only five years older than Erik's sister. Jacqueline's smile was still a child's though, bright and quick.
"We'll see. Come, I'll show you the stallion's barn."
A/N: A long chappie, but I couldn't find a good place to cut it off. The smut was entirely Christine's idea. :) Read and review!