He worked to collect his shocked features into an expression mirroring concern and sympathy, "Yes, dearest," he gathered her delicately trembling hand between his two gloved ones, "Do you truly not recall?"
Christine's heartbeat pounded as she stared in horror at their entwined hands, "I—I remember nothing barring scant memories of my father. . ." her expression abruptly glazed over, "A house by the sea, a violin. . ."
A thumb stroking her palm jerked her from her reverie. Emboldened by his deceit, Erik collected her other hand, smiling transiently. "I am sorry you do not recall anything Christine."
Christine gently stole her hands from his grasp, folding them in her lap. He eyed them, feeling slightly affronted, but did not move to reach for her hands again.
Relentless questions tugged at her mind. Part of her questioned the blaring porcelain mask on her husband's face, but she repressed that question in favor of a far more prominent one. "And what am I to do now?" she whispered, breaking the silence, eyes downcast. She began to play idly with the frills of her nightgown.
He paused for a moment to consider his answer. "I suppose we shall simply have to wait and see if your memory returns." He gave a sliver of a smile.
"Ah—Well, I suppose that is agreeable," she stated as the shock began to leave her system, making way for apprehension to cloud her thoughts. What would her husband expect of her?
"Excellent. I shall take my leave to prepare supper, then." He grinned at his newfound prerogatives as he swiveled to brush his hand against her porcelain cheek. "I shall be back shortly, beloved." He ignored her shiver.
As soon as the door clicked shut—with the turn of a lock, she noted—Christine began to tear at the coverlet once more, staring silently into the bed's canopy. Husband? She thought anxiously, glancing down at her stomach, relieved to find it flat. She scoured her mind for any memories as her head throbbed.
The smell of peppermint on her father's thread-bare jacket, the taste of the salty seawater, singing with an angel. . .
Tears fought to the surface and cascaded down her reddened cheek. What had she failed to remember? What had her life been like? How had she married such a surly man? Could she trust him? She blushed, ashamed of herself for such wicked thoughts. He was her husband, after all. . .
She swallowed in apprehension, taking in the splendor of the room to clear her rusted mind. The opulence was astounding. She sat in a four-poster mahogany bed, chiseled to perfection with multiple engravings of exotic animals and a repetitive beaded pattern. The coverlet was a fine satin, and she noted with dismay that in the midst of her nervous antics she had torn the right corner. A Louis-Phillipe chest of drawers dominated the western wall. One of the drawers was opened in a messy fashion, displaying a sleeve of lavish red velvet. Golden sconces lit the bleak stone walls, and she noticed for the first time that there was not any natural light that flooded the room—no windows.
In the kitchen, Erik searched for a cast iron pot in the top cupboards. Finding the smallest one (as only Christine would need a meal, and she ate little as it were—she truly was only a wisp of a thing), he fished it out with little detestable clanging thanks to his superior dexterity. Closing the cabinet, he hummed a quiet melody to himself, committing the lingering tune to his memory. This would certainly go well at the end of the third measure. . .
He continued to distractedly light the woodstove, fill the pot with water, and then place it gently upon the metal. His icebox held the scraps of chicken he had purchased on Monday in preparation for Christine's stay in his home, and he hastily acquired them. He had not expected this outcome when she agreed to stay with him for a few days, but he would surely not scoff at this jolly twist of fate!
A dash of oregano was procured from his rack of spices, and he gingerly laid the strips of chicken on a cutting board before promptly dashing them into small bites. The water in the pot began to boil, and he added multiple spices to the oregano before sliding the chicken in. There was a faint simmer as he grabbed a stirring spoon from the drawer on his right.
He imagined his wife flitting about the kitchen with him as he stirred her broth (she had never been much of a chef—her last attempt in his kitchen had been quite disastrous). She would giggle as he smoothly conversed with her in his typical biting sarcasm. Then he would procure two bowls and perhaps—perhaps she would even let him eat with her? If that wasn't too much to ask?
He smiled at this scenario, still humming the lilting, light melody.
Suddenly, his mind shouted at him, shattering his blissful dream. She will never accept you! Abruptly, the humming came to an end.
More deception? More dishonesty? Taking advantage of her innocent naivety yet again, Erik? You think she'll love you because of this? You are living a lie, monster!
Erik leaned against the countertop, squeezing his eyes shut and curling his tingling hands into tight fists.
It's the only way! He argued, She would never love me any other way! Not with that blasted boy!
Trembling, he waited for a retort from the voice. Hearing none, he began to stir the soup once again.
If you insist…
Teeth clenched, he silently continued to prepare the broth.
A/N: Please let me know what you think about the story! :) And, thank you to all my reviewers of the first chapter!