Gift Five
"The Vow"
(Part IV)

CHRISTINE DAAÉ'S JOURNAL
(entry cont.)

I must pause my writing momentarily.

Erik stirred just moments ago; I heard him through the door. I didn't dare check, as that would mean unlatching the lock, but I heard his footsteps go down the hall towards his bed chamber.

And now – oh!

He has begun assaulting his organ with an unforgiving, terrible rage. His organ is huge – I've seen the massive thing before, erected in his bed chamber in all its magnificent glory – and even through the walls I can hear his terrible dexterity as he runs hands masterfully up and down the massive length of it, up and down, pumping out a jarring melody of low groaning notes that will occasionally, suddenly and without warning, spring all the way up the length of the organ until at last he slams down at the top and produces a high-pitched, squealing shriek.

He's played his organ like this before… so at least there's a comforting thought. I would be amiss to pretend this was the first time he's pounded down on the keys with this foul, awful ire. We've lived together for a year; in this time I've seen so many sides of him, so many moodswings, so many facets of his personality. At least this is not new.

But perhaps this isn't a comforting thought after all. There is an anger inside of him that will never go out. We were both fools to think I could douse it – that me simply being here would vanquish any of his inner demons that trouble him so greatly. He is so hurt, and he has been for so long. He told me before that he was irreparably broken… I refused to believe that. I cannot let myself believe that. And yet… every time he plays the organ like this, with this unimitable anger and unrestrained furiosity, I can't help but feel it's all been in vain. My offers of companionship, my endeavors to please him, my attempts to give him the love he never had - it's all too little, too late.

I wish I could help him, but neither of us know what to do at this point. He wants something from me I cannot give – and I, too, want to give him something he refuses to take.

One wishes only to be held in this lifetime. Love is but a mere distraction.

Raoul and I boarded the first southbound train out of the Gare de Lyon. Our aim was for the commune of Chagny – the small territory that Raoul's family had a title and privileges over.

In the Paris station, before boarding, I kept looking over my shoulder for fear that Erik would be there, right behind us. There was a short period of waiting that we had before the train arrived; and I knew no fear more than in that time. But Raoul was right there beside me the entire time, holding my hand securely, for fear that if he let go he would lose me forever. His hold on my hand was so firm, in fact, I don't think I could have left him even if I wanted to.

But Erik never came.

There are a handful of train stations in Paris; I suppose it stands to reason Erik shouldn't have been able to know which one we had chosen. There were any number of destinations we could have chosen, after all, which Raoul and I actually discussed in our hasty flight from the little white chapel of Montmartre. I had asked first to go to the Gare Saint-Lazare so that we could go on to Perros-Guirec; Raoul had politely dismissed the idea by reminding me that Erik had already followed me there once before, and was probably expecting us to go there again. He instead suggested we go to the Gare du Nord du Monde so that we could go to Amsterdam, and from there to my home country of Sweden. But it was the carriage driver who, overhearing our muddled plans as he steered the horses through the streets, reminded Raoul that leaving the country required certain documents and a fair supply of financing which we, as he guessed, didn't have with us currently.

With valuable time ticking away and Erik's chances of finding us growing greater by the minute, we decided in the end to go south to Chagny. Raoul was raised there, in his family's country estate, and knew the staff there well. They would cater to our needs as we prepared ourselves for further flight, even if they turned up their noses at the terrible impropriety of Raoul and I all but eloping in this hasty way.

…But would we marry? I wasn't so sure. I had just abandoned one altar; I wasn't so sure I had it in me to run to another one quite yet. But what was Raoul thinking? Surely he must have had thoughts. If he did, he didn't share them with me…

He paid for our tickets at the front booth, securing us a private cabin in first class. The price was exorbitant; and yet he paid for it easily, without batting an eye. We boarded the train with him following me from behind, hands still clutched tightly together, and we kept our eyes peeled for any sights of strange phantoms in sable-black masks.

Our hands only let go when we arrived at our cabin, which was furnished in the finest first-class fashion. On entry, we were greeted by a pair of royal blue benches that flanked either side of a grand picture window, situated upon a leather-paneled wall. Settling in, I peered out at the throngs of people still on the platform as Raoul shed his cloak and hat.

"Do you see him?" he breathed, taking his seat across from me on the other bench and peering out as well, a worried expression wrought across his face.

My eyes tracked across the horde of people that stood around. So many faces, and yet no one bore that porcelain, dead face I was looking for. "No."

"Perhaps we lost him," Raoul said quietly – probably with the intention of reassuring me.

Perhaps we did lose him. Perhaps Erik was still on his knees in front of the chapel, pounding his fists against the cobbled street. Perhaps we were finally free.

There was a good chance of it, after all… no matter how fast Erik was – he couldn't beat a carriage. He could not have followed us. So unless he read our minds, and found his own way to the exact station and train that we just boarded, and found his way past the denizens of people to sneak on as well… we were free.

And yet, despite the odds being at last in my favor, I did not feel relieved. There was a solid pit in my stomach, which made me sick to my very core. I must have been positively green, because Raoul reached across and grabbed my hand again.

My eyes left the platform to gaze into his, those soft brown depths aching to be everything and anything I needed.

"You're free," he whispered softly, imploring me to believe him. And then again: "You're finally free, Christine."

Was I? Did I dare to dream? I had dreamed before…

The pit in my stomach lurched as the train began to move, and then, at seven minutes to seven, we at last departed Paris.

By eleven we were still on the rails, chugging steadily towards the Chagny commune. It was to be a six hour train ride to Chagny, and we were nearing the last leg of our journey.

I slept for much of the morning, at Raoul's insistence. I had not known how tired I was. I had thought I had slept well the night before – but then I recalled how little I knew of the days and nights in Erik's dungeon below the ground, and how little I knew of the hours that passed, and a part of me wondered if time passed the same in this world as it did below. After all, no matter how late I went to sleep, I always woke up at an early hour feeling fresh and well-rested. It would not have surprised me to learn that Erik's clocks were adjusted differently, or if he reset the clocks every time I slept… what did time matter to anyone down there, anyway, if there were no appointments to keep?

Perhaps, too, I had been so fraught with nerves by the early dawn's activities that whatever rest I had gotten was negligible. I wonder if Erik ever grew tired like this? Did he ever reset his clocks when he lived alone?

Regardless, I laid across the bench and napped until eleven, the little bumps in the track rousing me here and there so I never fell completely into my dreams. In my half-awake state, I took faint notice of the way that Raoul adamantly refused to let himself sleep. His eyes tracked everywhere – the door, the leather-paneled walls, the cushions, the sunny countryside speeding by outside the window – and once in a while, when he thought me asleep, across my reclining form. He must have been tired, fraught with the same nerves as I from this morning, but his fingers stayed firmly upon his wrist and pinched at his skin to keep him awake.

I could take no more of my attempts to sleep, though, when the pit in my stomach gave way to a much more immediate concern: hunger.

"Raoul," I asked, sitting back up as decently as possible, "have there been any stewardesses that have stopped by?"

"Stewardesses? No… why do you ask?"

"I was just curious if there might be some, um, refreshments available…?" I blushed. Why did I feel so embarrassed to admit I was hungry? It was a normal, human feeling! Nobody should feel afraid to admit to such things… and certainly not to hunger! "I haven't eaten a thing since last night."

And on that matter - I have never been afraid to tell Erik I was hungry! …though there are still some other quite normal feelings Erik and I have let remain unsaid between us… some just as agonizing as the gnawing pangs of hunger…

"Oh!" Raoul said in his innocent way. His eyes flicked to the cabin door. "No, there haven't been any stewardesses or food trolleys. I believe there is a dining car, though, if you'd like?"

Would I? Of course I would. But such a meal on a train like this was bound to be expensive, and so it was certainly an unnecessary extravagance that I couldn't dare ask of Raoul. He already spent so much on this cabin! And he had tipped that carriage driver so well.

Raoul had shelled out coin after coin for me this morning, without a second thought. Surely he came from money, and could afford to be loose with his spare change, but I did not want him to make that impression of me – that I was only using him for his wallet. I am not a dense woman; I have heard the talk about Paris regarding him and me. The rumors are all untrue, of course. But Raoul has felt bitterly towards me before for other, more trivial misunderstandings. I would not want for him to think that of me now.

And yet – was I truly to suffer the next several hours coming no closer to a baguette than in my half-realized dreams? Surely Raoul wouldn't fault me for wanting of a meal? And surely he must have been hungry, too. It had been a terribly exhausting morning for the both of us.

But what if Raoul wasn't hungry? What if I were to dine alone, just like I did for so many meals for the past year as Erik stared at me from across the table? What if -

My ravenous stomach finally settled the matter for me.

The dining car was a spacious, ornate vessel filled with two long rows of white-clothed tables on either side of the walk. A lush blue carpet was rolled down the middle of it, as if a tributary of the Seine itself had opened up onto this humble traincar. It was a full-service restaurant on wheels; and we were escorted to our table upon arrival, and seen by a finely dressed waiter in a prim navy tailcoat.

The food selection was admittedly not the finest in France – we were still on the rails, after all! – which did not bother me all that greatly, but Raoul had a bit of trouble finding something to his more 'sophisticated' tastes. He at last ordered the champignons aux escargots, and a bottle of Bourgogne Blanc for us to share.

Then, when the waiter took our menus, I felt a particularly poignant wave come over me at last, filling me with fantastic terror and glee all at once: we were really out in the world, safe and together!

"How have you been?" Raoul asked – and from his tone, I knew he could feel it, too. It was the first semblance of a normal conversation we'd been able to have since the escape began – not just this most recent one, but the one we attempted an entire year ago on that fateful, awful night. That attempt had failed, but this one… the eternal night was finally ending at last!

But morning is always so cruel, isn't it, when it stirs us from our sleep just to blind us with the dawning sun? For a year I'd missed that light dearly… now that dawn had broken, and nighttime was just a faint memory that'd long fallen off the bend of the horizon, I couldn't help but feel a small pang of muted sadness. I'd had the most spectacular dreams in that darkness…

Still – one cannot live in dreams forever, lest you let your whole life pass you by –

"I don't know what to say." It was the truth.

Raoul cocked his head, understanding and not understanding all at the same time. "So. Did he… feed you?"

Of all the questions…! I allowed a short smile. "Of course he did. He's not a monster, Raoul."

"I know," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "But he's kept you locked down there all this time. I've been worried about you."

"Certainly you've seen that I've returned to performing?"

"But you don't take visitors at your dressing room. I know… I come before the show and just after, and they always say I've just missed you."

I glanced at the window as I searched for a response. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, the sky had grown the slightest shade darker. A few raindrops threatened to fall over the happy countryside. "You know how he is."

"What were you doing at the church?"

"Getting married."

He paused. "I thought you already were?"

With all the demands Erik made that night, it was no wonder Raoul thought we'd have been wed by now. I had been just as baffled as he, too, though now I understood far too well why we were not. "He didn't want to marry earlier."

Raoul's jaw dropped. "Surely you jest!"

"I do not."

"After all the trouble – Christine, he didn't…?"

"We shared a house," I said quietly, "like two friends. Nothing more."

"I don't believe this. Christine, he must have – I mean, didn't he at least try? He must have wanted -"

I blushed. "We were unwed. It would have been improper."

In retrospect – this conversation itself was becoming woefully improper just as well! A proper lady would have slapped a man across the face for even suggesting such things! But I suppose such things can be ignored in the moment, especially when they are suggested in a private conversation, over a candlelit table, with a person whom you trust most intimately - with a person with whom you have considered doing such woefully…

"Improper!" Raoul let out a short snort, but quickly restrained himself from uttering anything further on that.

The waiter returned at that moment and set down our platters. Then, from nowhere, he produced the stately bottle of Bourgogne Blanc Raoul had ordered and poured us each a healthy glass before setting it on the table between us. Then he bowed, before taking his leave of us.

"A toast to you, Christine Daaé," Raoul said, raising his glass, the amber liquor glittering within.

"And a toast to you as well, my dear," I said, before adding, as naturally as possible, "- friend."

I do not know why I felt compelled to make that distinction between us; only that I did.

His smile grew tight at that, but did not fall. He put the glass to his lips, as did I – and from our glasses we took a sip of the most luxurious textures of liquor in France.

"An excellent specimen of Bourgogne," Raoul commented with delight. "A surprise from a venue of this caliber. Respectfully, of course."

"I did not know you were such a connoisseur," I teased.

"What can I say? I am a man of many talents," Raoul said with a sip. "Though wine-tasting, I must admit, is not quite my strongest suit. It's just something I was taught in the name of culture by my… nevermind." He looked as if he wanted to go on, but said nothing more.

I sensed his mood change, and could guess at the reason, so I did the honorable thing and changed topics. "So, once we arrive in Chagny, will we have to travel far to reach your family's estate?"

"Not very," he said, and then he launched into a very thorough explanation of the short but winding country lane that we would have to take by carriage to reach the manor. When he at last exhausted the trail after describing each and every tree in detail, he began to describe the manor and grounds themselves. It was fascinating to hear Raoul talk so vividly about a place I had never seen, yet that he knew so well. It was his childhood home and he knew it like the back of his hand. Unfamiliar territory for me, but his domain… his kingdom…

Then he went on to say, with hearts in his eyes, "You will take Eulalie's old room, of course, until we are married, and then we will -"

Ah, I had forgotten! My tired memory is making a sorry mess of this tale. So Raoul was under the impression that we would wed after all. But how long would I remain in this Eulalie's room before we did?

I began to fidget with my fingers, pressing nail upon nail, as if to split one. Raoul must have seen my distraction, for he questioned me on it. "Come, Christine - what troubles you?"

"It is nothing. Nothing troubles me."

My consternation persisted nonetheless, twisting the finger beside my littlest one on my left with a painful sort of compulsion, and Raoul, being the astute boy that he is, made short work of determining the cause. In a low, gentle voice, hushed so no-one but I could hear, he asked, "You do wish to marry me, don't you?"

"Of course!" I flung my hands down. Out of sight, out of mind. "Raoul, you must not question that!"

"A man is made to feel insecure, you know," Raoul said, sitting back, "when his fiancée was at the altar of another mere hours ago…"

I gaped at him. "How can you even dare to say such a thing? I left him, Raoul! Can't you see I never intended to actually marry him?"

"And how do I know you won't do the same when we're finally at the altar ourselves?" Raoul mused. "How do I know you won't leave me, too?"

"I won't!" I vowed, appalled that he would even ask that.

"I'm sure you said the same thing to him," Raoul said moodily. I moved to protest, but he put his hand up. "That's all past now, I'm sure you'll say – it's all just 'water under the bridge.' But consider, Christine… you lived with that man for a year. You were his betrothed – when all the while you were supposed to be mine! Surely you must understand that a man is made to feel insecure about these sorts of things…"

I could only stare at him, a mixture of indignity and pity alighting my gaze. It was the pity that won out in the end, as it always does for me, for I reached out and grabbed his hand. "Dear Raoul, I cannot change the past. But I am here now. Let us move forward from this nightmare together."

He shrugged his hand out of mine to pick up the wine glass again, and put it to his lips just as he murmured, so faintly I scarce was sure I heard it right, "And still I am left to wonder if she even believes the words she says."

I made no comment on that – how could I, when I so often doubted my own words as well?

In lieu of conversation, Raoul continued working at his meal. I followed his lead, tearing a baguette into proper size pieces as I regarded my plate with an absent-minded stare. My appetite, once so voracious, had settled and flown. I could eat no more.

"I'm sorry," Raoul said at long last. The words were so sudden and random that they startled me back to attention, and I dropped my baguette chunks into my sauce. He had a regretful air about him as he spoke further. "I did not mean to accuse you, Christine."

I stayed silent. What was there to say?

In the absence of my reply, he continued. "I'm afraid I may have made some assumptions that were amiss to be made. I tend to do that, don't I?" He smiled self-deprecatingly. "I am but a boy, Christine. Twenty-two years upon this Earth and still I pretend to know more than I should. You would think I would have learned by now not to make the same mistake twice? And yet I have. A year ago I found you by the luck of chance, at the end of a great rainbow, and I was fully convinced I had rediscovered the Christine Daaé from my childhood – that very same Christine Daaé whose scarf I had the great honor of rescuing from the sea that time. We were childhood sweethearts in my head, destined by the stars to reunite under Apollo's Lyre. And yet – that's not exactly how it turned out, is it?"

I allowed myself a slight shake of the head.

"It had been years since we had last seen each other," Raoul said. "We were different people than when we had last met. I perhaps a little less than you, in fairness - though I had grown a mustache by that time, faint as it was."

Only now that he brought it up did I notice the line of hair gracing his upper lip. It had thickened out more than I remembered, so that now one could almost see it in every type of lighting.

"I was wrong to assume that you and I could pick up where we had left off, on the shores of Perros-Guirec. I was wrong, and I found that out very quickly. But I was a boy, Christine! And boys are stubborn. So I pursued you, and eventually you let me in – and then I saw just how much you had changed. You were a grown woman, with a sophisticated set of wit, charm, and beauty. But that wasn't all… there was also him."

Raoul hung his head. "I was young and naïve, and I didn't understand at the time – especially because, with circumstances the way they were, he made himself out to be such a horrible monster. But in truth, it could have been any other man, and I would have fought just as hard for you as I did against him."

It was not a good thing to hear Raoul speak of Erik, even in this polite, deferential way. I braced myself for something terrible. "What are you saying?"

"He had every right to pursue you – and you had every right to return his affection. I had no claim to you. It had been years since we saw each other last, that time." Raoul turned his eyes down. "And now it has been another year, again."

An entire year with Erik, beneath the Opera house…

"Have things changed again, Christine?"

I couldn't speak.

"Did you - do you - love him?"

"I had to," I found myself saying. "God tells us to love everyone."

"You know that's not what I'm asking."

I averted my eyes. "I hardly see how this is a proper topic of conversation."

"We are to be wed, Christine," Raoul insisted. "Can you not be forthright with me on this one matter? I would like to imagine us having a marriage of mutual respect and honesty, one day."

His words stabbed at me, though I doubt he intended them so. "What does it matter?"

"It matters very little, Christine," Raoul said sadly, "but it is that very little that burns like kindling within me. I just must know."

"In that case…" I said, and then swallowed hard. The question had to be answered; we could not go forward without addressing the issue at hand. I paused, to find a way to frame my answer, so as not to hurt him but to stay as true to myself as possible. "I cannot possibly say for sure, Raoul. I have hardly had a moment to even consider it."

"And yet somewhere along the way you have found the time to decide you wish to marry me?" Raoul shook his head. "It should not be that difficult of a question to answer, Christine!"

"But it is!" I said. "With you, it is so straightforward and simple: I love you! Oh, but I wish that every love could be like ours, Raoul! But with him… with him, there are just so many other distracting feelings. Hatred, pity, fear, repulsion… I cannot think clearly when I have all those other feelings about me. So how am I to know if I have ever loved him, when there are so many other complicated parts of my relationship with him that distract me from knowing for sure?"

Raoul touched the stem of his wine glass thoughtfully. A few beads of moisture ran down the side, and he collected them diligently, using them to slicken his fingertip as he rubbed it along the glass shaft. He mulled my words over for a long time, before finally saying, "Perhaps it is not such a good thing that our love is as simple to you as you say."

Alarmed, I gave him a questioning look.

"My love for you explodes with every beat of my heart. I feel a tremendous, confusing, complicated surge of emotions when I'm near you: fascination, wonder, devotion, awe. I am afraid of how much I love you. I was dead for this entire year when you were gone. And perhaps you might think… that this is all very boyish of me to say, but I find I don't quite care what you think right now."

"Raoul, you misunderstand -"

"Perhaps I was right all along," he said anyway, furrowing his brows. "Perhaps you do not love me. We are not even formally engaged, are we? I gave you a ring, but he did, too, didn't he? I am play-engaged to a woman who is play-engaged to another man! What foolishness has befallen me? And yet at some point your play-engagement with him must have become real, because you came with him to a real altar in a real church. Will you come with me to a real altar today, Christine? This very day. Not tomorrow, but today? Will you?"

"This is all very sudden," I stammered.

"So you admit that you don't wish to marry me?"

"No!" I cried in exasperation. "I love you, Raoul, and I want to marry you, but the circumstances are just completely wrong right now! I do not want to begin our marriage on the road. I want us to be settled and secure. I want us to have a house in a safe corner of the world, where we can be free to enjoy the world without being afraid that one of us will one day just disappear!"

"Humph! Do you plan on disappearing?" Raoul asked, an accusation veiled behind the question.

"I do not," I said, "but I fear you think I do! Or you think Erik will steal me away!"

Raoul shrugged grandly. "It is a valid fear, is it not?"

"It is and it isn't! Raoul, this will be a very exhausting marriage if we spend every minute concerned about what Erik will or will not do. And, I'm sorry, Raoul, but I do not want to be running to the courthouse this very instant just because you feel insecure! A wedding shouldn't be thrown in a fit of jealousy!"

"Well, a proposal shouldn't be accepted in a fit of desperation, either," Raoul grumbled.

I felt my jaw fall open. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

He leveled his stare with mine.

"I only mean that perhaps the timing was not right for either of us."

And with that he resumed his meal, stabbing his knife and fork into it with a stuffy, aristocratic air. I found myself unable to do the same. My appetite was thoroughly ruined and the thought of food right now outright revolted me. In the effort of doing something, anything, I stared down at my hands in my lap and attempted to make sense of my world.

What was I doing? I was in no position to be refusing Raoul's request. Our wedding was a year overdue, honestly, and we were running away into the sunset together like a couple from a fairytale. Why was I so shocked to learn Raoul wanted to get married so soon? Why did I say no?

And, terrible as the thought was… I was in no position to refuse. Raoul was my only link to freedom. I had no way to survive without him. I could not have gotten this far from Erik without Raoul's intervention. So I was not at liberty to be defying his wishes. If he wanted to marry, we would. I could have no choice in the matter, if I wanted to be free.

As I pen these lines, the terrible irony of my sad situation stands out to me. Is this what it is to be loved? To be taken into another's heart so completely that you can never be free again?

Suddenly Raoul's voice interrupted my thoughts once more.

"What do you wish to do when we arrive?"

He spoke with such contrition that I couldn't help but wish to forgive him for every horrible thing he'd ever said to me – and furthermore, I wished he would forgive me for the same.

"We shall go to your family's estate together," I said hesitantly, "if you will still have me…"

"Of course, Christine," Raoul's voice said, nearly breaking. "Do not think for a moment I would refuse to welcome you into my home."

"I do not…" I couldn't look at him as I said this. "I do not wish to marry you, Raoul. Not now. I'm sorry."

"I know," Raoul said, and from his tone I could tell he did not lie.

"We will marry one day, though, I promise," I hurried to reassure him. "One day. Just not today."

"One day," Raoul echoed emptily. I'm not sure if he quite believed me.

He chewed a little more, thoughtfully, and mulled on the wine some more.

"You will always be welcome in my home," Raoul said, pausing the motions of his utensils. "You do know that, right? I would never want for you to be stranded or alone. You don't have to marry me just because you think that's the only way I'd be willing to protect you. You mean so much more to me than just a slip of paper in the cardinal's office."

Why was he constantly driving me to speechlessness with his words? Evidently he had become quite the romantic since the last time I had seen him. Either that or he had basked in the unhappiness of lost love for long enough that such passionate words now came freely to him like poetry.

Should I have believed him? He sounded sincere. And yet I know love, and I know there are always strings attached. One does not simply love, without hope of reciprocated love. It is not a fault from which we can cure ourselves; it is just human nature. If we could only love, and be content with that alone – we would all be angels in heaven.

"Even if you married him," Raoul added seriously, "even then, I would never want you to think I wouldn't be there for you. I mean it, Christine."

"Thank you," I mumbled. It was nice of him to pretend, I suppose. "But I mean it, too. We will get married one day."

He smiled and said nothing.

Another lapse in the conversation occurred. Here we felt our better humors returning, as we stared out the window together and commented idly on the scenes that passed. I learned that Raoul had never seen a pig, for he gasped as we passed a farm of them and asked me what they were. At some point, we reached across the table, and – though it was improper! – linked our fingers together. The bottle of Bourgogne Blanc strategically blocked our clasped hands from the view of the rest of the car, and thus we had our first scandalous display of affection towards one another.

He tickled my hand with his, rubbing my hand with his fingertip the same way he had rubbed the stem of his wineglass earlier, and as he was ardently fondling my hand, he asked in a low voice, "Would you have really married him, though? If I had not been there, I mean?"

It was not immediately obvious what he meant by 'there' – either at the church, or in the picture altogether. This question, though, was easier for me to answer than any of his previous ones. Perhaps it was because his hand was still toying with mine. "I suppose I would have."

"Why, though? He is no doubt an unfortunate man," Raoul said, "but are you really obliged to give yourself over to every unfortunate man in the world?"

"I have given myself over to you," I reminded him lightly.

He frowned, and stopped his hand's movements, resting it upon mine. "Please, Christine: do not fault me for disliking him. Your love has taught me not to hate, but I cannot do much more than that. He is my brother's murderer, after all."

"He is, isn't he…?" I mused.

"Why, Christine - you say that as if you didn't already know!"

"I must confess, it's been quite unclear for me. Erik wouldn't ever talk about it. I suppose I let myself believe he drowned on his own…"

"Philippe was an excellent swimmer. He taught us both, don't you remember? On the gravel-lined cape of Perros-Guirec?"

"But Erik wouldn't -"

"- do that?" Raoul suddenly pulled his hand away. "Has he really wrapped you around his finger this tightly? I don't care how Byronic he's made himself out to be to us - the man is still a bloodthirsty, merciless killer!"

Erik is not, I wanted to exclaim. Erik is a gentle, and kind, and loving man. I have held this man in my arms, in my sleep. I have nursed this man back to health when he was at his weakest and most vulnerable. I have seen a side of him that negates all the others. He is not the emotionless killing machine the Persian told you about. He is a broken, scared man who feels - impossibly deeply. And he regrets the blood, all of it, all of the blood…

But of course that's not true, is it, Erik? You do not regret such things. I would not be back in this room if you did.

So of course I could say nothing in response. Raoul waited a few beats before sighing, resignedly, as if he knew the argument was in vain. And it was: we will never agree when it comes to Erik.

With the mood thoroughly broken, Raoul sipped at his wine some more and we turned back to study the countryside some more. The clouds had deepened a fair share more, so that now it resembled twilight despite being noon.

"Do you think the rain will arrive with us?" I asked, looking for something to say to Raoul to bring him back around to me.

"It seems the storm has followed us here," Raoul replied. He sipped the wine again, and this time made a face. "I'm sorry, this Bourgogne is just incredible." He reached out to look at the label, and then frowned. "Oh! That waiter must have given us the wrong bottle. Here, look."

I took the bottle from him, and turned it slowly in my hands, until I could read the cold, scripted letters upon the faded label: Amontillado, 100% Palomino Fino.

"What a curious mix-up," Raoul continued, even as I felt a sudden coldness trickle up my spine. He flagged down the waiter and showed him the bottle.

"My deepest apologies if it is not to your liking," the waiter said humbly. "But I was told to give this bottle to you instead. Compliments of a certain Monsieur Montresor."

Raoul raised an aristocratic eyebrow. "I've never heard of such a man."

"He said you would not. By the way, he told me to give this to you," the waiter said shortly, handing Raoul a small card along with the meal's check before moving on to the next table.

"What's it say?" I asked, a horrible feeling festering in my gut.

He read it first, silently, furrowing his brows, and then handed the card to me. And there, in the most childish of handwriting, I found only these two chilling lines:

O Fortuna!
In pace requiescat!