Chapter 23 — The Green Fairy

The very next day, as the first blue light of morning snuck in around the edges of the curtains and nudged him awake, Raoul stretched and rolled to his side, ready to take his still-sleeping wife in his arms before sinking back to sleep himself. Just like always.

But his reaching arm encircled nothing but rumpled bedding.

Christine wasn't there.

Rubbing his eyes, Raoul checked the clock — it was early, much too early for her to be up for the day. She must have taken a quick trip to the bathroom, he reasoned blearily. But the minutes passed without her return, and as the fog of sleep gradually cleared, a lump began to form in Raoul's stomach.

Actually, he started to think, maybe it wouldn't hurt to check on her, just in case.

He flung back the duvet and his heart dropped as a sickeningly familiar sight caught his eye—

A small dark spot, halfway down the mattress, almost black against the white sheets.

But not black — dark red.

Blood.

Cold trickled through Raoul's chest. He blinked dumbly at the spot, trying to make sense of it all.

Her courses had come.

She was not with child.

It didn't work.

It…didn't work?

But...how? Raoul ran his fingers through his already mussed hair. This couldn't be happening! All the signs had been there! What about when Christine— Raoul's stomach plummeted. Oh god, Christine!

He scrambled out of bed, jammed his feet into his slippers, and snatched his rumpled dressing gown from the floor, wrapping it around himself as he hurried to the bathroom. Oh, poor, poor Christine, she must be—

A thin band of light glowed gold from under the bathroom door; Raoul could hear the water running as he approached. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then tapped on the door with a single knuckle. "Christine?" he called softly. "Can I— can I come in?"

The unlatched door swung open under his hand.

Christine stood at the sink, head bowed, her hands working under a spray of water, scrubbing two fistfuls of pink-stained fabric. With a start, she looked up as he entered, anguish written plainly across her face.

"Oh Christine!" Rushing over, Raoul threw his arms around his wife's shoulders. "Whatever are you doing? Here, leave that." He reached over and turned off the tap.

From a shelf he grabbed a small towel, took Christine's unresisting hands and wrapped them up, and led her away from the sink. "Darling, you're trembling! Are you cold? This dressing gown is so thin…" He tugged on the flimsy silk until it covered as much skin as possible and sat with her on the edge of the bed.

With a sigh, Raoul took his wife's pale face in his hands and kissed the pooling tears from her eyes. For many minutes, he simply held her, rubbing his hands over her tense shoulders, trying to massage away the pain of disappointment.

"It's going to be alright, Christine," he murmured, pressing his lips against the loose curls falling over her ear. "Please don't be so upset."

Christine sat back suddenly, wide eyes searching his face. "Aren't…aren't you upset?"

"I..." Raoul began, but truthfully, he wasn't quite sure how he felt. There was an odd sort of numbness settling over him, and he didn't exactly feel like diving under it to see what lay beneath just now. Later — maybe. "We expected this," he said finally, though of course that wasn't exactly true. "It would have been nice for it to work the first time, but that would have been something of a miracle, right?"

Christine buried her hands in her skirt and looked away.

He pulled her close, cradling her head against his chest. "Actually, won't it be nice to have a break from...all that?" Raoul asked, stroking Christine's tousled curls, and she nodded tightly. "I'll send word that we won't be coming tomorrow and—" With a suppressed sob, Christine buried her face deeper into Raoul's chest; he patted her back reassuringly. "And I know it's so much to ask of you, but we'll try again, when you're ready, and it will work. I know it. We're not going to give up after one disappointment."

Christine wriggled out of Raoul's hold and looked up at him with tear-filled, uncertain eyes.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her fingers worrying at the sash of her dressing gown. "You're not second-guessing?"

His poor love, she wanted this to work out so badly, didn't she?

With one finger under her chin, Raoul tipped her face up to his and tried to smile. "My love, I never even first-guessed this plan." He placed a soft kiss on her taut lips. "It's going to take time. And that's fine. I'm fine."

"You're really alright?" Her knitted brow told him that she was not convinced.

"I really am," he answered confidently. "I am completely, utterly, and uh...completely fine."

…

Raoul was not fine, actually.

Which was quite a surprise to him — really! He'd thought he was. He'd tried so hard to be!

They had gone about their day as usual. After Christine got cleaned up and the maid discreetly removed the evidence which announced another month of no de Chagny heir, they had breakfast, answered correspondence, and then did the other rather dull things they were expected to do as members of their vaulted social class until luncheon, after which they retired to the salon to read.

As he always did when she was in this condition, Raoul insisted that Christine take it very easy. Before sitting down with his newspaper, he set her up to recline against a pile of pillows on the sofa, tea within reach, a hot water bottle warming her aching lower back. There she sat quietly, holding a book, never turning the pages — and occasionally sniffling, very quietly. She wanted to put on a brave face for his sake, Raoul could tell, by the subtle way she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and then darted a quick glance at him, as if she hoped he hadn't seen.

Raoul understood her pain. Since they'd decided to go ahead with the plan, they had enjoyed a blissful reprieve from their old pattern of hope and despair, of nights of a Raoul holding Christine as she wept, of feeling helpless, hopeless — Raoul had fixed it! He'd been so certain! — yet here they were again. Only now they were suspended in this tense, uneasy state, each feeling a profound sense of loss, yet neither of them wanting the other to feel the full depth of their disappointment.

Despite his unwillingness to say so, of course Raoul was disappointed, too — much more than he'd been by previous disappointments, since this time, failure meant not only no baby, but also more of him.

But it would be alright, really! It had to be. And so at each anxious flick of Christine's eyes to his over their mutually unread reading materials, Raoul responded with a tight smile.

Optimism was expected of him, after all, and he wouldn't let her down. Yes, unfortunately Raoul had been a bit overly-optimistic to hope it would work right away, but he hadn't been so optimistic as to be delusional; that's why he'd asked for a minimum of six months. Secret hopes aside, he'd known that, despite those old warnings, no, it usually did not 'only take one time'. He chuckled to himself. Not hardly! This first month, it didn't even take ten times!

The breath caught in Raoul's lungs.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten…times…

Dull ringing filled Raoul's ears.

Ten times that man had been inside his wife — had access to parts of her that had belonged solely to him — had heard sounds which had been for his ears alone — had filled her full of himself and sent her back home to lie in her husband's arms.

And all for what?!

The words on the newspaper clutched in Raoul's tightening fists began to blur from lack of breath as each muscle in his body pulled tighter and tighter.

He cut his eyes toward his wife, the skin under his collar burning hot. It wasn't her fault, of course — the whole thing had been his idea! But that didn't make it any easier. Especially not when he dragged his gaze over her stockinged feet, her ankles, the curving calf, to where he had doubtless ran his hand under her skirts, up and up until— Oh god, did he touch her there, with those long, pale, spidery fingers?

Dropping his crumpled paper into his lap, Raoul slumped back into his chair, his whole body tingly and boneless. How could he have allowed this? All those hours — hours! — not just a handful of minutes, no, but all that time… He passed a shaky hand over his clammy face.

What was going on down there? Really, how long did it really take to, you know, bend her over the bed and toss up her skirts and…do the job? Certainly not an hour — an hour! Why so long? Raoul pressed his fingertips to his eyes. It wasn't as if they were taking their time, the man slowly running his hands over her, dexterous fingers undressing her bit by bit, revealing blushing skin as Christine smiled shyly…lying her gently on her back, her legs spread under his slim hips, taking her slowly, sensually, with those controlled, graceful movements that mesmerized as much as unsettled— Oh god, what was he doing? The sour sting of bile prickled Raoul's mouth. Why would he even think such a thing?

There was a reason he never let such images enter his head, and it was forcing its way up his throat now. He cursed the cook for the rich sauce-smothered roast duck they'd had for lunch as his stomach curdled and heaved.

Ten times.

Ten!

Times!

And would it take another ten? Another twenty? Another fifty? And what if, when all was said and done, there was still nothing to show for it!

Dear god, what had he done?

Inside his chest, Raoul's heart struggled like a wild bird newly caged.

Oh god, what should he do?

Honestly, he did not know. All he knew was that he couldn't stay here another minute.

Because, against his better reason, at the moment, it was beginning to feel like this actually had been a mistake, a very big mistake, and unless he could remove himself, clear his head, he felt very capable of making at least a few more.

He had to leave.

Now.

Raoul was on his feet suddenly, tossing his newspaper onto his vacated seat. "You know, darling?" His voice was so tight he barely recognized it himself. "I forgot that I was supposed to meet François Jacquier down at the...ah…" Christine's eyes flew to his, wide and round and incredulous; he shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I need to go out." As she scrambled to sit up, Raoul raised a palm. "It's alright, stay there. You rest," he said firmly. "I'm alright. I just...I have to go."

And before he could find out if Christine bought his flimsy excuse or not, Raoul fled the room, slamming the door behind him.

...

Raoul walked the streets of Paris for hours. Each time his feet took him back to the towering stone facade of their townhome, they carried him right on past. Eventually, though he was not at all hungry, he felt he should eat, and so he let his feet carry him to the nearest restaurant, where he ordered some sort of fish soup of which he ate a single spoonful and a bite or two of whatever cut of meat it was that the waiter had suggested, now unidentifiable after a half hour of being poked and prodded by a fork. To his credit, he held out until the waiter's third offer of wine — and then drank three glasses to make up for it.

The wine enveloped him in warmth, like sliding into a bath, which was lovely for a moment, until it reminded him of the baths Christine would take after returning from underground — to wash away his touch, his scent, though there was really no way of cleansing away what had happened — at which point he decided he needed more wine. But only to take the edge off! Not to get drunk! Just enough to blur the images which kept flashing behind his eyes sufficiently so that they were no longer appearing with such harrowing, horrific detail.

He was almost there — just another glass or two would do it, but it would be unseemly to drink any more here, at this respectable establishment husband and wife had often frequented, under the judging eye of the waitstaff. And why would he need to, when the city was full of places where wine flowed freely and the patrons smiled and laughed and Raoul could close his eyes and pretend his life was just as light and easy and free?

And that's how he found himself at one of the many brasseries on the Left Bank, drawn to its twinkling golden lights like a moth so grateful to find a beacon of light in the dark it would willingly risk setting its wings aflame to fly near its promise of warmth.

Inside was darker — rich mahogany tinted green and amber by a stained glass ceiling — and less cheerful, with seemingly half as many lights inside than out, which suited Raoul just fine, actually. The smoke and raucous conversation provided ample cover for a man who wanted to sit and stew in silence.

At a small table of dark, shining wood, tucked in a corner half-hidden in the shadowed edges where lovers sat in pairs with foreheads nearly touching, sharing secrets, Raoul ordered a brandy from a passing waitress, drank it in one long swallow, hid the glass behind his hat, and then ordered another from a different waitress.

Just these two drinks, maybe a third, Raoul promised himself. And then a coffee, to help him sober up — that would be all. And then he would go home. To his wife. And maybe he'd sleep in the guest room again, just tonight. Just till he could look at her again without wanting to cry, or be sick, or both at the same time.

Raoul took his time with this drink, letting each sip sit on his tongue until the burning turned to numbness.

Incredibly, laughably so, this was not the first time he had gone rushing headlong into a half-thought out scheme to help Christine, only to end up tortured by that masked man — only he wasn't ready to laugh about it just now. He ran his fingers over the scar — invisible on his skin, indelible in his mind — which circled his neck. This time, though, the fault was entirely his own, the torture only in his mind.

Jesus Christ, could he have been any more stupid? Who would have ever thought to do something like this, with the last person on earth he should have chosen? How would he ever get past this? Could he? Had irreparable damage already been done? He needed to think, he needed to make decisions, he needed to figure out what to do — but not now. Now he wanted to think nothing, feel nothing. He filled his mouth with brandy and let it burn.

"Who is it?" A warm husky voice interrupted the soothing emptiness of his head.

Raoul forced down his mouthful of brandy in a painful swallow. To his left sat a woman, alone — bright blonde hair, dark, tired eyes. She had the unmistakable air of a shopgirl, with her heavy, too expensive perfume Raoul could smell from across both tables — roses, goddamned roses — at odds with her dress of dulled bottle-green taffeta and clearly newly added cheap lace trim. A pretty girl — though her face was a bit over-powdered — just a bit older than Raoul. Old enough that she must have given up on a life as a wife and mother, and instead settled for selling ribbons and other little fripperies to wealthy women, then turning around and spending her pay on a half-bottle of red wine before going home to the top floor flat she rented far enough away from the Bon Marché that her feet would be covered in blisters by the time she got home.

Or...something like that.

Raoul almost laughed to himself; he had always tended toward melodramatic overthinking once he had a drink or two in him.

The woman raised an eyebrow and Raoul realized he'd been staring without actually answering her. He coughed, clearing his brandy-burnt throat.

"I'm sorry?"

"The woman you're thinking about." One corner of her mouth lifted playfully at Raoul's bewildered expression. "Oh, I know that look — I've been there enough times myself. Drinking away my sorrows." She raised a half-full glass of deep red wine.

"Oh, no." Raoul forced a laugh. "I'm fine really. I'm just having a quiet evening out."

The woman took a long sip of her drink, leaving her lips stained red as crushed berries. "Alone?"

"Yes, alone. I just needed…" he tugged on the cuff of his shirt, "to think."

"To think!" The blonde grabbed her bottle of wine by the neck and dribbled out the thimbleful that remained into her glass. "Now, when has thinking ever gotten anyone anywhere?"

"That's a very good question," Raoul laughed, and this time it was not forced. He drained the last of his drink and glanced at the woman's nearly-empty glass. It hardly seemed gentlemanly to order himself another without offering her one too, but buying a strange woman a drink... Absently, he spun his empty glass in his hands, thinking much too hard. Really, he reasoned, supported by the genial benevolence bestowed by several glasses of alcohol, it was probably better to transgress than to be rude…

He plunked down his glass and gestured to the drink the woman had just raised to her lips. "Would you like another, er…" Raoul shifted in the slightly too-small wooden chair, over-balancing enough that it wobbled beneath him. "I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Genevieve," the woman answered, drawing out the final syllable so that her rather large — but charmingly so — front teeth caught and dragged over her plump lower lip. Raoul dropped his gaze to the tabletop. "And yes," she continued, "thank you. Though I was thinking of switching to something stronger." Without warning, she raised her hand and flagged down a passing waitress. "Two absinthes, please."

Suddenly feeling the need to adjust his cufflinks, Raoul said nothing to the server as Genevieve ordered for them both, trying and failing to imagine Christine ever doing such a thing.

"Will that do for you?" Genevieve asked, though it was a pointless question — the waitress had already gone. With no other option, Raoul nodded. In truth, he'd never tried the stuff before, and frankly, it made him a little nervous, this drink favored by artists types and those who admired their bohemian ways. He just...didn't trust it.

The woman left her empty bottle and glass at her table and joined Raoul at his. "I'd like to thank you, but I'm afraid I don't know who it is I'm thanking." She smiled teasingly.

"Ah, yes. I'm Ra—" he began, and then nearly choked on his own tongue. Good god, what was he doing? He couldn't give her his name! Raoul cast around in the alcohol-muddled mess of his mind and fished out a serviceable syllable. "—alph." He coughed into his sleeve. "Yes, Ralph." he said once more, with convincing finality.

"Ralph! Is that English, or…"

"Yes, probably." Sweat prickled under his damp collar.

Genevieve laughed at that, and it was a terribly sweet, charming little laugh, Raoul couldn't help but think. He also couldn't help but think that her lips were awfully full, her cheeks quite rosy pink, and her dress fit her very well, the green taffeta just barely containing an overflowing— but no, no. That was not something he should be looking at. He swallowed thickly, raised his empty glass to his lips and sat like a fool waiting for a single drop to hit his tongue.

Mercifully, the server came by, set down two empty glasses and a carafe of ice water, pulled a couple of silver spoons and a little parcel wrapped in paper from a pocket of her apron, and then smoothly snatched the glass from Raoul's shaky hand. A moment later she returned with a tall bottle, filled the two glasses with bright green liquid, and bustled off without a word.

Genevieve reached for the spoons and paper-wrapped packet. "You look like you like it sweet."

"I — what?" Raoul sputtered, and she laughed, though he hadn't meant it as a joke.

"You're funny," she said, setting a spoon over each glass and placing a lump of sugar on top, and Raoul could feel himself flush. "Could you pass me the water, please?"

She dribbled water over the sugar until it dissolved into pearlescent swirls, clouding the green, turning it milky. It was, Raoul had to admit, rather pretty. Following Genevieve's lead, he stirred it with a spoon, and then lifted his glass to touch hers with a brief clink.

"To the English, probably," she said with a wink, and they tipped back their drinks as Raoul tried not to choke.

The absinthe wasn't just pretty, but also quite good, Raoul was pleased to discover. He licked the sharp taste of anisette from his lips. When he looked up, he noticed that Geneveive was watching him with heavy-lidded eyes.

"You know, you don't need to tell me what's wrong," she said. "I bet I can guess."

Raoul almost snorted into his drink. "I seriously doubt it."

"Let me try," she said, lifting her glass and swirling its contents with a lazy tilt of her wrist. "But first, this calls for a cigarette. Do you have one?"

Raoul patted his pocket automatically, before remembering he'd stopped carrying them weeks ago — for no good reason, as it turned out.

"Ah, no. I've left them at home."

"That's alright, I have my own. I always ask — I think a woman should ask for what she wants, don't you agree?"

As Raoul gave a quick, noncommittal nod and attempted to hide his inexplicably twitchy lips behind a deep sip of his drink, a little black-laquered case was withdrawn from her bag and flipped open. "One for you?"

"Oh, I— I've…" Raoul's fingertips itched as he considered the row of cigarettes. "Well, why not."

He popped one between his teeth, took her offered matches and lit the cigarette she held in her mouth, cushioned between pillowy lips. She sucked in deeply; the tip glowed yellow and orange.

"So, there's a woman," Genevieve blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. "You've loved her for a long time."

The hand raising the lit match to his own cigarette froze; Raoul stared back at Genevieve dumbly.

"I'm right, aren't I?" she laughed, then sipped her drink thoughtfully. "But," her empty glass hit the table with a resolute thud, "it's not unrequited — you don't have that soppy, heartsick look of the ones who still pine. Yet…you worry." She took a long drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke out in a lazy curl. "You're afraid she might love someone else more."

"Ha! You're wrong there!" Raoul shot back, a bit too loudly. He dropped his voice. "That's not it at all. It's actually quite— Ah!" Pain flared in his fingertips; he looked down to find the match burnt down to where he held it pinched between the pads of two fingers. He dropped it to the table and stubbed out its glowing remains under his perspiring glass. "No, no. It's quite a..." He wiped his own perspiration from his forehead with the back of a sleeve. "It's a long story. But the other man? There is no other man." He took a decisive draw of his cigarette.

"Well," Genevieve shrugged. "If she were to want someone else, that would be her loss." With a fingertip, she wiped a drop off the rim of the glass and popped it into her mouth. "You're very handsome."

There was no stopping the furious blush that blazed across Raoul's face; he never could withstand a compliment, and the alcohol surely didn't help. But the blood rushing to his cheeks only exacerbated his lightheadedness — the smoky air, hazy green and vaguely oppressive, seemed to undulate around him. He needed to get home. He needed to get home about two drinks ago, actually.

Face still burning, Raoul took a drag of his cigarette and looked back over his shoulder at the exit—

And something brushed against his leg.

He glanced down to see the pointed toe of a small, well-worn shoe pressing into the leg of his trousers, just above his ankle, and when he looked back up he realized that Genevieve was sitting close — very close — much too close. He swallowed, hard. Her wine-stained lips curved into a coy smile.

"It's getting late, don't you think? Maybe we could continue…" she popped her cigarette case back into her reticule, "talking..." She paused, glancing up at him through long, fine lashes. "Back at your place?"

Raoul spluttered, hacking up the smoke he'd just pulled into his lungs. He shook his head, blushing but bemused, uncertain he'd heard right.

Did she really just…?

A little harmless flirting was one thing; this, however, was completely unexpected.

Images flashed through his mind, of stumbling home drunk with this woman, while Christine stood by in shock and horror, and he stopped himself just short of laughing out loud at the absurdity of it.

But it was Raoul's fault for the…misunderstanding — he hadn't been upfront about his marital status.

He cleared his burning throat. "That woman? The one I'm in love with? I'm—" he rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm ah, I'm married to her, actually."

"My place, then?" Genevieve replied breezily, snapping her bag shut.

"Ha!" This time he could not stop the laugh that burst out of him…only it wasn't exactly funny, was it? Raoul looked at Genevieve — at her open, expectant face, at her tired eyes which still managed to hold a thrilling promise of the unknown — and then looked away.

Honestly, as flattering as it was to have a woman seemingly so charmed by him, Raoul had never even considered being with someone else — not now, nor, truthfully, at any point since the night he'd seen Christine on stage, radiant and triumphant, so many years ago now. But when the chance was so plainly offered… Blood thudded hot in his ears.

In many ways, it was only fair. Christine had gotten to— While Raoul had never— The scant remains of green liquid sloshed about in the glass as he raised it to his lips.

Now that Raoul thought about it, Christine might understand, actually. She'd always been one to forgive. That was, if she even had to know; she might prefer not to!

Would it really be so wrong to have just one hour? It was no longer than what his wife was allowed — only she had that hour three times a week, three weeks a month, for six months! No, it would be just one hour to enjoy what Genevieve had to offer and then go home to his wife, and after, it would be like it had never happened. Just like it was after Christine had come back from him.

His heart pounded.

It did seem fair.

Raoul let his eyes once again pass over the woman, tried to imagine her plush lips under his, her heavy breasts cradled in his hands, her thin hands dipping into the waistband of his trousers, the fingers wrapping around flesh which was...was really not feeling much of anything at the moment, actually.

In fact, what Raoul did feel was a cold, shriveling feeling, deep in his gut, at the thought of this woman beneath him, no matter how full her lips and hips and breasts.

He closed his eyes, and all he could see was Christine. There was only ever Christine. He exhaled heavily.

"That's, ah…" Raoul rubbed at his bleary, misting eyes. "That's a very kind offer. But I have to decline."

"You're certain?" Genevieve leaned forward so that her bodice strained to within an inch of its life. "I bet you're a lot of fun," she said, her voice low and breathy.

Tugging at his collar, Raoul replied with an apologetic grimace and a half-shrug.

The woman nodded, then stood abruptly and gathered her things. "I'd better go. It's a long walk home." She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. "Thank you for the drink."

"Wait!" Raoul cried as she turned to leave. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his billfold, and handed her several francs. "For a cab."

A tired smile warmed her sad, drawn face. "She's lucky to have you, you know." She took the bills from Raoul's hand, letting her fingers linger against his, and placed a gentle kiss on his burning cheek. "Goodbye, Ralph." And one last time, she smiled at him, over her shoulder, as she walked away.

"Who?" Raoul called after her, brow furrowing.

Fortunately, she must not have heard; by the time the realization of his slip hit him, all that remained of her was a glimpse of green taffeta as she was swallowed by the crowd.

Raoul slumped in his chair, exhausted, but buzzing with purpose. Even through the fog of inebriation, he understood exactly what needed to be done. He had let this go too far — had almost been tempted into something unforgivable because of the situation he'd gotten himself into.

So he made a decision. He would talk to Christine. And everything would be alright again.

Pushing his not-quite-empty glass away, Raoul ordered a coffee, stubbed out his cigarette, and closed his eyes. As the sounds of laughter enveloped him, he smiled, feeling nothing but light and easy and so very, very free.

…

By the time he arrived home, Raoul was mostly sober. Mostly. Sober enough that he could say what needed to be said, if necessary, though, God willing, he'd rather it could wait until morning.

He slipped off his shoes outside the bedroom door, the better to creep into bed without waking his wife. If Christine had been asleep when he slipped into the room, though, it hadn't been for long; she shot up from the bed before he managed to ease the door closed behind him.

"Raoul!" He recognized the thick, raw quality of her voice immediately, and the awful cocktail of beverages in his stomach began churning — she had been crying.

With dragging steps, he made his way to the bed and sat on the very edge, all too aware of the scent of smoke and alcohol — and god, probably perfume, too — hanging around him like a cloud. With a sob, Christine flung herself into his arms, burying her face in his neck. Her tears ran down under his collar.

"I'm sorry, Raoul. I'm so sorry."

"My love, you have nothing at all to be sorry for!" he choked out, immeasurably relieved that the first words he said to her were easily, wholly truthful.

"I was so worried…" She pulled back to look at him, and with her puffy eyes and colorless face, almost gray in the thin moonlight seeping into the room from the half-drawn windows, she needn't have said the words. Guilt tightened Raoul's throat; he swallowed thickly.

Christine's words were soft, but sure. "You're not alright with this."

Raoul opened his mouth to interrupt, but she grasped his arm. "Please — don't. You aren't. Of course you aren't…" She bit at her lip. "I've been thinking all night, and—" with trembling hands, she covered her face, shoulders hunching— "and I won't do this if it is hurting you this much. I— I think we should stop."

Dropping her hands to her lap, where they twisted themselves into the sheets, she locked her eyes on his. "Shouldn't we?" Her expression was at once both uncertain and resigned. "Do you want to stop this?"

There was no pause before Raoul answered.

"You're right," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I'm not alright with this, not really. The truth is…it does hurt, and I am terribly, terribly jealous, and most of all, I'm scared that it won't work." He reached out and took her hands in his, stroking her fingers to calm their ceaseless fidgeting. "I've done some thinking, too, and I realized…that I made a mistake."

She nodded silently, as tears slid from her pressed-shut eyes.

"I'm so sorry." Raoul squeezed her hands. "I shouldn't have left you like that. I should have stayed and talked it through with you, because…we're going to need to learn to deal with this."

Christine's eyes flew open, and for several moments she studied his face, her own curiously blank.

"You mean…" She frowned. "What do you mean, Raoul?"

"Listen, Christine." Breathing in through his nose, Raoul exhaled a heavy breath — and every last lingering doubt along with it. "After tonight, I'm more certain than ever of what I want — I want you. Only you." He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "And I want you to be happy. So even though it's difficult, and will almost certainly continue to be difficult, I can handle it, because...well, it's not forever, and when this is over, at least I'll know we've done all that we could. And because…" Raoul swallowed against a tight throat. "Because you've been happier than you have been in years. You are happy, aren't you?"

Christine dropped her eyes to their entwined hands. "I am," she said quietly.

"I know sometimes it's going to feel like this is pushing us further apart," Raoul continued, "but I believe — I really do — that in the end, we will end up closer than ever, and we'll both have everything we've ever wanted." Even to his own ears, it sounded stupidly optimistic, and yet it felt… True.

"You really…" Christine chewed at her bottom lip, hard enough that it was red and slightly swollen when she looked back up at him, brows drawn tightly together. "You really want me to…?"

"I do. I think we need to see this through, to know that at least we tried. I believe we'll regret it if we don't." Again he kissed her hands. "But only if it's what you want."

With her wide, questioning eyes and the tentative touch of her fingertips against his chest, it seemed as if Christine would say more, but in the end, she simply nodded and then ran those fingertips, now no longer so tentative, up and over his shoulders, around his neck, and then pulled him into a desperate, devouring kiss, and they clung to one another, lost in the heat and sweetness of each others' lips — and Raoul could almost feel the wind whipping about his feet, with the twinkling lights of Paris far below them.

When they finally broke apart, Christine rested her head against Raoul's shoulder, and he held her close, both of them still encircling the other in their arms. As tired as he was, all Raoul could think was that he never wanted to let her go.

He almost started to doze off, just like that, when Christine's hushed voice broke the silence. "Maybe…" she said, just barely audible over the soft thumping of their hearts. "Maybe we'll have better luck next month."

Hey heyyyyyy, that sounds like good news for Erik, no? He's got a lady who might be just a teensy bit attracted to him, whose husband keeps dropping her off on Erik's doorstep to sleep with him, who now feels like it would be wrong of her NOT to. Sure hope he doesn't mess up things up for himself somehow!

Up next: Erik may or may not mess things up for himself somehow!

This chapter is dedicated to my first reader, Aldebaran, whose BIRTHDAY it is today! Happy birthday, and thank you so much for your help with this! It's been a year now of working together, and I am so grateful for your friendship.

And thank you all you readers! I appreciate every last one of you, from the ones who write small novellas in the comments, to the ones who drop a quick "I liked this", to the quiet ones who I don't have the pleasure of knowing their names, so I say here to them THANK YOU. And a special shout out to TendernessOfTheHeart, His Midnight Music, AnotherSilentObserver, Alkahest, rscoil, TMara, Mominator124, MarilynKC, YetUrSoulObeys13, Dkk5 (for ignoring your family, even! Something I am also often guilty of haha), and blubird2021 for your comments, which were such a treat to get, thank you! For real, I'm an insecure over-thinker who would probably never have kept writing without the incredible support you've given me, and I can't thank you enough! Stay healthy, everyone!

One last thing - Mominator, to answer your note about the guest room: it's funny, because I had thought of that! I'd visited the Biltmore years ago, and there were separate bedrooms for man and wife and I went Hmmmmm...that sounds pretty good, tbh! But for this fic, I did not include separate bedrooms because I thought, well, these two have bucked convention already and are so lovey with each other, I could see them refusing to go for that! So, guest room it is for Mr. Raoul. :(