Chapter 25 — Tea and Brandy

Once again, Erik had ruined everything with his…excessive enthusiasm.

The nights following his music lesson transgression, he hardly slept at all. Hour after hour, he'd lain awake on the sofa, fully dressed, still angry at his body for, well…doing exactly as he'd meant it to do. Not since he'd pulled the sheet off the old, broken mirror to expose the world's most poorly-conceived marriage proposal had he sabotaged a perfect situation so thoroughly.

He'd gotten too greedy, too comfortable, taken too many liberties. When was he going to learn that he should take what was given to him and not seek anything more than the little he deserved? What a good thing he'd had going! And he'd gone and put it all at risk, so addicted was he to her physical proximity, so hungry for more, so...overenthusiastic when offered even the most innocent contact.

But the next time — and thank god, there was a next time — it was like none of it had ever happened.

Though to be honest, Erik didn't exactly feel all that thankful…

Unexpectedly, Christine had offered to let him pick the song to spend the session on, but Erik had learned his lesson — he would make no decisions, only follow her lead — and so he declined. After some waffling, a frothy little aria by Mozart was what she chose, ignoring the pile of more...moving pieces they'd been working from. It wasn't her best lesson — she wasn't as focused as she had been, and often there was a certain flatness to her delivery — but Erik certainly wasn't about to say a thing about it. Besides, he was thoroughly preoccupied, busy taking note of all that was now missing: No more darting glances toward any part of him. No more titillating glimpses of skin; this dress was buttoned nearly up to her chin. No more asking for help with her breath or posture or anything at all to do with him laying hands upon her, even briefly. They touched during the journey to and from his cellar, and that was the entirety of their physical contact.

In short, Christine might not have acknowledged his transgression, but neither did she give him the opportunity to transgress again.

So, no, Erik wouldn't go so far as to say that he was thankful, but, if she'd realized how…enthusiastically he'd responded last time, as she must have, and chose to take pity on him, to keep her distance rather than stop the visits altogether, then that was undoubtedly a relief.

Still, that didn't mean that when he accompanied her during the next few lessons, he didn't have to mash his fingertips into the violin's fingerboard to stop their itching, so badly did he long to feel her beneath them, just once more.

What unbearable torment it was, to have her right there, and not be able to touch!

But he wouldn't! Just as she wanted. And he would do his very best to convince her that he could be kept at bay. He would not cross any lines, not again.

Perhaps, though...just a toe over a line every now and again wouldn't hurt?

Or at least, that was the thought that consumed him as he spent long nights tossing about on the bed, feverishly attempting to restore memories which had begun to fade and fray, in an effort to provide some inspiring material to work with — often awaking to find he'd been dangerously close to rubbing himself raw.

Nevertheless, Erik was happy, because Christine seemed happy. Or happy enough, anyway.

She still smiled at him, even if it seemed a little pasted on at times; they still talked, even if it was in fits and starts and she often didn't meet his eyes; she still sang, even if she sounded more like the uncertain girl running scales on the other side of a mirror than the self-possessed woman who had sung of passions great enough to annihilate before collapsing into his arms.

Yes, he told himself, it was still good. Even if it wasn't as good as before.

He really should have remembered, though — things could always get worse.

…

Worse came the following week, after four sessions of Erik becoming increasingly resigned to this new, more respectable arrangement.

Christine was silent on the journey down that night. Twice, from the corner of his eye, Erik thought he saw her blinking rapidly, but when he looked at her directly, each time she would smile back. And maybe that smile wavered a bit, but then again, he couldn't be sure it wasn't a trick of the rippling light reflected off the water.

She said nothing as they prepared for the lesson, keeping her eyes cast down and answering questions in the fewest words possible, and Erik told himself she was perhaps a little tired. When she sang, however, he could no longer ignore that something was wrong.

Her voice was thick, rough; he could practically hear the rawness of her throat. It pained Erik, physically. And professionally, for that matter. To ruin all their work by not caring properly for her throat, whatever the reason, it was— Well, safe to say the Angel of Music would have reprimanded her quite firmly over such a thing.

They struggled through a few warm ups, until Erik could stand it no longer. "What on earth has happened to your voice, Christine? You sound like you've spent the day with an entire box of cigars," he said, trying for humor but unable to entirely soften the hard edges of his smile.

This time when she started blinking, she did not stop and smile back, even as he regarded her openly.

She didn't stop at all, in fact, even as tears began leaking from her eyes.

"Christine…?" Erik took a hesitant step forward. "Is something the matter?" It was a stupid question, he realized as soon as he said it, but he had to say something. Though…perhaps it should not have been that — at his words, she broke into heavy, heaving sobs.

Stunned into a standstill, Erik stood by, slack-jawed and speechless. Had he ever seen her cry this hard, this freely? Not to his memory. Not even when faced with the worst that he'd done, and his worst was pretty damn bad, so what could possibly…? A hideous thought began to take shape in his head, followed by a surge of scorching heat which filled his chest. His hands curled into fists.

"What has he done, Christine?" Erik demanded, his nails gouging deeper and deeper into his palms. "If he has done a single thing to hurt you or make you unhappy, I swear—"

"No, no! It's not him," she said, very fortunately cutting him off before he swore to something which was, truth be told, quite depraved even by Erik's standards — though rather inventive, if he did say so himself.

"It's…" Christine swiped at her eyes, "it's Meg."

"Meg?"

"Meg Giry."

"Yes, I know," he said with an impatient twitch of his head. "But what could Meg Giry possibly have done to you? She's in Switzerland."

"She didn't— she didn't do anything to me." Again, tears filled Christine's eyes. "That's what makes it even worse. I should be happy for her!"

And then Erik remembered — remembered the reason Giry had told him she would be unavailable to pass messages for several months...remembered the rare smile on her face as she explained the reason why.

A sick, quivery feeling settled itself in the pit of Erik's stomach. He had no shortage of thoughts — that Christine was unhappy and he needed to fix it, that he was way out of his depth, that one false step could doom him completely — but, somewhat predictably, "Oh. I see," was the only thing that he could think to say.

Christine turned with a jerk. "I can't do this! I—" she gave a great, choking sob "—I should go!"

"Wait, wait," Erik cried, at last rushing to her side. He took her by the elbow and she sagged against him; shamefully, his heart skipped a beat at the contact. "Why don't we, ah, have you rest a moment first. Let's get you calmed down before we get in the boat, yes? Perhaps I can get you something to drink. Some tea, maybe?"

Christine nodded and allowed him to lead her from the music room and into the parlor, where he helped her settle onto the sofa. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to react like that." She took the handkerchief he offered and wiped at her eyes. "I think holding it in made it worse. Last night was…" she twisted the handkerchief in her hands, "very hard on me, when I got the news. I probably shouldn't have come tonight."

"Well, I am so glad you did, my dear," Erik said, attempting to strike the balance between sympathy and formality and instead veering into a regrettable blend of patronizing yet doting. He smiled a tight-lipped smile. "As you said, we can talk as well as sing. I am happy to listen, if you want. Or, if you'd rather, you don't have to say anything at all!"

The latter, preferably, he silently pleaded as he stirred up the embers with the poker, then excused himself to the kitchen to go make the tea, stopping on the way to put away the violin and turn out the lights in the music room — anything to buy a few more minutes.

As Erik waited for the water to boil, he ransacked his brain for some clue as to what he should say or what he could do. So rarely had he ever had to comfort someone, and never a woman, and certainly never for a reason anything near as incomprehensible as the one he was dealing with.

Why would Christine be that upset? Yes, she had claimed that it wasn't only her husband who wanted a child, but that had been proven to be much less true than she'd tried to imply, hadn't it? Clearly, she wanted to sing. She couldn't have both — she would have to pick.

She had picked!

Steam rose from the kettle — there was no more procrastinating to be done. With the measured, detached movements of an automaton, Erik finished preparing the tea, adding the milk and sugar just as she liked, and, holding the cup and saucer with two hands — not trusting the steadiness of just one at the moment — he brought it out to the parlor.

"I know it's so wrong of me," Christine was saying before he'd even handed her the cup and sat down on the sofa, at a respectful distance, "but it feels so unfair." She set down her cup without taking a single sip and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. "Meg has a son. A son! Can you believe it?"

Erik wasn't sure if he was actually meant to say whether or not he could, but truthfully…of course he could believe it. It was a fifty-fifty chance, was it not?

To play it safe, he folded his hands on top of his knees and nodded, and hoped that would suffice.

She picked up her cup, bringing it to her lips, but did not drink. "And I want to be happy for her, but I…" Her fingers trembled on the little porcelain handle. "I can't!" Again she put the cup down, this time pushing it away.

"It's just...all the years we tried," she went on, while, turning his face away, Erik pressed his twitching lips together, hard. "All the worry, all the disappointment. And for nothing. It was always going to be for nothing!" Snatching the handkerchief off her lap, she clutched it in a fist. "All those years, waiting for something that was never going to happen. But for them, it was no time at all! How is that fair?"

Erik unclenched his jaw. "Perhaps, ah, you could consider it this way?" he said quickly, eager to steer the conversation away from talk of years of "trying" and all that implied. "Meg will never dance again, will she? Whereas you, you have nothing to…"

The words dried up as Erik realized that Christine was gaping at him, a slight tremble to her chin.

Shit. Once again it seemed he'd said the wrong thing. But...it was true, wasn't it? Christine envied Meg's swift success at providing a child for her husband, and Erik was only pointing out that she needn't! Christine had much greater things in store for her than providing heirs for selfish, lineage-obsessed vicomtes, she had to have realized that by now.

At a loss, Erik fumbled for some way to better explain himself, but it was too late: slowly, Christine's lovely little face crumpled, and she buried it in her hands and wept.

Shit. Shit! Erik scrubbed a hand over the unmasked side of his face. What was happening here?

Scooting along the sofa, balanced on the edge, he closed the gap enough so that he could lay a hand on her back. He patted her gently between her shaking shoulders, the way he'd seen done for others. "There, there," he said…because that's what someone said when comforting another person, wasn't it?

He would get this right, eventually.

At last Christine emerged from behind her hands, puffy-eyed, but no longer crying. Reluctantly, Erik ceased his consolatory patting and shifted down the sofa to give her a little space — though not as much as they'd had between them before.

"I'm sorry." She smoothed a stray lock of hair from her damp cheek and grimaced. "I shouldn't be talking about this."

"No, no. I want to hear."

"Do you really," she laughed — a tired laugh, a knowing laugh, but not an unkind one.

Of course she knew he didn't want to hear, though she was kind enough not to directly acknowledge the reason why.

Unspoken these last months, but not unfelt, was the shared remembrance of how he'd collapsed, broken, alone, as she went off with her boy all those years ago…though he alone knew that their exchanged vows of love, which he'd overheard that awful night on the rooftop, were still ringing in his ears — then and now and always.

"I don't talk about this with you," Christine said quietly, "because I know…" She chewed at her lip.

"Because I know you love me still, and the only way you've been able to keep your broken mind and heart from shattering completely is by ignoring the details of the life and love you sent me away to enjoy while you suffered, alone, as you deserved," wasn't what she said.

But it should have been.

In actuality, she said, her voice very quiet, "Because I know…it's difficult for you," which was, of course, a bit of an understatement, but was correct in the essentials.

She shook her head, her eyes on the handkerchief in her twisting hands. "It's too painful for me, anyway. But I wonder if you really believe that it matters so much to me. Probably not. But it does, it's not only him. He did this, brought me to you — you — because of how much I wanted a child, how devastated I was after I found out..." Her voice was thickening again with rising tears. "Because of me. And it kills him. That I...come here. But he does it anyway, for me. And yet I—" She pressed her fist to her mouth and moaned, overcome by the little vicomte's selflessness, it seemed — though Erik wasn't sure such "selflessness" really said anything about the boy other than that with judgement such as he'd displayed, he'd likely saved a great many lives by leaving the Navy.

One thing was true, however: Erik really had not believed that her childlessness mattered much to her, not at all. He shifted in his seat.

Christine had gathered herself again, blowing out a deep sigh, smoothing her skirts. "I know you probably think it's silly, to have such girlish dreams," she said. "But I always thought I'd be a mother someday. I lost my mother so young, and I always— I always hoped that I would have a chance to— to be that for someone else." Fresh tears glazed her eyes. "I've always wanted someone I could love, like that."

Obviously Erik didn't say that she already had more than enough people who she could love, who were desperate for her love, actually, including one sitting right next to her who could really, really use it — but he certainly did think it.

He also thought, for the sixth or seventh time tonight, that she wasn't making much sense.

He frowned. "You don't want to sing?"

"I do," she said, and, slowly, she raised her eyes up to his, their blue so much more blue against the wash of tender red which colored her lids. "But I wanted this, too."

Still frowning, Erik scuffed at the carpet with the heels of his shoes, desperate to move, to pace, to get some space to think. How badly he wanted to be able to say the right thing, but any words at all were a struggle. He thought he'd understood her, but once again he had to wonder…had he understood anything? He closed his eyes.

If only he could clear his aching head!

"I'm sorry," Christine laughed — another tired laugh — breaking Erik out of his silent, internal anguish. "I'll be fine. I'll get over it, I always do. Some days are a little harder than others, but I'll make my peace with it eventually." She sighed, shrugging her sagging shoulders. "There are some things you just can't have." She smiled at Erik, apologetically, it seemed.

Oh yes — because she knew that he, of all people, should understand.

It was a fact of life — for him. But it needn't be for her.

And not just because Erik wanted Christine to have everything she wanted, but because, in this case, well…

Erik's throat was much too tight; he couldn't breathe, let alone speak. He loosened his collar with a single finger, just a bit, just that little fingertip width; just enough to pull in a deep breath, to say what should be said.

There was an obvious answer to her problem, though to remind her of it would be to possibly lose her for good…

But she looked so very sad, and, simply put, sadness just did not belong on her face — he was responsible for quite enough of it for one lifetime — and so Erik swallowed hard and said, with no small amount of preemptive despair:

"Well...you could…"

Christine's eyes flew wide. "No no, I couldn't—" Her mouth was stretched into an expression of horror and oh god, no, Erik hadn't meant for her to think—

"No, you misunderstand!" Heat seared his face. "I don't mean me."

Wildly, he prayed that he wasn't as red as he felt, but of course he was, because what was more mortifying than her thinking that he believed she would want him. But she did have options, and he'd only meant—

"No no, of course not you!" She was at the edge of her seat, her hands fluttering like little startled birds. "I would never—"

Never!

The word landed like a blow which has been provoked: wholly expected and yet brutally stunning.

She would never!

Erik's stomach was lurching up into his throat.

He should have kept his mouth shut — why didn't he keep his damn mouth shut — and he certainly needed to keep it shut now, else he might just start crying out of shame and bitterness, because this was all his fault, he'd invited Christine to tell him exactly what he had spent the better part of the last decade telling himself: that she didn't want him, that she never would, never—

Oh, there were things she wanted of him, needed of him, but there were limits to that, and there was no limit like the one imposed by his repulsive face. How it must sicken her, to remember her sweet, innocent lips on his monstrous mouth, how appalled she must be, to think he believed he should have any more than that kiss, when it was already far more than he deserved — to think he would believe she could ever bring herself to choose him as the one to do this thing for which he was wretchedly inadequate in every way.

No, he knew she would never want him, no, not after she'd seen him, seen his haunted face, seen his distorted soul, no, never — never!

"—I would never dare ask, not now."

Erik's heart stuttered to a stop—

Wait…what?

Christine was shaking her head. "And I didn't say all that to make you feel you had to offer!"

With a jolt, Erik's heart kicked back into life, beating now in double time. His pulse thudded hollowly in his ears.

"I know now that you don't want to."

He…? He didn't want to?

Erik's mouth fell open, and he nearly huffed out a laugh.

"Are you—" it took him two tries to clear his throat enough to speak, and even then his voice emerged strained to the point of breaking. "Ah, that is...whyever would you have that impression, Christine?"

"You're…" her brow furrowed. "Are you serious?"

"Quite."

Pink spots appeared on Christine's cheeks. "Erik, I all but threw myself at you!"

"Did you?" Erik's voice was unusually high and tight.

"I really didn't think I was being subtle." Frowning, she drew her arms around her waist.

Erik's breaths were coming too quick, too shallow. "I don't understand...are you saying you would want— I thought—" He paused to pull in enough air. "That is, when we talked about why we both agreed to your, ah, husband's arrangement, you said you hadn't meant to follow through."

"No, I said—" with rigid fingers, Christine picked at a piece of lace trim on her skirt "—I said, 'not like that'. Not when it felt like that was all you might want of me. And it is true that I agreed because I wanted to see you again, and I hadn't planned to go through with...it. But, I also thought…well…" Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. "Maybe if things had gone a little differently?" A pained, apologetic look crossed her face as she glanced up at him. "You really were quite cold and harsh when we were first reunited, you know."

Erik winced. "Yes. I know."

"But things changed," she said, a soft half-smile on her lips. "You changed. And, with him…I became more certain that he actually…" She stared down at her feet, where the little pointed toes of her shoes peeked from beneath layers and layers of silk skirts. "I started to reconsider." The corners of her mouth pulled into a frown. "I did try to bring it up."

Wait.

Wait.

Was that what she meant when she'd said they should talk about reconsidering what they were doing during her visits? He couldn't have been that big of a fool.

Could he?

Planting his hands on either side of his thighs, Erik gripped the edge of the sofa, in desperate need to feel something solid beneath him. This had never made sense, had never been real. She would never, never, and yet, she did just say—

"So I thought maybe it would be easier to…ask another way. Without words." The tips of her ears burned a hot red.

That heat filled the space between them, which Erik suddenly was aware was not much space at all. That heat seeped under his skin, into muscle and bone and blood, until the blood simmered in his veins. She had meant for him to want her! Her tilted head and curving spine had not been poor posture, but an invitation, which he had been too stupid and full of self-loathing to read for what it was.

But now…

He could feel a sheen of sweat forming from forehead to chin. It would be much too conspicuous to wipe it off, so instead he wiped his face free of expression, until both sides were just as blank and smooth — and shining.

"It seemed like you...were receptive. And I could have sworn—" She looked hard at him, brows knitted, her gaze searching deeply for something she apparently could not find; she jerked her face away to stare at the smoldering fire. "But then you ran from me. So I thought..." The handkerchief was in her hands again, one wrapping the now heavily-creased swath of linen around the other and pulling tight. "I thought maybe you just weren't interested in...that. With me, anyway."

"Oh no, I was interested," Erik breathed, much too quickly.

Much too honestly, too.

"But Erik," she went on, eyes wide — blessedly it seemed she hadn't heard — "I've had time to think, and it was a mistake, I shouldn't have — Even if you would have— You were right to pull away. It wouldn't have been fair to him, not when I..." She bit her lip.

To him? When she what? What did any of that mean?

But it didn't matter, because the words were already going fuzzy in his head as his blood started pumping hot and urgent.

"And it's never been fair to you." Christine raised a trembling hand to her mouth. "I've been so selfish," she said, as Erik stared, unblinking, at the way her lips brushed so very gently against her fingertips as she spoke. "It was wrong to ask you to do this in the first place, to put you in such a position, just so I could see you again." She leaned forward, the row of little pearl buttons running from waist to throat straining as her breast heaved with quickening breaths. So tiny, those buttons, and so many of them… "And now, to actually consider doing this thing? How could I expect you to want any part of this? It's far too much to ask!" How many buttons were there? Were they difficult to undo? Difficult enough, Erik wondered, to require help? "I can't possibly imagine," she was saying, "that you would let another man raise your child, especially not—"

"You would do this?" Erik cut in, and he knew he shouldn't interrupt, especially when she was probably saying something important, but he could have no more uncertainties, no more potential miscommunications, and he couldn't wait another moment to be sure. "With me? You wanted— you would want me to...help you with this?"

The pause before she answered was not more than the length of one heartbeat. "Well...yes."

Christine had dropped her gaze to her lap, and thank god she had, because it meant she missed seeing Erik's near collapse. He caught himself at the last moment, elbows locked, the heels of his trembling hands braced against his knees, but he'd come dangerously close to sliding off the sofa onto the floor and into a quivering heap, at which point he would have had no choice but to crawl along the Persian rug to her little slippered feet and cover them with kisses and tears while reciting all the reasons he didn't deserve her, which would have almost certainly made her reconsider.

She said she wanted him!

She wanted him, the way no woman had ever wanted him before. Well, maybe wanted in this sense didn't entirely mean she desired him — and it certainly didn't mean she loved him, that was clearly never in the cards — but it was more or less the same! She was not just technically willing, she wanted him to— to… He swallowed heavily. This was not a case of her simply going along with her husband's wishes, her true motivations unknown, no, not anymore. Erik understood now.

She wanted to sing, and she needed him for that — and she wanted a child, and she needed him for that, too.

"I know, in some ways, you're not the...best choice for this," Christine said a little sheepishly, though she needn't have been, she wasn't wrong. "But, to be truthful," a deep flush bloomed on her face, "you're the only one I would choose."

The blaze of red was now spreading down her neck, disappearing under that ridiculously high collar…or so it seemed to Erik — it was a little hard to see clearly, with the tears distorting his vision. Not so many tears that it could be said that he was crying, at least not yet, but who could blame him if he was?

She wanted him! And only him! He had given up, had resigned himself to a life of never experiencing the joys — or even just the standard pleasures — of the flesh; but no! She wanted him!

Wanted him to— to do...that… He wet his dry lips.

But was she sure? Was she quite sure?

Discreetly, he hoped, Erik wiped his palms on the sofa. "Even with…" Drawing in a tight breath, not meeting her eye, he gestured to his mask.

"Yes," Christine answered firmly, but still, Erik's lungs stung from lack of oxygen, not yet ready to breathe a sigh of relief.

"And what if it doesn't work at all?"

"Then at least I can move on, without regret. I'd know that we'd truly done all we could. And he…he feels the same way. It's what makes this endurable for him. And if it's not endurable, what was the point of all this?" She paused, and Erik started at the sudden silence. "Does that make sense?"

Did it? It might have made more sense if he'd been listening to all she'd said, but he'd stopped after it was clear that it wasn't an issue, his mind wandering towards other, more pressing concerns. Like those buttons. And how to say yes, oh god, yes without exposing the full measure of his desperation. But, in any case, it seemed to make some sort of sense to her, and wasn't that what was important?

Erik nodded.

Christine was watching him, expectantly, an anxious tilt to her brows.

He pivoted to face her more fully, even as nagging concerns began to creep around the edges of his awareness. They were worth listening to, undoubtably, but even if the answer to every single one was "That's true, this is a terrible idea, and under no circumstance should you offer to do this," was he really going to turn her down twice?

And so what if it turned out terribly? Even if it went as terribly as possible, he could manage. He'd been through worse.

He could be selfless.

Erik cleared his throat with a little cough.

"What am I doing, I can't ask this of you!" Christine covered her face with the handkerchief, pale hands shaking.

"Then, Christine," Erik softened his voice, infusing it with the noble inflection of magnanimity, while his heart thudded in his throat. "Don't ask."

She lowered the quivering white cloth just enough to peer at him with wide eyes.

"I've taken so much from you. Let me…let me give you this."

An image flashed behind his eyes, of her lying on the bed, back to him, a mix of resignation and irritation hardening her from head to stockinged toe. "But only if that's what you really want," Erik added quickly. "I can't—" With splayed hands and locked elbows, he braced himself against the seat of the sofa. "I won't force myself on you, I won't make you suffer such an experience if you're only—"

"Erik, Erik…" The handkerchief fluttered to the floor as Christine's hand dropped onto his. And then, to Erik's unending disbelief, her soft — unimaginably soft — warm — impossibly warm — fingers slid slowly up over the back of his hand to hook through his own. "I want to," she said, her voice little more than a breath.

Erik, meanwhile, had no breath at all left within him.

How had it come to this? How had he been so blessed? This was a blessing, wasn't it? It was more than he'd hoped, more than he'd dreamed, but so much more that it suddenly began to feel immeasurably heavy, the enormity of the offer he'd just made weighing on him like a...thing that he didn't want to think about right now, really.

And maybe this actually could use a little more thought, maybe he should sleep on it, but then Christine squeezed his hand, and that was more than enough convincing for him.

"Alright, then," he said, quite hoarsely. "It's decided."

Neither made a move, and Erik was in no hurry to do so, because he would happily sit here with her hand on his until next time — or forever, actually. The warmth of her palm calmed him, focused him, and what he focused very calmly on was what would happen next time.

Next time, he would be prepared; he would prepare the room, prepare himself, it would all be perfect. Only a few questions lingered, such as, next time, would there still be so many buttons? And how would he keep himself composed until next time when—

Christine took back her hand and wiped at her eyes. "I suppose I should go and get ready," she said softly, tucking a curl behind her ear.

Erik blinked.

"To go? It's early yet."

"Oh yes, I know." She plucked the handkerchief from the floor and stuffed it into the lace cuff of her sleeve. "I thought maybe we could just...do it now? We still have—" she darted her eyes toward the clock on the mantle "—twenty minutes before we need to leave."

Wait…

Now?

Cold surged through Erik's body, leaving him chilled to the point of pain — and yet, his damned jacket was too warm, his cravat tied too tightly. He sweated and shivered in turn.

Pushing herself to her feet, Christine ran her hands down the front of her skirts. "I think it would be better to spend less time thinking about it beforehand, don't you? Just get this first time out the way?" Her eyes darted again to the mantle, then to the hallway, then to Erik's feet, where they stayed, blinking rapidly — only this time, a blush covered her cheeks rather than tears.

The tears were still there, though; dried, but visible. Which did not, Erik thought — as he felt a tremor begin in his hands and work its way up his arms to shoulders tense enough that they'd be sore for a week — exactly inspire confidence that she actually wanted to do this. But then again, Erik had to suppose that if ever a woman was going to ask him to lie with her, some tears would be involved on her part.

Oh god, she wanted him to lie with her — now.

Now!

He wasn't prepared! He still needed to— well he didn't know what exactly he needed to do, but simply wrapping his mind around this new development would be a start. His mouth opened, but he couldn't get any words at all to form — not that he even knew what to say.

Christine's eyes grew wide. "Unless you'd rather wait!" She was shaking her head, clearly mortified by her presumption. "I'm sorry! I just thought—"

"No— no!" Erik struggled to stand, praying that his unsteady legs would support him. "Now is fine!"

And, actually, now was fine. Because no amount of preparation was worth the possibility that she would change her mind between now and next time, and he would not let himself lose his only chance. So at last, he sucked in a deep breath, and blew it out in a long sigh of relief.

At least, he hoped it was relief.

"Now is perfect," he said, extending his hand, and his voice was firm, and his grip was firm — if just a bit damp — and Christine took his hand without hesitation and held tight and, at long, long last Erik led Christine to the bedroom.

Then, after promising to return in the five minutes she requested, he went to the kitchen, took several pulls from a stale bottle of cooking brandy, and, suitably fortified, staggered through the house until he reached his bathroom, where he removed his mask, splashed his face with cold water — and then retched up each and every last drop in his stomach into the sink, then collapsed, completely limp, onto the floor.

Ah yes, this was off to a truly promising start.

But at least it couldn't get worse.

Up next: We catch up with Raoul, who is playing a very boring game of cards with some random guys, and thinking about his wiener.

Kidding, kidding! Next is just Christine and Erik, who finally gets his chance to show her how a true Don Juan gets it done.

Thanks everyone for reading and for your supportive comments and conversations! I am indescribably relieved to get to this point of the story, and I owe each and every one of you a mountain of gratitude for keeping me motivated. And special thanks to MarilynKC, Phanma, sharp52092, His Midnight Music, Mominator124, BlueBoxFive, FleshofMidnight, and TMara for your comments, they were such a boost when I was feeling down about how this chapter was going!

Special thanks, once again, to Aldebaran, who gave this chapter so much time and attention - you're amazing.

xo Flora