It's been a while, so just a little reminder, the events of this chapter immediately follows the last, where Erik has just tucked a letter into the bodice of Christine's dress and instructed her to deliver it.

Chapter 32 – A Temporary Situation

Poor Christine.

Raoul nudged a half-eaten fruit tart with his fork and sighed.

Poor, poor Christine.

The second month had come and gone without success, and now here they were, back at it again—Raoul set up in the corner of a late night cafe while Christine suffered through the first of yet another month of visits.

And she was suffering, there was no doubt of that. Over the previous month, the frequency and duration of the appointments had begun to take their toll. Where once she could hardly keep her hands off of Raoul on the ride home, now, after she'd been with him, Christine returned exhausted, with barely enough energy left for a quick bath before she crawled into bed and fell asleep within minutes. In between visits, she'd become increasingly withdrawn, spending an unusual amount of time lost in thought, shifting in her seat or biting at her lip, clearly distressed. And then, when her monthly came, there was no mistaking the reason for her palpable relief—an entire week's reprieve from the visits!—which was satisfying enough that it tempered Raoul's own disappointment over yet another month's failed attempt.

But the third time's the charm, isn't that what everyone says? Yes, this, the third month, Raoul had a good feeling about it. And Christine must, too, if her bright eyes and breathless voice when she came to tell him that she was ready to resume their attempts was any indication.

Raoul speared a bit of plum and popped it into his mouth. Oh, how selfless his wife was. How strong. How he'd admired her optimism tonight as she readied herself to go, smiling to herself in the mirror as she pinned her hair into place and swept powder over her glowing cheeks, unaware that Raoul watched from the doorway. How touched he'd been when she paused at the gate and, with a sad smile, thanked him and told him everything would be all right. And how, when Raoul clasped her hand and said No, no, thank you, for your courage and your fortitude—adding that he couldn't imagine how hard it would be for her, or how long it must feel, down below; how unfair it was for him to ask her to take such an enormous load upon herself; but how he had every faith that, if she could ride it out a little longer, there would be a happy ending—how his heart swelled when she put on a brave face and nodded mutely.

Yes, poor, brave Christine.

But the truth was, she wasn't the only one who would be facing another difficult month. And while he could never compare his suffering to hers, if Raoul was honest with himself—which at last he'd been doing consistently!—and while he would never ask more of her than she had to give—not when he could, ah, take matters into his own hands to relieve a bit of frustration—Raoul was starting to feel just a bit—

Actually, no. It was fine. He was fine! Really he was, this time.

He shoveled the last bite of the tart into his mouth, and, when it stuck in his throat—such a dry crust!—he swallowed the rest of his coffee in a single gulp to help get it down. And then, because he still had another twenty minutes left, he had the waiter refill his cup. And then again, once more. And truly, there was no better way to spend the remaining twenty minutes than to enjoy a coffee—or three?—indulge in a good book—so good he'd read the first page four times tonight—and think about how well this all was going.

It was going so well! It could be so much worse! It was fine.

And then the hour was up, and it was time to walk the half block to the opera and reclaim his wife, and then they would ride home in the carriage, she would bathe, and she would snuggle against him and then…they would go to sleep.

Which, again, was fine. A gentleman could control his impulses.

She was already waiting for him, just inside the gate, her back turned to him. Raoul sighed to himself. Even the back of her head was lovely. Pale streetlight glittered bronze in her pinned-up curls, and Raoul could not wait to get her home and take out those pins and thread his fingers through the silky ringlets as she slept upon—

Raoul froze, mid-step. A dark shape roughly the size and shape of a man's gloved hand—a long, slender, graceful hand—had appeared, and seemed to slide from her shoulder, up her neck, to cradle the back of Christine's head.

A strangled sound escaped his throat.

It was then that he realized he couldn't have seen what he thought he had. No, the hand-shaped thing wasn't a hand. And no, that flash of white, about the size of a half-mask and about the height it would be were it being worn by someone roughly Erik's height, just above her head—so close to her head—that wasn't a mask. Because at that sound, Christine whipped around and Raoul could see that there was nothing there, only darkness, and he had to laugh at himself. Seeing things in the shadows!

"Here, my love, I've got you," Raoul said, jogging up to the gate. He pulled Christine through to the sidewalk and wrapped her in his arms. "Oh you're so cold! Let's get you out of that sewer and back to our home and into our bed so I can warm you up." He kissed her burning cheek—scalded by the cold, no doubt, the way that skin kissed by winter air turns as hot and pink as a blush—and squeezed her rigid shoulders. Then Raoul raised his voice a little, for no particular reason. "We can hold each other all night long, with no clothes at all—that's the best way to share body heat, they told us that in Naval training. And I'll kiss you and put my hands all over you," he added, just…because. And then, with a final glare back into the empty darkness, Raoul escorted his wife the few blocks back to the waiting carriage.

"You're very quiet tonight, Christine!" he said, over the rumbling of the wheels over the road. "You must be exhausted. Straight to bed with you as soon as we're home, hmm?" He peered around at her, but she hadn't seemed to have even heard; she looked out the window with an expression of deep consternation, fingers plucking at the piping which trimmed the neckline of her dress. "Christine?" Raoul nudged her and she jumped a little. "Is there something wrong with your dress? You've been fussing with the bodice, is it—"

"No!" She flinched away from Raoul's reaching hand and pulled her cape around herself. "No, sorry. It's fine. I just…" She smoothed a hand down the front of her torso. "I'm just ready to get home and change out of this corset," she said, smiling apologetically.

Raoul caught the tips of her fingers and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. "Maybe I could help with that," he said, with a touch of his old roguish charm.

He didn't want to have to pretend he didn't notice her eyes fly wide, or her hands snap back protectively over her chest, but it was much easier that way.

This was a temporary situation; why stir the pot and ruin the soup before it was done, when all he needed to do was withstand the simmer long enough? After all, if the pot started out cool enough, you hardly even noticed the heat. If a frog could manage, he could too.

Although…perhaps that wasn't the best analogy.

In any case, it was how he'd made it through so far, and it was working just fine. It would all be worth it in the end. You can bear much more than you think when you know it's not forever; you just grit your teeth and take it on the chin, and if you can do it with a smile, so much the better for everyone.

So even if Raoul's stomach sank a bit more each time when he noticed how long it took for her to come to bed, or how she hesitated before getting in, or how she seemed to start and then abruptly stop speaking several times, it was much easier to smile indulgently than ask what was wrong. And even if it was disappointing—though not surprising—that, in the end, she gave him a quick kiss goodnight and rolled away onto her side, Raoul grinned up at the ceiling like a fool—the good kind—as he waited to drift off to sleep.

At the end of the day, what was an hour spent in another man's bed, when Christine was here with him, in theirs? Raoul wasn't the one spending the night in a basement, alone.

It wouldn't be like this forever. Once it was all over, they could put it behind them—far behind them.

Say, five hundred kilometers or so behind them.

Lucky, lucky Christine. She would be so thrilled when Raoul told her about their plans.