I have done a double update! Make sure to start with Chapter 32 if you're getting caught up with the new chapters.

Chapter 33 — Christine, Christine…Christine

"It was a fine idea to take a walk today, if I do say so myself," Raoul said, squinting up at the clear blue winter sky.

By design, Sundays still belonged only to husband and wife, and after resuming the burden of another month of visits last night, it felt especially freeing to be out in the late morning sunlight, out from the oppressive shadow of him.

"I did worry the weather might not be right for it, but the cold is rather invigorating, don't you think?" Raoul took in a deep breath of the chilled air, puffing out his chest, then blew it out in a satisfied exhale, his frosted breath trailing behind him like smoke from the cigarettes he'd finally given up for good. "No," he continued, "it doesn't get much better than a stroll through the park on a brisk day, the sun shining and not a cloud in the sky, with the most beautiful woman in Paris on your arm. It feels as if the world is just full of possibilities, doesn't it?" He paused for agreement. "Christine?"

"Hm? Oh, yes." Christine glanced up at him and smiled. "Yes, it does." Winter became her: in her fur-trimmed dress and her little hands tucked into an ermine muff, she looked like a delicate watercolor illustration you might find on a charming holiday card, all rosy cheeked and red-lipped. Raoul's heart swelled with pride and hope and an optimism he'd not felt in months.

"You know, I think we've got quite a lot of good things in store for us," he said. On the main path, along which they'd been promenading since they'd arrived, Raoul had counted no less than a dozen baby carriages; certainly, it was a good sign. He hoped Christine had noticed them, too.

Raoul pulled out his pocket watch to pretend to check the time. "We've still plenty of time before we ought to get back for lunch. I was thinking we could take a turn down to the pond and back?" That rambling path, one they'd walked many times before, wound through the woods before ending at the pond—and was much less-traveled, giving Raoul just the opportunity he needed. "What do you think, Christine?" He prodded her with an elbow. "Christine."

She gave a start. "I'm sorry?" she said, blinking up at him. "Oh, yes. The pond. Yes, that would be nice."

Raoul grit his teeth and smiled.

At his insistence, they made a quick stop at a street cart to buy a crumbly little cake to feed to the ducks.

"They've probably already flown off for the season," Christine warned as Raoul handed the vendor the coins.

"And so what if they have?" Raoul replied, tucking the bag into an inside pocket of Christine's cloak. "Then you and I will have it to share." And then he took his wife by the arm and guided her down the gently sloping path which cut through a broad lawn.

A light frost silvered the grass and gave the dirt path a pleasant crunch beneath his feet. "It is nice to spend time together, just you and me," he ventured, after a few minutes of walking in companionable silence, carefully steering the conversation in the right direction. "When the baby comes, it'll be a while before we have this kind of time alone again."

"The baby?" Christine came to a sudden stop—as did Raoul, his shoes skidding on the dirt as he attempted to keep his footing. She glanced back—the few others sharing the path were far enough away that they shouldn't be able to hear—then said, with a concerned quirk of her brows, "Raoul, you— You must know that I'm not… You do understand how it works, right? I couldn't be—"

"No, no of course not." The relief which washed away her incredulous expression would have been slightly offensive if he hadn't seen it so many times before, and known it was meant with a certain affection. "Not yet," he added with a wide grin. "But it'll happen, soon. I'm certain." With a hand at her lower back, he nudged her to continue walking.

Christine grimaced. "I wish I could share your optimism."

"It's all right, I can be optimistic enough for the both of us. You just, ah, keep doing your part."

She looked down, her already pinked cheeks deepening to red.

It wasn't a bad thing, to be so optimistic. Sure, some might say there was a fine line between optimism and stupidity—in fact, there was one man in particular he knew would say so, and probably had said so, specifically in reference to Raoul—but when had anyone made something good happen by expecting it not to? And despite her arguments to the contrary, Raoul knew his wife appreciated his sunny disposition, his optimistic outlook, his grand plans and even grander dreams which countered her own tendency toward anxious pessimism and depressing realism, so when she asked him, quietly,

"Don't you ever worry, Raoul? That when this is all finished, it might—"

—Raoul knew it was his moment to shine.

"No, never!" he beamed down at her. "And do you know why?"

Christine looked back at him warily. "No…?"

"Because when this is finished, I've got something very special planned for us."

"You have?"

"Yes!" He gripped her upper arm, ready to swing her into a hug. "We're going to move to Perros!"

Again Christine stopped short, sending Raoul skidding. "We are?"

It took Raoul a moment to steady himself. "Yes, why not!" he said, stomping the dirt from his shoes. "Do you remember how we used to talk about buying a place right on the water? Well, now is the perfect time!"

Christine was speechless, as he knew she would be.

"Think about it—there's no reason we'd need to stay in the city, once we have our family," he continued as he adjusted Christine's hat and pinned it back into place. The stark winter sun made her face look oddly colorless. "Wouldn't it be so much nicer to raise our child in a safe, quiet, remote place like Perros? We'd be able to leave everything behind and focus on us, just you and me and the baby. We could spend all day at the seashore, like when we were children. And then we'd have nights together, in the quiet and comfort, just us. A little family, far from everything, solid, steady, secure." He tucked a curl behind her ear and squeezed her shoulders. "Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

"You…you want us to leave Paris, permanently?"

Raoul stepped back, flinging his arms wide. "I'm finished with it, I'd leave today and never come back. There's nothing for me here but you." And, of course, too many bad memories, but that went without saying. "Don't you agree?"

Beneath a knitted brow, Christine's eyes searched the ground at her feet, as if she expected to find the answer written there; Raoul wondered if it might help to grab a stick and write the correct—and obvious—answer for her in the dirt.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I guess I don't know how I feel."

Raoul pressed his lips together. Certainly, he would have appreciated a bit more enthusiastic reaction, but he couldn't be too disappointed. She was likely still tired from the night before, and unlike Raoul, she hadn't had time to process this news—it was a lot to take in, it was true.

She would come around.

Raoul huffed out a sharp breath.

"Well, look," he said as he resumed their walk, tugging at her arm for her to come along. Ahead, at a copse of trees, the path forked; he steered her to the right, into the now skeletonized woods, a dense canopy of leafless branches over trunks of peeling bark. "Forget feelings. It's just practical! The conveniences of a city are actually rather inconvenient for a family." Raoul swept his hand toward the line of carriages clattering down the road just beyond the trees. "All the noise, the filth, the crowded streets…it's not worth it when babies don't have any need for fine restaurants, or art galleries, or, ah…theaters, or—or dress shops! We can have dresses made in the city and sent up, that's no problem."

"It's not about dresses, Raoul."

"No?" Raoul grit his teeth to keep his smile in place. "Is there some other reason you don't want to leave the city?"

"I…" Christine gnawed at her bottom lip, long enough that she could have said 'No, none at all' a dozen times, at least. "I'm just not sure I'm ready."

At her admission, all tension left Raoul along with his sigh of relief. That was it, wasn't it? Of course she wasn't ready, not when she couldn't see the future as clearly as he could. After a life as full of challenges and difficulties as hers had been, she was only protecting herself. Didn't want to get her hopes up, wasn't ready to count her chickens—that sort of thing.

"Well, I think that once you're a mother, you'll come around," Raoul said with a reassuring pat on her arm. After all, it was like he'd told her: it was up to him to be optimistic enough for the both of them.

And, Raoul was happy to discover, that was exactly what she needed; with the matter settled and that strong dose of positivity lightening their step, they were able to enjoy another several minutes of pleasant ambling, just the two of them, under a silvery sun so high in the slate blue sky that it cast hardly any shadows at all.

Leaves, pressed as flat and brittle and yellowed as old paper, skittered across the path occasionally, carried by a slight breeze, collecting in drifts which Raoul delighted in scattering with a kick. Above their heads, birds called to one another from the bare branches. Charmingly, Christine's face continued to grow more and more adorably flushed in the cold.

Yes, it was a fine day for a walk indeed.

They were almost to the pond—from a bend in the path, Raoul could see its ice-crusted surface glinting through the trees—when Christine spoke, sharply enough it made Raoul jump.

"But what if it never works?" she demanded. "What then?"

Raoul frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You say you're certain this will work, but what if it doesn't? If I don't end up being a mother, what will we do? Sit alone in a big empty house far from…from everything?" Her forehead wrinkled in a way that could have been worry or anger—or both. "What will I do?"

"Do?" Raoul could have laughed, and he might have, actually; he was oblivious to everything but his relief. So this was what this was about! And here he was, worried that her concerns would be something serious. "You can do whatever you want!"

Christine was silent for a beat. "You don't really mean that."

"I do, certainly! You won't be bored there, no matter what. There are plenty of women's clubs you could join. Or you could take up watercolors, or shell collecting…" Raoul ticked off on his fingers, "maybe we could do some traveling if your nerves are up for it…ah…" He was one short; his thumb still waggled, unaccounted for. He racked his brain. "Oh! Lacemaking! I've heard from some other men that their wives have really enjoyed that. I've seen what you can do with embroidery, I think you could have a real talent for it."

"Lacemaking? You think my talents are in lacemaking." Christine's voice was as strained as her grip around Raoul's arm. "Is there really nothing else?"

"No, of course not! There's also, ah…" Raoul shifted his shoulders, trying to let a little cool air in at his collar. He'd gone with his heaviest wool overcoat, but perhaps that was overkill; sweat was gathering at the nape of his neck. "Floral arranging?"

"Floral arranging!" Christine pulled her arm from his and jammed her hand back into the muff. She looked away, pointedly.

Raoul took the opportunity to loosen his cravat, just a bit. "Well, you have many talents. It's only that…"

It was only that it was so much easier if they could just not talk about—

"We can't even talk about the one that's most important to me?"

"Yes— no!" Raoul flinched, worried, momentarily, that she'd somehow read his thoughts. Which she certainly couldn't. He was reasonably sure. "Of course we can talk about it."

"But we don't."

"Well that's because…" Raoul cut his eyes toward Christine, checking for any indication that maybe his wife did in fact harbor untapped powers of mind-reading. Just in case. But she was only glowering down at the ground, eyes trained on her feet as she navigated the small slope down to the lawn surrounding the pond.

"Ah, because…" he floundered.

How did they get to this? They were talking about their future, not their past, this…issue which no, they did not talk about. And for good reason.

And to be talking about it now, of all godforsaken times! When Raoul gambled with the only thing he truly loved each and every time he sent Christine below the opera house, back to the arms of her Angel of Music, that scoundrel who was always—

Raoul's head snapped up, his eyes narrowed with sudden understanding. He darted a look around—the area was deserted except for a few people at the far end.

"Why has this even come up, Christine?" he hissed. "Is he putting this in your head? If he's trying to put you under his sway again, I swear to God I'll go down there right now and tell that scheming, opportunistic ingrate we're done."

"Why would you think this was anything to do with him?" Christine stopped and pivoted to face Raoul, chin lifted and shoulders drawn in tight. "I was singing long before I ever met Erik. Or you, for that matter."

"Yes, but that's all in the past. Why is it being brought up now, if not for him?"

Raoul's stomach began to sink as tears rose in Christine's eyes—but then her expression hardened. She rummaged in her cloak and pulled out the crumpled pastry bag. "It wasn't Erik," she spat. With a thud, the bag hit right above his heart, and then Christine turned on her heel and took off, back down the path from which they'd just come.

Raoul scrubbed a hand over his face as he picked up the bag. He would go after her, of course, like he always did…but he'd learned that giving her a head start would give her time to calm down and be a bit more reasonable.

He took a few deep breaths while squinting out at the pond; it was ringed in encroaching ice, the solid, sharp layer creeping toward the center, circling, constricting. And not one goddamned duck in sight.

This shouldn't have gone so wrong. There was an agreement—unspoken between them, but an agreement nonetheless—that singing was off the table. It was unfair, really, to turn the subject towards it, or to act as if Raoul was in the wrong to question the suspicious timing.

How he wanted to grab a stone and chuck it at the sheet of forming ice, watch it shatter and sink below the surface. But in the end, he settled for the worthless little cake, squashed into a shapeless lump in his twitching hand. He watched as it bounced stupidly along the ice before sliding into the water, then crumpled the little paper bag in his fist and jammed it into his pocket.

"It wasn't Erik."

Like hell. Everything always came back to Erik.

Erik, Erik, Erik. Raoul scuffed the gravel with the toe of his shoe, punctuating each repetition with another kick. How he wished he'd never heard the name. Years ago, that morning not long after they'd married, when Christine first told Raoul that the mythical figure who had loomed over their lives actually had a name, and a commonplace enough one at that, he'd never thought—

Wait.

Raoul's lips pressed into a hard line.

Wait.

Christine had made it a surprisingly long way up the path by the time Raoul caught up with her—or tried to. Even with his longer strides, he found himself needing to hustle to stay in step alongside her.

"When did you find out?" Self-righteousness gave a sharp, satisfied edge to his words. "When did you find out his name?"

There was a stutter in Christine's gait, but she caught herself, and resumed her brisk pace, Raoul still right on her heels. "Excuse me?" Her voice had the huskiness of tears, but her eyes were dry—and indignant. "Raoul, we were talking about—"

But Raoul would not be distracted. "All during that time at the opera," he continued, raising his voice just a bit, "when we were…dealing with that whole business, you never said it. You didn't tell me until after we were married. Why? Why hadn't you told me before?"

"You're asking me this now?"

"If we're going to dredge up the past, I think it's fair game, no?"

"I—" Her pace slowed, but only momentarily. "It didn't come up."

"Didn't come up! Is that how it works? As long as something doesn't come up, then it's fine to keep it secret?"

Christine stumbled again; this time Raoul caught her by the arm. "Christine, slow down," he said, looking back, in vain, at the path to identify the rock or divot responsible, "you're going to hurt yourself."

At last she stopped; though Raoul couldn't see them, he could tell Christine was wringing her hands inside their fur cover. "Don't you think this is a conversation we should have back home?"

"Why? There's no one around," Raoul said with a glance over his shoulder to be certain. "Is this really such a difficult question to answer?"

Yes, she was upset and uncomfortable, but it needn't have been this way. At this moment, they could have been having a nice little chat, deciding if they wanted six or seven bedrooms in their new place, or what kind of flowers to have the gardener plant out front, but here they were, their time together back on the subject of him, the subject of their bright future sucked down into that dark current that ran beneath their lives. And whose fault was that? Not Raoul's!

Christine's shoulders sagged. "I just…didn't think you'd want to know."

She wasn't wrong, actually. It had been much easier to think of him as a thing. Nor did Raoul particularly want to know about a lot of things, things which were better left unsaid—this whole conversation, for example. But now that they had started it, they were going to finish it.

And anyway, it didn't make sense. Raoul frowned. "I can't understand…Giry didn't mention she knew his name, when she told me what she knew of him, at the Masquerade. When did she tell you?"

"Well…" She let her hands slip from the muff, letting it dangle on its chain. Her gloved fingers picked at the fur trim of her cloak. "She didn't tell me. He did."

"He did?" Raoul could feel his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "When? I was there at Il Muto, the Masquerade…the graveyard…" he counted off on his fingers. "And even that final night, when…well, you know the one—I was there almost the entire time. Am I to believe he took a break from forcing you into a wedding dress to finally introduce himself?"

"No, no," Christine said. "Before that."

"Before?" Obviously even as naive as Christine could be, the game would have been over the moment the voice introduced himself as 'Erik the Angel". Which meant…

"Ah, right, of course. That first time he took you, the gala night. Wait…" Resentment flared hot in his constricting chest. "You knew that far back and yet you waited until—"

"Ah—no," Christine interrupted, very quietly. "Not then, either."

Raoul's head snapped in a dizzying double-take. "No?" He counted again quickly on his fingers. "But those are the only times you saw him."

"Not…exactly."

"Not exactly? They are or they aren't!"

Christine winced; her hands wrapped themselves in the folds of her cloak. "They aren't, then. After the gala, before Il Muto…I saw him then, as well."

"What?" Raoul's voice was rising rapidly, right along with his blood pressure. "You spent time with him after he'd kidnapped you?"

"Shh!" Christine hissed, pulling him along the path until they were tucked into a bend—a semi-private nook where they could see in either direction for some way. "He didn't kidnap me, Raoul, I told you that. I went willingly then…" She looked off to the side. "And the other times, too."

"Times? How many times were there?"

"I don't know…maybe…a dozen?"

What Raoul would have given for a bench; he staggered under his own weight. "I don't understand…" He ran his hand through his hair. "You were frightened—you said so!"

"I was, yes," Christine said carefully. "By his face, and even more so by his anger. And the night of Il Muto, when I realized what he was capable of, I was…terrified. But that wasn't all I felt. There was still his music, the way it made me feel. And he was…he was so sad. And was so…so…" She shook her head. "I told you all that."

She had, that was true. Raoul could still see her haunted eyes, hear her pleas for safety, feel the wind at their backs as they stood on that rooftop. "But…but you made it sound as if you'd only seen him the once!"

"I…may have condensed things, a bit."

"What exactly did you condense?" asked Raoul, through clenched teeth. His fingers itched for a cigarette.

"A few days after he first showed himself the night of the gala, he—he spoke to me through the mirror again, and asked if I wanted to continue with the lessons. And…well, I said yes. He really was an incredible teacher," she said, watching Raoul from the corner of her eyes, but closely. "The best teacher. And so we picked up where we'd left off. He gave me singing lessons. That's all."

Raoul crossed his arms over his chest. "When?"

"During my normal practice hours."

"Where?"

"In my dressing room…mostly."

"Mostly?" Raoul arched a brow.

"Sometimes…"

Raoul braced himself.

"Sometimes we went down to his place."

"Oh Christ," he moaned.

"To practice! It was much better with the piano or organ as accompaniment, rather than the violin."

"The violin?" A niggling feeling, like a thought half-remembered, tickled at his brain.

"Yes, that's what we— That's what he used to play for the lessons, in my dressing room," she said in a rush, and the odd feeling dissipated under more pressing matters, like the image of that old lecher alone with her in her dressing room. "He played, and we sang. And that's all we did." She bit her lip. "Mostly."

"Mostly!"

"Well, we also talked, of course. After Father died, I was so lonely, Raoul." Christine looked up at him with pleading eyes, and he did feel a pang of sympathy for the lost, lonely girl she'd been then. "I know it sounds silly now, but the angel had been one of my only friends, and we used to talk a lot, the angel and I. Later, I realized that it was because he had been lonely, too. He'd been lonely his whole life."

Again Raoul felt a sympathetic pang, but this time, quite despite himself, he felt sorry—just a little…for Erik.

"It was…awkward, at first, after how…badly it went, that first time I…saw him," she said. "But eventually we began talking again, as friends. That's when he shared his name."

That small feeling of sympathy evaporated; jealousy and distrust simmered in its place. Raoul's lip curled. "He shared more than that, I'd wager."

"Yes, actually," Christine shot back. "He shared many things, yet nothing as ungentlemanly as that."

The tips of Raoul's ears burned hot.

"If you must know, he shared a little of his history and stories about his travels, some opera house gossip. When we had time, he showed me around, beneath the opera. And…" her voice thickened, grew unsteady, "and he shared his music."

Raoul turned away. It was too much to process. The man had been a single-minded villain, not…all these other things. Christine had been scared, Raoul had rescued her. The only reason Erik had redeeming qualities was because, well, Christine had redeemed him. And the only thing she felt about the time the two had shared back then was that she was glad it was over.

The simplicity of it all was what made their current arrangement all right. What did it mean if it wasn't so simple? Raoul started to stagger down the path, unsure of where he was going, only that he needed to go.

"But, Raoul," Christine caught him by the arm and held tight. Her eyes were large and dark and very serious. "I also learned how possessive he could be, back then. How obsessive. How controlling and unstable and demanding."

"And yet that didn't prevent you from following him into a dark cellar over and over again!" Raoul tugged his arm away. "I thought you needed to be saved, but you were leading him on the whole time."

The sob she choked out would have made Raoul feel quite guilty if he wasn't hurting so much himself. "I knew you wouldn't understand then," she said, as tears filled her eyes in earnest. "Or now."

He looked away. He had seen her shed more than enough tears over that wretch. Where were the tears for Raoul!

"Why Christine? When we discussed this—this proposal, you didn't tell me about any of this. You could have told me then. You should have," he said, his voice breaking over the word. "Don't you think I would have liked to have known that there was so much more…history there than I knew? But you kept it secret. Why?"

"Because..."

Raoul's stomach plummeted at the expression of apology forming on Christine's face.

"Because I thought that if you knew, you would put an end to it right then, and I wanted—I needed to see him again."

The breath caught in Raoul's lungs.

To—to see him again? Christine had let Raoul put himself through hell for months, risked their marriage, had let them place their entire future in the hands of a former adversary, all for a little reunion with…with…whatever it was that man was to her?

No, he did not want to think about what that man was to her.

"Well you've certainly seen him, haven't you," he leered, letting the doubt and confusion and hurt bubble up as spite. "You're right, if I would have known, I never would have allowed this."

And then, setting his jaw so that he would not say anything worse, he grasped her arm and stomped off, his eyes never straying from the path, leaving no chance he might see her cry.

The ten minutes it took to walk back to the waiting carriage and the ten more it took to arrive at their door were spent in frigid silence, broken only when Christine realized that Raoul did not mean to follow her inside.

"Where are you going," she asked, a note of panic in her voice.

"Out," Raoul said, already several steps down the sidewalk. "I need a cigarette."

…

It would have been considerate for Raoul to bathe before pulling on a nightshirt and collapsing into bed, but Raoul wasn't feeling especially considerate, if he was to be honest. Not that he would have had the energy, even if he had been his usual considerate self. As it was, a full half of the reason he was in his own bed tonight was that he couldn't muster up the energy to climb another flight of stairs to a spare room.

The other half, of course, was that no matter what, no matter what new information or past revelations, Raoul would forever and always be the one to share Christine's bed—the only one.

"Where have you been?" Christine's voice wavered from semi-darkness the moment Raoul slipped between the sheets.

If Raoul were a different man, a cruel or manipulative man, he might leave his wife to wonder. Just as he now had so much to wonder about.

But then again, perhaps a different man wouldn't be feeling like this. Raoul tried on a supercilious tone. "Are you the only one who gets to keep secrets?" he sniped—and then regretted it immediately when he heard her soft, wounded gasp.

He sighed, giving up the game before he'd even finished playing his first hand. "I went to a shop and bought the biggest, most expensive box of cigarettes they had, and then I went to the club and smoked and drank until I thought I'd be sick, and then I lost about a hundred francs at cards, and I sat around feeling very sorry for myself—and I hated every moment of it. So then I walked along the Seine and thought about how stupid I am until the cold sobered me up enough to come back home, to you."

Raoul rolled over and took Christine in his arms; she wrapped hers around him in return. "Are you very angry with me?" she asked into his chest.

"No," he sighed again. "Not very."

Truthfully, Raoul wasn't angry at all. He was tired, and a bit numb, but not angry.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Raoul kissed the top of her head. "I know. And…I'm not happy about it, but… it doesn't matter anymore," he said, which was the conclusion he'd come to while lighting the first cigarette, but would not let himself concede until he'd sunk down to the absolute depths of his self-pity. He'd started the day off with his starry eyes on their future, only to end up blindsided by the past. But the past didn't change the present.

There had never been any chance of changing his mind about the path they were on. They were in too far, had already risked so much.

And there was still so much good in store for them.

"That's all been said and done," he said—he did not pause for agreement—"and as I've told you before, all that matters is the future. Our future."

If she would have asked, Raoul would have told Christine that he was far too tired. But as soon as the last word left his mouth, she was kissing him, and so at once he was kissing her back. And even if Raoul couldn't help but wish, when they joined, that it didn't always feel as if there was the ghost of someone else there too, it was nice to remember that at least her lips had always been and only would be for him alone.

Well…except for that one time. But it was fine, because that time she had shared them with the other man, it had been out of necessity, Raoul had seen that with his own horrified, disbelieving eyes—necessity, pure and simple.

Although…it never had made sense that she hadn't shared them just once, enough to make her point, but that second time, too, even longer, and deeper…which, oh god, to consider now, in light of the new information he'd learned today, could be potentially devastating…

But that was one of the many benefits of letting go of the past and focusing only on the future, wasn't it?

…

The next evening, Raoul found Christine waiting for him in the front parlor when he finally made it back home, the scent of roasting chicken following him up the stairwell from the kitchen. She jumped to her feet as soon as he appeared in the hall.

"Where were you all day?" she asked, all big, searching eyes and twisting hands.

"Getting some good news!" Raoul said from the doorway, a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm. "I've been to meet with our solicitor. He thinks he can get us into a place in Perros by late spring!"

Christine blanched. "But Raoul, I thought we were going to wait until…until…" Her eyes darted around the room, as if worried it would disappear from around her. "We hadn't decided anything."

Raoul smiled a tight smile. "I think the decision has been made for us, hm?" He shifted his hold on the papers and went to her, wrapping an arm around her stiffened shoulders. "We're going to see this through, and then we're going to make a fresh start. We can focus on our future, and forget about Paris, and everything to do with the past. Right?" he asked, giving her a little squeeze.

"Or…" he added, when she didn't answer, "maybe we should just stop now? If you have any concerns about…moving on, once it's time? We're meant to be there tonight, I can go by myself and let him know we've decided—"

"No, no," Christine cut in, a little too loudly. She took a deep breath. "You're right. I need—we need to see this through. And then…I'll be ready."

Raoul kissed the top of her head. "Good. I'm glad we're on the same page. I'm going to head upstairs and freshen up before dinner, I'll see you in a few."

He was half out the door when Christine called out his name.

"Wait," she said, dashing over to him, "I—I forgot something…" With trembling fingers, she dug under her bodice and pulled out a creased and worn envelope—edged in black. "I was meant to give you this." She turned it in her hand for a moment, then held it out, eyes fixed upon the carpet.

"What's this about?" Raoul asked, frowning.

"I…" Christine hesitated, briefly, then set her jaw and, in a voice which was clear and unwavering for the first time this evening, told him, "I don't know."

With a scowl, Raoul tore open the envelope and pulled out the ridiculous sheet of funereal stationery. His eyes dragged over the ostentatiously ornate scrawl.

Vicomte,

Seasonal conditions have made passage by the usual route treacherous. We shall need to use a different path, which will add approximately another twenty minutes to the trip, each way. You will still bring her at 9, and I shall have her back to you by 11:30, let's say, to be safe. I should not want to rush her along a slippery path.

This is not negotiable, unless you do not care as much about your wife's safety as I do.

Your obedient servant,

E

A bitter tang rose up Raoul's constricted throat as the paper crumpled in his crushing fingers. He swallowed it down.

This was not…ideal, but soon, this too would be in the past; it would be one more thing that didn't matter.

"Well," he said, clenching his teeth into a smile. "I hope you're well-rested."

How could he object when he'd already won? What was another hour and a half spent with another man? Well…in addition to the first hour, three times a week, for possibly another three months, at least…

Nevermind, no need to count, it was of no consequence.

Not when they had a lifetime.

"It looks like you'll be having a late night! Quite a few late nights, actually—apparently you need more time. I am sorry, I know how difficult this is on you," Raoul sighed, tossing the letter into the fire. He watched her as she watched it burn, her face pale and drawn and so very sad in the flickering light. He sighed again. "Poor Christine."

Hello again! Thank you all so much for patience with this story, and for sticking with me. I had a lot of unexpected obstacles come up which caused a delay way beyond what I'd ever expected, but I'm back. I have appreciated so much the comments which have come in during that break, they kept me motivated to get these chapters finished and keep the story going. You guys really are the best, and I can't thank you enough for all your kind and thoughtful words.

I know not everyone loves a Raoul chapter, so I have been kind in return, and gotten both out of the way in one update. YOU'RE WELCOME. That said, these were interesting chapter to write, so many feelings going on, so much mess, and if you're here, who doesn't love mess? So, what do you think? Too much mess for Raoul and Christine to have a happy ending? Have the scales tipped in Erik's favor? Do you really think Erik is capable of letting the scale do its job, without sabotaging it, either on purpose or unintentionally? Are you so sure a small scale would contain him? We'll begin to find out in the next chapter, I guess!

Thank you Deb, for the read through, the suggestions, and the encouragement. You are a gem.