NOTE: Chapters 39 & 40 were uploaded simultaneously, so if you're coming in at this one, make sure to start at 39!

Chapter 40 — An Unexpected Guest

Raoul wasn't hiding, he was just…hoping he wouldn't be found.

Since breakfast, he'd spent the day finding excuses to scoot from room to room, never sharing a space with his wife for more than a minute. Now he was holed up in his study, comparing wallpaper samples and shuffling through drapery swatches, one of his favorite ways to distract himself and unwind a bit. Playing stupid could be exhausting.

Last night had been the beginning of the fifth month of their arrangement with Erik. It was a relief to start a new month, and a new chance at starting their family. Yet Christine returned quiet and, dare he say it, introspective—and there was nothing that might explain such sullen introspection that could be anything good for Raoul.

By morning, the situation hadn't improved. As they sipped their coffee, to fill the void left by Christine's pensive silence, Raoul chattered away inanely, and most important, incessantly. It was a simple solution: if she had something weighing on her mind, Raoul simply would not give her the opportunity to speak it.

But when she placed her empty cup on its saucer, she drew a breath and set her mouth in a firm line, and Raoul's babbling evaporated as his mind went blank with panic. He could think of only one thing to do: run for it. He knocked back the rest of his coffee and scurried away as fast as possible with an excuse about "business" and "very important matters" and a smile so regretful he almost convinced himself.

However, since then, Christine had attempted to corner him no less than four times, each time twisting a handkerchief in her trembling hands, her bottom lip bitten raw, darting eyes unable to meet his; each time Raoul managed some flimsy excuse to slip away just as she opened her mouth to speak.

Eventually, she seemed to have given up. Out of abundant caution, Raoul had his apologies sent and took a light lunch alone in his study. Once that had come and gone and still, no Christine, he at last sat back in his chair and exhaled, letting his tensed shoulders go limp, cautiously hopeful that whatever had been troubling her had passed.

It hadn't.

Without knocking, without a word, Christine slipped inside the room, closing the door behind her.

Raoul stood. Gritting his teeth, he pasted on a smile. "Ah, Christine! Perfect timing. Say, what do you think about…" He scrabbled at the pile of swatches on his desktop, snatched up a scrap of golden silk, and held it up against a square of sky blue paper with a subtle damask print. "How about these drapes with this wallpaper, for the parlor?" He'd gotten quite good at improvising obliviousness if he might say so himself.

"They're fine," she said, insincerely; she hadn't even looked at them. Rather, she remained standing with her back pressed against the door, looking at the pointed tips of her shoes.

"You think so? You don't prefer an ivory with the blue?"

"Raoul…" Christine paused, then pulled in a deep breath. "We need to talk."

"Yes, we do," he agreed, grateful he'd only picked at his lunch as his stomach lurched into his throat. He smiled wider. "I told the contractor we'd have our final choices in by Monday."

Her brow furrowed deeply. "I don't want to talk about wallpaper."

"No, of course not! This blue's the clear choice for the parlor. It's the drapes I'm unsure about. What about…hang on…it was right here…" Raoul dug into the pile, in search of nothing other than the means to stall long enough that she would get frustrated or bored and leave. He hummed as he sifted through, to really sell his nonchalance.

He was so committed to the act that he didn't notice Christine's approach until he felt her fingers digging into his arm. "Raoul, this is important."

"Well! I'm so glad you agree! We'll be living with this for a while, so we—we really need to be sure we're making a good choice, we wouldn't want to—"

Christine tightened her grip on his arm. "Please," she said. "I know you've been avoiding me, and I promise I'll look at whatever it is you want me to look at later, but please, will you just listen to me now?"

Raoul looked down at Christine's clutching fingers and then back up at her eyes, brimming with tears and silently pleading—pleading with him to be the man who'd run headlong into danger for her sake, righteous and bold and sure, not a coward who used stupidity as a shield, choosing to ignore the evidence right in front of him as a means of self-preservation, too afraid that if the unspoken was spoken, things would change, irrevocably.

He could face that fear, and risk everything. Or he could hold out, just a little longer.

The choice was obvious.

Raoul took Christine's hand from his arm and held it in both of his own. "I am listening, Christine." He smiled and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "You said you liked the gold with the blue wallpaper, right? See? I heard you."

Raoul braced himself, expecting frustration, exasperation, maybe even anger. Any of those he could have weathered; those types of feelings were fleeting, and there was always a new day to make it up to her. But instead, it was as if a light dimmed in his wife's eyes, a closed, shuttered expression descending over her face, and Raoul felt a cold fear much worse than that of confrontation. He saw himself reflected in that expression as a selfish, unreachable man. Not a hero, not a champion—not even a partner. And he felt a deep shame for just how difficult he'd made it for his wife to be able to simply talk to him.

It had been what he felt was best for himself, but it clearly had not been what was best for her.

Raoul dropped Christine's hand and collapsed into his seat. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're right."

He said no more. It took enough for him to be able to own up to his evasion; explaining the reasoning behind it required more courage than he had at the moment. But at least it was a start. "What is it, my love?" He got up and pulled a chair over for her to sit opposite him, and again took her hand. "I'm listening."

Christine's face softened with gratitude, her eyes warmed with affection, and for a few wonderful seconds, Raoul felt the satisfaction of knowing he'd done the right thing.

And then her expression took an abrupt turn to ashen fear. Raoul's stomach sank.

"What I—I've been wanting to say—" Her hand felt clammy between Raoul's palms. "What I need to say is—is that…"

Something twisted in Raoul's chest. It wasn't only nerve-racking to watch her struggle, it was also painful, and selfish. The kind thing to do, and the way to make up for weeks of deliberate frustration, was to stop playing dumb, and not force Christine say the words which seemed to be so difficult for her to say. And Raoul was nothing if not kind, wasn't he?

"I already know," he said, softly.

Christine's eyes snapped open. "You do?"

"Well," Raoul laughed a little, unnerved by the way she was staring, wide-eyed at him, "you've not exactly been hiding it well, have you?"

"I haven't?" she said, after a pause. Her voice was very tight.

"Look, Christine, I know…" Raoul shifted forward until he was perched on the edge of his seat. There would be no coming back from this, once the words were spoken. There would be no more ignoring it, no possibility that they could go on as before—no chance Raoul wasn't about to end the night, and possibly every night, sleeping alone after the way this would almost certainly go. He swallowed hard. "I know you want to sing again."

"Oh," Christine said, blinking. She pulled her hand back and twisted her fingers together. "Oh. That's actually not what—"

"But I've been thinking about it," Raoul forged ahead, "and, you know, there's no reason you couldn't. The sun room at the new place, with all that tile? The acoustics must be wonderful. Actually, it would be lovely to hear you sing a little something again! Maybe we could invite a friend or…"

The words dried up under the scorching heat of her withering, disbelieving look and Raoul pressed his lips together, wondering whether it might not be too late to pivot back to curtains.

He sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. "I know, I know, it's not a stage, but…" He grimaced, and hoped it looked apologetic. "You're a vicomtesse. You know there are certain expectations, and… Well, it's not done. You knew that when we married. We agreed, that was all going to stay in the past."

"No," she said curtly, crossing her arms over her chest, her lips pursed tight—a demeanor startlingly different than only moments ago, "we didn't. We didn't agree on anything, we just didn't talk about it. We haven't talked about many things we really should have, Raoul."

"Well that's because we—we have an understanding!" Raoul's face felt hot, and he wasn't entirely sure why; she was wrong, their understanding aside. Not talking about…certain things was the only way to live with them. Even talking about not talking about those things was risky, and a breach of that understanding. "And it's worked!" he said, spreading his hands. "Look how happy we are."

Christine looked down at her lap. "But I'm not happy. Not entirely, I mean."

Raoul's face went slack. "You're not?" Even to his own ears, he sounded like a simpleton.

"Raoul, I love you…" she began, haltingly, and never had he imagined those words could feel so ominous. "You've been nothing but good to me, and every day I feel so lucky to have you. And I love our life together, I do. Even in difficult times there has still been happiness…" She bit her lip.

"But…?" The word felt like it might crumble to dust in his mouth.

She sucked in a breath. "But I was a singer—I am a singer. I gave that up, because that was the only choice I had. I've spent these last years pretending like this part of myself doesn't exist because it's better…easier, that way. But the truth is, I don't feel whole without music." She raised her eyes to meet his. "Can you understand?"

Unfortunately, he could.

Raoul hadn't forgotten who Christine was. If he allowed himself, he could still see her, as if only days, not years, had passed, glittering gold in the footlights, her smile stretched wide as the scarf grasped between triumphantly raised hands, the cascading notes of her crystal voice piercing him straight through the heart like Cupid's arrows, leaving him no choice but to fall in love with her right there and then.

There was no denying it: he'd loved a singer. He'd been proud of that—of her—despite the judgment of friends and family, and of society. He'd felt the joy of her successes right along with her, and yes, he could admit that she never shone as brightly as when she was on stage, yes, he knew how much her art meant to her, the connection to her father, yes, yes, he knew all of that, of course he understood…

But he wished he didn't. How could he answer her question when a creeping, choking unease was wriggling its way through his chest?

"I thought you wanted to be a mother," he said instead. He hated the accusatory tone of his voice; he hated that it sounded like a question.

Christine was silent for a moment. "Must I want only one or the other? Can't I be two things at once?"

Her tone had been gentle and undemanding, and yet Raoul's unease was tightening into suffocating dread, because to answer to those questions would be to acknowledge a fear so unspeakable that he'd spent more than half a decade burying it down as deep as he could, smothering those little germs of worry with blind confidence and selective denial:

The fear that Raoul was not—had never been—would never be enough for Christine.

And that couldn't be. It couldn't. For a love to be true, as theirs was, then both partners must be everything to one another. Christine was everything to Raoul, why shouldn't it be the same for her!

But while Raoul was confident that he was a good husband and hoped someday soon to be a good father, and could give her a comfortable life of love and companionship and light…music was a different story. He could appreciate music, and he certainly did! But only as an enthusiast—as a patron, not a performer. He could not grant the ecstasy music brought her, couldn't inspire it within her, couldn't create it with her.

And the worst part was there was someone—the very worst possible someone, whose arms Raoul had rather bafflingly chosen to deliver her right into—who could give Christine what Raoul could not.

Raoul knew it. Erik certainly knew it.

And there was no way Christine didn't know it, too.

A sour taste filled Raoul's mouth. Of course it was his fault for not walking away from this whole thing the moment she had confessed to a longer, deeper history with the man. But Raoul had believed with all his heart that she was happy and secure in their life, entirely focused on becoming a mother, and that together they had moved so far beyond the past that there could be no thought of returning to it. To believe otherwise was unthinkable.

And now here she sat, all but calling him a fool for his confidence in her, pretending as if it wasn't obvious what she was getting at.

"You know what I think?" Raoul managed to say through an impossibly tight throat. "I think it sounds like an excuse to keep seeing him."

She gave a start. "I—I didn't say that."

Raoul would have laughed if he wasn't so afraid he might cry instead. "But am I right to assume you'd be in need of a voice teacher?"

The red flush spreading across her face was as telling as it was predictable. "Can we please just discuss this separately from him for now?"

Raoul did laugh then. "Is there a separate?"

Immediately, he wanted to take back the words. He didn't really want to hear that answer—even if he already knew it, deep down—because to hear his wife confirm that music and Erik were one in the same—eternally interconnected, one unable to exist without the other—it would mean that when she'd said she felt she wasn't whole without music, what she really meant was…

God, he couldn't think about what she'd really meant.

Christine stared back, silently, her gaze intense, inscrutable. Raoul's nails bit into the flesh just above his knees, his jaw clenched tight enough to hurt—and to prevent himself from saying anything else he might regret. Long moments passed, and Raoul began to hope she might not respond.

And then she pulled in a deep breath.

"Raoul, I—"

He leaned forward.

A sharp rap sounded at the door, sending Raoul's heart leaping into his throat—and his hands scrabbling to keep him from slipping off the edge of his chair.

"Monsieur?" the butler's voice, hardened with an unusual urgency, came from the hallway.

"Ah, yes? Come in!" Raoul called, standing and straightening his shoulders into what he hoped resembled ease, despite the dampness of his forehead and the echo of queasiness in his stomach. He glanced down at Christine; her mouth had snapped shut and she was back to staring at her hands in her lap. Whether or not Raoul was grateful for the interruption and the opportunity to evade the subject again, he did not want to think about.

Whether or not Christine was grateful, he wanted to think about even less.

The butler entered the room, a pinched look upon his usually imperturbable face. "Monsieur, Madame," he dipped his head in a quick salutation, "a visitor. Madame la Countess de Chagny."

"Mother? Here?" Raoul's eyes darted to Christine, who shrugged helplessly. He smoothed his hands over his hair and pulled at his collar. "Well, ah, have her brought to the salon, please, we'll be there shortly. And have them bring tea—or coffee—or, oh, whatever she wants. And some tea cakes, the good ones. But not the ones with icing! Or she'll start in on the danger to my teeth again."

The man nodded again and hurried away.

Raoul slipped on his jacket. "I'm sorry, Christine." He gave her an apologetic smile, and leaned down to fix a loose hairpin. "Later, all right?" He wanted to believe he meant it.

The Comtesse was standing in the salon, still wearing her feathered hat and walking cloak.

"Mother, so good to see you!" Raoul lied, as Christine bowed her head and curtsied beside him. "What a surprise. Please, sit, the tea should be here shortly—"

She waved away Raoul's pleasantries. "I told them not to bother, I can't stay. I'm actually late to call on a friend, but I simply couldn't wait—but oh, Christine, dear! You should sit," she said, nearly scurrying across the room to take Christine by the elbow. "Here Raoul, help your wife to get off her feet, you were raised better than this. How are you feeling, dearest?" She patted Christine's arm, thin lips stretched wide in an indulgent smile.

"Oh," Christine said vaguely, allowing herself to be guided to the sofa. "I'm fine, thank you." She looked as puzzled by this unusual kindness every bit as much as Raoul was feeling himself. "And…you?"

"Nevermind about me." His mother settled next to Christine and clasped her hand in hers. "Though I am quite upset with the both of you!"

Cold sweat sprung up under Raoul's collar. "I'm—I'm sorry?" he stammered, racking his brain for any possible misstep or slight, either real or imagined. There had been that dinner they'd declined, was that still a sore spot? Or had he forgotten an important—

"When were you going to tell me?"

Raoul blinked back at his mother who, despite her stern tone, was…smiling widely at him?

She wagged a finger. "To have to have heard it from the family doctor rather than my own son! If I hadn't run into him at the Tuileries, how much longer would I have had to wait to hear the good news?"

Raoul looked over at his wife just in time to see the blood drain from her face.

"You do look so lovely, Christine. Positively glowing," she cooed, and pinched Christine's colorless cheek. "Early fall, is that right? You're going into your third month, yes? Have you been eating plenty of liver? That's very important, you have to keep your blood strong. How cruel you are to keep this from your old mother, Raoul!"

Her words rattled around in Raoul's empty head—family doctor…good news…third month?—none of them fitting together in any way that could be possible, not with what Raoul knew to be true. So why were Christine's hands twisted into a quivering knot in her lap? Why was she sitting so stiff and still upon the edge of the sofa? Why, why did she now look as if she wanted nothing more than to flee the room?

He let his blank gaze drift back to his mother.

"Oh don't look at me like that," she said, "I haven't told anyone else, and neither has he. But of course he tells me everything."

"Told anyone…what?" Raoul heard himself say.

She laughed. "Don't tell me there's something else you're keeping from me! Your darling wife's pregnancy, what else?"

The floor lurched beneath Raoul's feet, and his stomach right along with it. He staggered into the nearest chair just in time and swallowed down the rising bile. For one of very few times in his life, Raoul gave thanks for his mother's self-absorption; she seemed to take no notice of his lack of response, or the sickly stupefaction he could feel playing out across his face.

"He told me he saw you weeks ago, and I'm only finding out now?" she continued gleefully. "Weeks ago! I can't believe you didn't tell me right away!'

Her voice barely pierced the ringing in Raoul's ears. He turned to look at his wife, blinking away the water in his eyes before she could see it. Was it true? Was it really true?

The pained expression of apology upon her face spoke more plainly—and devastatingly—than any answer she could have given. His heart thudded hollow in his numb chest.

What an idiot he had been.

Really—actually.

But for a few more minutes, he had no choice but to continue to be one.

Raoul cleared his throat to dull the hot sting of rising tears. "You know, I can't believe it either," he made himself say. "But at least you know now, right?" And gritting his teeth, he smiled—like the idiot he was.

Well well well. 'Don't tell him yet,' Erik says. 'Just a little more time, Erik says.' Idk, I'm starting to think this Erik guy might have been a little self-serving with that advice. I'm not sure it actually worked out that well... But I suppose we'll find out for sure next time, in Chapter 41!

Thanks so much to every last one of you for reading! I appreciate you sticking with me, we are getting there, I promise. I think. As always, I am beyond honored and grateful that anyone takes the time to read, and for those who have shared their thoughts, I've cherished them all. Just the biggest thanks for all the support!