Ch. 23— Head to Head
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Christine looked around the modish suite of rooms feeling dwarfed, lost.
She should not be here, but Mr. D'Anton had deposited her here and left, and that had been over two hours ago.
There were photographs everywhere of Mr. D'Anton… and the Diva. La Carlotta— this was her room—her suite. And he had brought her here to his fiancé's room and left her.
The walk and the train ride to Paris was a bit of a blur for Christine.
They hadn't met anyone while on the road from the cottage to town, and after walking for perhaps an hour, the French military had stumbled upon them and taken them the rest of the way to the station. The train ride from Le Havre to Paris had been uneventful, and Mr. D'Anton had held her hand from the time the military police had picked them up until they were near the steps leading up to the Populaire.
He'd undergone a transformation as she watched, almost from the moment he'd crept down the side street called the Rue Scribe.
Letting go of her hand, he had walked precisely to where there was an ornamental grate, and fishing out a key, Christine watched in fascination as he found a hidden locking mechanism, and then navigated them through the dank, dark cellar to one of the secret passageways.
And even though she'd seen it with her own eyes, she still found it hard to believe he'd been telling her the truth.
As he led them from dimly-lit cellar to that of the pitch-black tunnels, Christine got a small taste of what being blind in an unfamiliar surrounding was like for him. She had to depend on him to lead them for she couldn't see the hand in front of her face. But it was obvious the man was now in his element, blindness or no. And he led them unerringly to the suite of rooms that she now occupied telling her he would be back soon to collect her.
But that had been over two hours ago, and as she looked around the room—feeling so completely foreign and out of her depth— she cringed when she saw the engagement photo of the couple propped on the nightstand beside a very large and massively ornate bed. She also felt claustrophobic surrounded by all the pink stripes and gild. The suite was done in shades of gilded cream and rose, and all the furniture and rugs were rose-patterned. It was entirely too busy.
The room had no safe place to rest one's eyes as everywhere was gilded, garish pink and every surface held a picture of Mr. D—Erik with his intended.
Although Christine had witnessed their argument the day his bandages had come off, and the papers said he and the Diva were taking 'a bit of a break' on their engagement at present, she had neither asked nor heard from Mr. D'Anton either way if they were still an item.
And with the way he kept kissing her, Christine sincerely hoped not. Surely Mr. D'Anton wasn't that type of man.
As she looked around the room, she wasn't sure what she believed.
Everywhere were pictures of the happy couple: a couple in the throes of a passionate love. And Christine blushed for shame when she recalled the kisses he'd given her at the cottage, the liberties she'd allowed him to take.
And all the while, the man could still be engaged?! What had she been thinking?
Well, that was obvious; she hadn't been!
Really, she needed to think of where she was going to go next, and what she was going to do.
It was more than obvious Mr. D'Anton didn't need her anymore as his nurse, not really. He had become so much more independent and was coping much better. And now that he was back in his opera house, she had no pretext for staying with him—her job as 'housekeeper' for the Enchanted Cottage made redundant.
And too, surely someone could be found that was more qualified to transcribe his compositions than she?
Her mind more than made up, Christine took a last look around the gaudy room, and grabbing her valise, fled.
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Erik made his way by rote through the tunnels and secret passages within the opera house.
He had hypnotized her, altered the memory of their ordeal. He did not want Christine to even tangentially be a part of this God forsaken war. She seemed to have escaped the grim realities thus far, and Erik did not want that to change. Through hypnosis, he'd made their journey from the cottage to Le Havre seem unpleasant but ultimately without incident until the French Police stumbled upon them and were gracious enough to take them to town.
The reality had gone quite different.
The vehicle the Sergeant had commissioned to take them arrived minutes after the last man had shot himself. Through the volley of confusion that followed, Erik was met by the Sergeant and his contingent again. He'd explained what transpired, downplaying his part greatly by telling them he and his wife had stumbled upon them shouting in the lane and hid, that one of them drew his service pistol and fired at the other. Another fired upon him, and in the chaos between, Erik had been able to grab one of their weapons and thereby finish the job on the remaining two.
They lauded him a hero, praised him his courage and quick-thinking.
If they knew the reality, however, it would terrify them.
Just as it would her.
And now, Erik was taking his time to re-familiarize himself with the rhythms of the Opera before he announced his presence back to one and all. The expression 'While the cat's away the mice will play' rang especially true for his theatre, and he'd found a little reconnaissance before he went to Fermin with the new changes he wanted instituted always to be a good thing. And so, he'd spent the past couple of hours spying on his cast and crew… after a fashion. For though he could not see what they were up to, he could hear it… and in some cases, the hearing of it was worse.
He would have to have a talk with Fermin again about ol' Joe Bouquet.
The man was as reliable as could be for the lights and the rigging, but he was a first-rate letch. And the jokes Erik heard him tell the ballet rats were some of the filthiest and most profane he'd ever heard. And that was saying something considering Erik had spent much of his time over the last few years with enlisted men.
Fermin was continuously mystified with Erik's knowledge of the inner-workings and day-to-day goings-on of the Opera, and because of this, he behaved—and, in turn, had his cast and crew behave—adhering to Erik's spoken and written directions to the letter. His manager was still in the dark about the tunnels and secret passages riddling the Opera, and Erik wanted to keep it that way.
But the fact remained he couldn't stay in the shadows hidden forever.
He needed to decide what he wanted to do about his face and his blindness. With Christine there as his eyes, giving him cues and direction, he could 'pass' for a sighted person. However, Erik was under no delusions where his cast and crew were concerned.
If they knew he was blind, they would think him weak.
Same thing with his scars.
He was not conscious of them around Christine or Nadir, but his staff, his underlings, the press, the men and women—patrons— he was used to finessing and cajoling at every society function… something would have to be done.
He had lost a great deal of his political standing and power when he received his facial injuries. He was only halfway joking when he once told Christine 'his face was his fortune'. His face and his ability to persuade had been the cornerstones of his empire.
And he had lost his charisma, his ability to 'close the deal' when he realized he would always have to hide behind his low-brimmed hat and piled scarf and have his 'wife' close to his side so she could tell him what to do, which direction to go. Even the Sergeant back in Le Havre had remained slightly distrustful of him; Erik could tell it in the man's voice, his manner towards him.
And as Erik made his way back to his subsequent wife, all sorts of thoughts and doubts began to present themselves. She still had no clue of his plans for her. She was not ready—not yet prepared to step out into the world and reveal herself, but soon she would be.
Erik vowed it.
That was provided, of course, once he found away to connect the pent-up emotion inside her with her song. In thinking of the monumental task that lay before him, he inhaled deeply on a sigh and stopped short.
This was the south wing.
What was Christine's scent doing in the south wing? He had clearly left her in the east… unless he'd somehow gotten turned around in his musings…?
No, not possible. This was definitely the south wing.
He could hear the chattering of the ballet rats as they practiced and Thenardier's atrocious piano-playing.
Stopping, he inhaled deeply. Yes, his Christine had been here… only recently by the smell of her lavender-sunshine scent. If there was one thing his blind condition had given him, it was a deeper appreciation for the feminine fragrance, and one female fragrance in particular.
Like a bloodhound after his quarry, Erik followed her.
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Christine was lost.
How in heaven she had gotten so turned around she didn't know. But somehow, she was nowhere near where she had been, and nowhere near where she needed to go.
Everyone she passed barely gave her a second look, and she was far too nervous to risk asking someone for directions.
She passed a classroom where a woman with a cane was beating it on the floor in rhythm and giving instruction to dancers dressed in their practice leotards and skirts. Some wore bedraggled tights, others went without, and practiced scandalously bare-legged. The man playing the piano looked half-drunk, and as Christine watched, he flubbed a chord causing the majority of the dancers to go out of sync.
"Henri!" the dark-haired woman shrilled, "If you cannot keep on beat, then you can take yourself walking out of this room and out of the opera this instant! We are not paying you to louse about! Damn, drunken lout." The last was said as an aside, causing many of the dancers to purse their lips and some even snickered. "Now, again!" she shrieked.
Once more, the music began, but it wasn't any for the better, and with a growl of rage, the small-framed, dark-haired woman stomped over to the piano, and with the crook of her cane slammed the lid on the piano-playing Henri's fingers.
The man gasped and looked at the woman horror-stricken, but even Christine could see he didn't feel as much pain as he would have if wasn't already pickled with drink.
The little woman pointed a long finger to the door. "Out. Out, I say! OUT! AND DON'T YOU EVER COME BACK!"
The man cradled his hands, clearly not knowing what to do, where to go. Christine was tempted to go to him, to see if he was alright. None of his fingers appeared to be broken, but some looked cut, and others needed—"You there, gawking by the door." Christine looked up, startled. "You, girl. Yes, you. Come over here. Now!"
Her feet feeling leaden, Christine passed the unfortunate, drunken Henri as he weaved and stumbled out the door, cradling his hurt hands to him protectively. She gulped and tremulously walked over to the woman that was the same height as her, but whereas Christine had a rather swarthy build, the woman was built lithe, light, and had small supple limbs with a tiny waist.
"Do you read music?" she asked.
Christine gulped and said, "Well, I—"
"Yes or no, Missy. I haven't all day! Do you read music?"
"Well, …yes."
"Can you play the piano?"
"What…?"
"This instrument here…" she tapped it with her cane, "Can you play it?" The woman asked slowly as if asking a simpleton, and Christine watched as she pulled a cigarette holder from her bun and a cigarette from a case on the piano and lit up.
Hearing snickering, Christine looked around and blushed crimson from all the eyes staring at her. "I—"
"Speak up, girl! Can you play or not?" The woman blew smoke away impatiently, some of it landing in Christine's face. "I'm short-handed here, and I need a half-way decent accompanist. Anything would be better than the drunken ape that just left. So, I ask again, can you play or not?"
"Yes," Christine whispered.
"Wonderful." Her tone said it was anything but. "Have a seat. You may start at measure forty-two. The rest of you fifth position. Vienne, watch your turnout, it's getting sloppy. Eyes off the mirror, Ernie; peacocks are less vain than you. And now…. begin... "
Christine had yet to move from where she stood by the piano, and it seemed as one, the collective roomful of performers and the woman with the cane turned back to look at her.
She took another drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke out contemplatively. At length, she asked, "Are you simple, girl? Touched in the head?"
The sniggers her remark caused turned to all-out laughter when all Christine could do is stand there, her mouth working soundlessly as her cheeks blazed with embarrassment. All of their eyes, all of their attention was focused on her; they were laughing at her.
Christine began to shake.
"Quiet!" The woman roared silencing the roomful of gawking, chortling performers.
Honing in on Christine, the ballet mistress's eyes narrowed to slits. "You looked half-frightened to death even before you came into this room."
The woman smiled and the only word Christine could find to describe it was 'predatory', as if she smelled blood. "I'll tell you what, dearie, if you can read that sheet music there in front of you, and play the piano, then you can stay here and not go back to dat scawwy hallway." She enunciated the last in a patronizing childlike manner that had Christine's already inflamed cheeks blazing puce, and the ballet corps' sniggers turned into guffaws.
The woman continued, "If you cannot, then get the hell out of my rehearsal! You're wasting our time!"
Christine turned and ran; the sounds of jeering laughter, whistling, and clapping followed in her wake.
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He was going to kill Antoinette. Oh, he was going to kill her!
But first things first.
Erik followed, the sound of his Christine's footsteps giving him direction.
He heard her stop, out of breath, and she dropped to the floor of one of the little-used hallways.
Oh, his girl!
She was weeping her heart out.
Erik opened the hidden door at the end of the hall by pressing a latch above it, and on silent feet he walked towards where he heard her crying.
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Inept. Stupid. Can't even find your way out. Too scared to ask for directions. And to be stared at by all those people… all those people that laughed at her! God, why was she here? Why did she even agree to come to the opera house in the first place?
Oh, this place! Of high expectations and lost hopes, and dreams strangled to death before they could even first bloom.
Why had she agreed to come? WHY?!
She gasped as she was lifted and sat on someone's lap; her sobs broke off into choked gasps. She looked up and saw Mr. D'Anton.
She didn't think, she just reacted, winding her arms around his neck, dislodging his hat and pushing aside his bulky scarf so that she could burrow into him as deeply as possible.
"Christine. Oh, my girl! It's alright" He rocked them gently. "Hush now and dry your tears. It'll be alright, little one."
"I sh-shouldn-n't b-be here," she sobbed into his neck.
"Why ever not, Nurse Daae? Your patient is right here in front of you, hmm? Needing you to attend him with your tender, merciful care."
"P-please d-don't. M-my life is n-not a j-joke."
"Oh, my dear, NO!" He clutched her hard to him, his rocking continued as he began rubbing her back. "I do not think you a joke at all! That's not why I said tha—"
She interrupted him. "I need to l-leave. Please. I j-just want to g-go."
His rocking motion ceased, and Mr. D'Anton pulled back from her, taking one of his hands and putting it on her face to 'read' her expression. She turned away and hid in the lapels of his coat.
Instead of forcing her, however, he began to once more run his hand up and down her back soothingly.
"Where would you like to go, hmm?"
Christine tried to look for the teasing, the jeering tone she'd come to expect from the world, from him. She knew him capable.
She spoke honestly. "B-back to the C-cottage."
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Erik closed his sightless eyes. It hurt. Her tears and quiet sobs cut him to the quick. To not be able to give his little mouse the one thing she wanted most was agony.
"Why back there, hmm?" Erik cajoled, having a pretty good idea but wanting to make certain.
She only shook her head and buried herself even deeper into his embrace. He held on tighter. "If we close our eyes, we can imagine ourselves back there, Christine. The fire crackling in the woodstove, some of your ginger-spice cookies baking in the oven, hmm?"
"You p-playing the piano until all h-hours of the n-night."
He smiled. "Yes, me and my piano playing," Erik smiled and nuzzled her head with his chin until he was able to kiss her cheek. "More like me driving you to complete distraction with it and depriving you of sleep; even if you are too polite to say so, little mouse."
Erik heard her give a choked laugh, and he nuzzled her neck. He felt the shiver he invoked run through her little body. "We could still have that here, you know?" he entreated softly, wanting to ease her into the idea.
She shook her head and moved slightly away from him. "I hate it here," she confessed in such a small voice, Erik wasn't sure if he heard her correctly or just imagined the words.
He pursed his lips together and tamped down on the anger such a statement would normally have provoked in him. The Populaire was in his blood. It was his legacy: the seat of Sweet Music's Throne or so his great-grandfather had called it.
But Lord knew Christine had her reasons for despising such a place.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to pinpoint what it was exactly she hated. "I know the corps de ballet is atrocious and the brass section, believe me, doesn't fare that much better at the moment. All the truly good players are out there 'sounding brass' for God and Country…"
She gave a delicate snort and shook her head.
Erik dug in the pocket of his lapel for his handkerchief and gently feeling for her face, began to dab at the runny mess of her tears. "Silly man, it's not the ballet, although from what I could tell, your corps is nothing special." She gave a particularly disdainful sniff, and Erik was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud.
A critique from this woman! Oh, he would have to pass along her words to Antoinette!
"It-it's the building, if you must know. What it means to be here. This is where Father always wanted to take me when I was younger—the culmination of all his hopes for me, his dreams. He took me to places like this… to watch performances, with an expectation one day I would perform, and my performance would be perfect." Erik shuddered at these harrowingly voiced words. "I hate these buildings, and the expectations that come with them.
"For, you see, I never could just sit back and enjoy the music; not once was I allowed to just enjoy a performance. I was always en pointe, expected to provide a critique, a criticism at a moment's notice. The soprano's mouth was too wide. Her vibrato could have been improved if she had but taken the most minute of breaths before the 'Ah' and used more control in her diaphragm.
"And oh, Christine, did you notice the tenor was slightly flat in the third movement of the second act? And if I didn't? If I couldn't expound on whatever micro-fissure my father found to exploit, I was deemed useless, worthless. For if I couldn't perform because of my ugliness, if I couldn't provide even a half-way decent critique, well then… what good was I?"
Erik opened his mouth, for once speechless at her words.
Dear God in heaven!
He drew her closer in his arms, surprised when she continued to speak, "And the room you stuck me in! It was your fiancé's room. Why, oh why did you put me in that room? That hideous Pepto-Bismol-colored nightmare with pictures of the both of you plastered on every available surface!"
Erik gasped. OH DEAR GOD! How could he have forgotten?! How could he have not remembered?!
"And that's another thing. You're holding me to you, and I—I've k-kissed you and allowed you to kiss me …more than allowed if I'm to be honest. But for all I know, you could still be engaged to her, and I—" she broke off, and stopped speaking just when Erik needed her to speak most. "I don't belong here," she said softly. And he didn't know if she was talking about his opera house, his lap, or his life.
"I need to go." Her tone was decided, resigned. She began to rise from him.
Erik held her more firmly to him. "You need to stay right where you belong."
"But that's just it, isn't it? I don't belong anywhere, Mr. D'Anton." Simple statement of fact, articulated emotionlessly.
"Erik, Christine. You're taking away my Christmas gift each time you do not call me Erik."
" 'Mr. D'Anton' you are to me, and 'Mr. D'Anton' you need to remain, sir. And I need to go."
"Go where, little mouse? Where will you go?"
"Back to the hospital; I was needed there."
"You are needed here."
"No, I'm not. You have plenty of willing ears to listen to your genius. Plenty of willing, capable hands to transcribe your works."
"And willing hearts to do that which they loathe most in this world day in and day out just to improve the quality of life for one blind, scarred wreck of a bastard? How many of those have I got, Ms. Daae, hmm?" He held on to her tighter still until she ceased struggling against him, until he could make her see, make her feel what he was trying to say. "How many pitch-perfect listeners have I got to critique my work? How many persons do you think can be found in this world with total recall and an ability to correct the composer of the piece when he's made a mistake in his own score, hmm?" he shook her, "How many, girl?"
At length, she whispered, "I'm certain someone could be found who's willing."
Erik laughed mirthlessly, the sound resounding off the walls. "Then you're as blind as me."
"And you're not even blind!" She gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth, and Erik gently pulled them down and held her at the chin.
"What did you say?" he said, his tone lethal.
After some time, she said quietly, "You're not blind, sir. You have an illness, a sickness of the mind; it's called a psychosomatic disorder." Drawing a ragged breath, she continued, "Nothing is physically wrong with your eyes. Nothing is wrong with your mind to be able to process the images you see. You should see just fine, and I have a feeling on some level, you do. It's just… your mind and your body are at odds with one another and blindness is one of the ways the conflict has chosen to manifest itself."
Erik was pole-axed. "And Nadir, he—"
"Dr. Khan was the one that informed me of the diagnosis. He can't be certain, sir. Not really. But he more than suspects it to be the case."
Erik's thoughts were in turmoil. Every thought screaming this couldn't be! He was blind, dammit! Blind! He—but then he realized his image of Christine had solidified in the last few weeks, becoming crystal-clear in his mind's eye. Tenderly he felt her dear, heart-shaped face, her button nose, apple cheeks and lips he knew were lusciously, kissably full. "Ms. Daae, your eyes are hazel, are they not?"
He heard her gulp. "They are, sir."
"And your hair is brown… honey-colored brown."
"It's brown sir, yes."
"And I couldn't have known that, I couldn't have…"
"Dr. Khan seems to think it's because of the trauma you experienced in the war, sir."
"And you, Nurse Daae, what do you think?"
"I think you've lived through much you do not want to remember, but your mind is insisting you do. I—I heard your nightmare. That night on the sofa, you were talking in your sleep. I don't know why your mind has done as it's done, but I imagine there are good reasons for it. The trauma with the mortar shell might have been the last your mind could take, sir."
Erik was shaken by this news, but if this was the case, if he could one day move past this blockage and see…
He held Christine tighter to him, feeling lost and found as he pictured her dear, sweet face in his mind.
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"Christine."
She closed her eyes and pursed her lips together. Oh, but her name had never been said so reverently.
She gasped as his lips ghosted across her cheek, and then he was kissing her, clutching at her, drawing her even closer in his embrace until he pulled away, breathing ragged. His bowed forehead met hers as he confessed, "I cannot wait to have you, my dear. I cannot. Bastard that I am, I cannot. Marry me. I need you. Tonight, Christine."
"I—" Marry him?! He wanted her to marry him? "Oh, sir. You can't seriously be consider—" His fingers at her lips stopped her words.
"Please. Don't think, my dear." He kissed her again, and his arms went around her, drawing her closer to him. Before this moment, his kisses had always been controlled things, passionate but gentle, reserved. There was very little control left in the man kissing her now.
His kiss was a desperate thing, clawing at her, showing her his need, making her want to… making her need… she suddenly broke the kiss and whispered, "Al-alright."
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"Thank God," he murmured into her neck. "Thank God, thank God," he chanted, and Christine gasped as she was being pulled from the floor.
Instead of walking them back down the hallway from the way she'd come; she watched mystified as he kicked a notch in the baseboard paneling, and a secret door seamlessly opened before them. "I'm not letting you go, my dear. Not even for five minutes for I'm afraid you'll change your mind."
Christine drew breath, possibly to agree with him, but he continued talking as he walked them through the doorway into the dark passageway and away from the only source of light. The door to the hallway slid closed with a muted click, and Christine was plunged into darkness. "I have to make one phone call, only one, and then you and I can say our vows in the little chapel upstairs, and we'll be united as man and wife. Did you have dreams of a big wedding, my dear? We could stop by wardrobe and get you a dress if you'd like, flowers from the greenhouse, I'll have Lisette do your hair, shall I? I might even get Grieg to play the organ."
"No."
He finally stopped walking, and thankfully stopped talking, and Christine closed her eyes and tried to find her bearings.
"No what, little mouse?" She focused on the sound of his voice, particularly his tone: there was tiniest trace of uncertainty, but it was mostly overshadowed by a predatory calm.
She cleared her throat and pulling back slightly from her position near his shoulder, told him, "N-no, I've never dreamed of a wedding—big or otherwise. I d-don't want a dress. You can't see it anyway, and I would just feel foolish, and well, flowers are a lovely sentiment, but h-hardly seem necessary. And I don't want to meet others, E-erik. I just want…"
Gently, he drew her to where she was facing him, and she jumped as she felt the backs of his fingers graze her cheek. She could see nothing, and she only had him to hold onto in this dark as pitch maze. "Please tell me what you want, Christine. Please."
She bit her lip until it hurt, making herself voice the deepest longing of her heart. "You. I only want you."
She heard him draw a ragged breath, and then his lips met her forehead in a kiss as he whispered, "I am yours, Christine." There was that reverential tone again; her name sounded special—safe—when it was uttered like that from his lips.
He spoke softly, "A quiet, civil ceremony in my quarters shall suffice with Nadir and his wife as witnesses. How does that sound?"
In answer, she nodded and fit herself more firmly into his embrace so she was cradled by him, feeling safe amidst the impenetrable darkness surrounding her. She had no idea where she was, no idea where she was going, no true concept of north, but she had him—Erik—the man that was soon to be her husband. And being held as she was in his arms, it didn't much matter where they were or where they were going.
As long as they were going together.
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"And do you Christine Daae take Erik D'Anton to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, to honor and cherish for all your days 'til death do you part?"
Erik felt her hands tremble within his, and he held his breath certain she was going to come to her senses, certain she was going to refuse him.
"I… I d-do." Her words as haltingly stuttered as they were spoken, were the most beautiful words Erik had ever heard.
"And do you Erik D'Anton take Christine Daae to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, to honor and cherish for all your days 'til death do you part?"
Erik squeezed the trembling hands he held and uttered a heart-felt, "I do."
"You have the ring?" the judge asked him, and Erik felt the pockets of his lapel, his inner jacket, his outer jack—he felt Nadir's hand close upon his own and deliberately lay the small band of gold and stone within his palm, also closing it deliberately.
"You may now place this ring upon her finger and repeat after me: With this ring, I thee wed, and forever pledge my devotion and protection."
His heart thrumming timpani inside his chest, Erik repeated the words, slightly dismayed when his great-grandmother's ring was a bit too big for her small finger. He held it there all the same, knowing now she was his—his very own Christine.
The judge continued, "You came to me as two single people, and you will leave now as a married couple, united to each other by the binding contract you have just entered. Your cares, your worries, your concerns, pleasures, and joys, you must now share with one another.
"By the act of joining hands, you take to yourself the relation of husband and wife and solemnly promise to honor, comfort, and cherish each other so long as you both shall live. Therefore, in accordance with the law of this land and by virtue of the authority vested in me, I do pronounce you husband and wife. Erik, you may now kiss your bride."
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A/N: And the lovers move closer and closer still. And we have the wedding night to look forward to. *waggles eyebrows*
Thank you all so much for sticking with me through this journey! Reading your comments and seeing your favorites and follows encourage me to keep at it. And for those of you who sent pm's asking how I'm doing, thank you so much for your care and concern!
I'm going to post in the days to come all the chapters I have up until my stopping place. No, I don't know when this story will be finished. Yes, I have a rough outline of where I want it to go, and muse and time willing, I will be able to finish it soon.
Again, my heartfelt thanks for reading this little tale of mine.
Sincerely,
PFP