Chapter 2

Two years later, October 1886

The autumn winds blew chilly and cold. As the small harvest of various vegetables Christine grew at the farm were sold to various traders and merchants in town, Christine was afforded, unfortunately, ample free time. Before he left, he made the family relocate from Paris- for their own safety. If the Shah became aware of his prized architect's family, it could lead right to them. Being famous all over Paris and beyond for the Garnier affair involving diva La Daae had already garnered suspicion. It was best for the family to keep to themselves. Christine was an introvert anyway. Although she kept in contact with Meg, and was friendly to various neighbors, having their children play together, she could not let them know of her past at the Opera. Any fool in Paris with want for a monetary reward could slyly inform a Persian diplomat, the Shah would ensure his men would be keeping alert for such information.

Various duties that comprised life beyond the outskirts of La Rochelle kept the summertimes vibrant for the children and herself. A bustling maritime trade center, the port city boasted vast Gothic cathedrals, ample supply shops, and beautiful ocean vistas. Every so often she would take the children to the shoreline. She yearned to be as carefree, as she was in Sweden, despite her and her father's poverty. At low tide, the waves broke over the land, creating millions of new patterns in the drenched sand. She found herself wishing her husband was there to see the children play together, and she prayed for his return.

Living without Erik had forced her to resort into the deepest reaches of herself to find strength. It was the first time in her life in which she was truly on her own. Although his departure caused her to experience loneliness and worry more powerful than she had ever known, she kept busy with a reliable routine. Anxiety towards her husband's well being wouldn't do him any good here.

Brutus had a loyal habit of waking her up, licking her hand as if gently reminding her to prepare for her daily tasks, lest she fall into the trap of being swallowed by the ever-present lull of solitude. Growing to love the two creatures, they dutifully kept watch, night and day. Macbeth would often sleep with the children, the ever watchful Scottish King. Christine would muse that he was keeping watch for his enemies. Erik's humor was never without wit. She felt safer with the creatures. Thankful for her husband's foresight, she mentally covered the many responsibilities in running the farmhouse she had to accomplish in the day. And she had thought voice lessons were hard.

Throwing the several quilts off her person, Christine softly pet Brutus in praise, his wagging tail a response of thanks. Before the children awoke, she was allowed a few moments to herself. Although taking a bath seemed heavenly at the present, she knew their horse, Traveler, would be hungry at the moment. The horse had an awful habit of kicking to stall door when she felt she was ignored. Christine thought the mare's namesake ironic, since it was Oberon that was doing the globetrotting. Still, she served Christine well, patiently enduring children's harsh pats and demurely pulling carts and carriages when needed. Christine quickly dressed herself, pulling her hair up haphazardly.

Trekking out to the barn with Brutus, Christine grabbed the mare's halter, entering into the stall and placing it on her. She briefly stroked the the horse's mane, leaning her head against her strong neck.

"It is much to early." She almost breathed out.

Traveler seemed to agree, snorting in concurrence. Christine laughed at this, a welcome release after feeling a stranger to it. She lead the mare to the pasture, unhooking her harnesses and filling up her water; throwing ample amounts of hay in with. She would need to call on the ferrier soon, looking at the horses' overgrown hooves.

Upon doing a thorough sweep of the small barn, Christine was nearly finished when she noticed the small chest, which kept various tack items; saddle blankets and the like. But it also kept something else, something she refused to think about using. It kept a rifle.

Erik had left it, showing her how to load and unload the weapon, showing her how to shoot it should she need to defend herself. She didn't want to have to use it. It had been kept up in the barn since she he had left, and taking it inside solidified the fact that she-inadequate protector as she was, was all the children had. The dogs had helped aid this anxiety, but staring down at the gun, she knew she must be realistic. Should someone dare to rob the house, or worse... Putting the thought aside, Christine made up her mind. There were hundreds of bullets in her desk drawer, she started practicing. She would not risk her children's lives for the shadow of her silly fear.

Christine typically took the children to church on Sundays, just recently beginning to offer her voice in the responsorial psalm. To any parishioner, her singing sounded beautiful, ethereal, even, but Christine knew better. The lack of use had resulted in her voice falling into disrepair. Her range had diminished and her awful habit of tightening her jaw had returned. She could no longer claim the title of La Daae now. Oh, how he would berate her! But they both knew it was necessary, necessary to execute the art of music properly.

"Christine," he briefly sighed, shaking his head. "I can hear the tension. Once again, relax."

She was eighteen, before she ever graced the stage as Marguerite, before it all happened. Her rendition of 'Il Capro e la capretta' from Mozart's The Magic Flute wasn't bad, per say, in fact, it was excellent; rivaling any seasoned opera veteran. They had been at it for hours.

To her teacher, 'close to perfection' would not be tolerated.

"Maybe I wouldn't be so tense if you weren't so unnecessarily strict" she mumbled.

He audibly scoffed, his visible eyebrow raised in exasperation. "Tell me, Mademoiselle Daae, that you did not just address your tutor in such a manner"

"You never allow me praise. It is always criticism. I have practiced every day for nearly three years and yet as you say, I am not ready to audition for principal roles. I am an adult!"

"I do this, as I know you can achieve perfection!"

"You treat me like a child!"

"Isn't it children who are in need of praise?"

"Ughhh!" She huffed and stomped her foot on the wooden floorboards, loud enough to echo into the adjoining room. A perplexing show for an adult, who, looked more akin to a toddler than a grown woman at the present moment.

They stared at each other, each measuring their opponent, determining who would challenge the other next.

"Chris-"

She began with a steady, even tone-"I only wish to be treated realistically. I know you wish me to sing to the best of my ability, but I cannot achieve this 'perfection' you speak of, for I am merely a human being". Turning on her heel, she brisked off, chestnut curls bouncing innocently at her back. For once, she left without being dismissed. Perhaps she had grown up right under his nose, or, his sorry excuse for one.

"You are wrong, you can" he murmured. "for you are an angel".

Recalling these moments of adolescent fury made Christine quietly smile to herself, kneeling in prayer following communion. She thought herself so mature in that time, all knowing and steadfast in her desires. He must have loved her, even in the very beginning, for no one could have put up with her former self for so long. And so, continuing her prayer with the small memory occupying the back of her mind, a thought seemed to appear before her. She had done it once, with him, and perhaps she could do it again, alone. She would retrain herself. Never entertaining the idea of vocal training without her tutor, the very concept had never been conceived. She knew the exercises, the warm-ups, the stretches, she had done them countless times. Knowing enough piano to play basic scales and recount training drills, she could do this. She had spent too long standing by the piano bench in her dressing room as he crafted her voice into something magnificent. She would not allow their years of constant effort to go wasted. She would show her children that one does not simply lay idle and forfeit years of hard work. Yes, she would do this for him, but she would also do this for herself. She would earn her voice back.

Perhaps the steadfastness and stubbornness of her youth hadn't faded completely.

And as autumn gently crept into the eloquent farmhouse, it could be heard from outside the humble practicing of a former opera diva running through basic scales, followed by the rumble of children's laughter as their mother would pair the notes with amusing faces. Making time for at least a half hour of practice, she would put the children to bed, typically after, as they loved hearing their mother sing, be it just solfege.

It was one of these crisp nights, one was just starting to see their own breath permeating from their speech in the outside air, that her daughter ventured to ask a question.

"Mama" Josephine begged. The girl had just turned five. "please please please tell us more about Papa?"

They had finished supper, and having given table scraps to the dogs and shelving everything away, it was time for their nightly ritual. In the months following her visit to Meg, Christine had made a concerted effort to create at least a semblance of normalcy in her children's lives. To fill their lives with happiness and laughter was her greatest wish for them, and so she would ensure to block out time at night for games, performances, puzzles, stories, whatever pastime that would allow the family a moment together. It was not fair to the children that their lives should be so compromised without their father; she was always so busy, running the home, buying things they needed, keeping bank records, teaching them; it was important to her that they understand the concept of fun.

It was Alexandre's wish to serve at the evening's performer with a simple parlor song, and just as he began warming up at the piano, his younger sister asked her mother something discussed in very little detail. Their father.

Josephine looked up at her mother with wide eyes. She had recently turned three, and her yearning for knowledge was never be satiated. Yes, much like her father, Christine thought to herself.

Alexandre quieted the piano at once. Perhaps Josephine had sensed a change in her mother, a new lightness that permeated through the house, her smile coming more easily when she would kiss her cheek, her singing once again.

Of course, they knew of their papa; Alexandre having blurry memories of him when he was very small- his mask, his towering height, but little else. They knew why he had to leave, and that he loved them very much. Despite this knowledge, it was a taboo subject in the house, the children sensing their mother's melancholy when she stared into the window, looking outside as if she'd spot something rising out of the horizon line. These moods, to the children, wouldn't last for long, as Christine grew adept at hiding them, the undercurrent of grief only apparent in moments when she was too weak to conceal it, which was not often. Even so, they understood to ask little of their father. Either way, Christine hadn't the will to tell them everything else, that there was so much more to their father. That he was the most fascinating person she'd ever met. That he taught her, that even he being nine years her senior, they grew up together. That he had never once dreamed of being a father. That he was in a dangerous place. That he could make her smile like no one else. And yet, she realized, as Erik's children looked up at her, they deserved to know. Setting the dishcloth down, Christine forced herself over to the parlor and fell into his leather reading chair. It seemed fitting.

"What do you wish to know, ma cher?" she replied with a calm smile.

Josephine seemed shocked, she had not expected her request to yield such bountiful results. Alexandre echoed the sentiment, stalking over from his seat on the piano bench to placing himself on the fine Persian rug, ready to help warm the home in the upcoming winter months. Josephine followed her brother, depositing herself on the floor with great excitement. They were situated surrounded by fine furnishings, modern, with new electric lighting, and more than comfortable in the long french winters. A house of several bedrooms, one that Erik joked would be filled with many children, followed by a chaste kiss on the forehead and a devious grin on his face, they had moved there when Christine was pregnant with Alexandre.

"This shall do." Erik cast a quick glance and bluntly articulated.

"It shall do? Ma cher, it is wonderful, and by the sea! You know how it reminds me of Sweden." She wrapped her arms around him snugly, breathing in the subtle hints of cologne and soap lingering on his cravat..

The corners of Erik's lips turned upwards.

"What is he like?!" her daughter uttered with barely controlled composure.

They both watched with eager faces. "Well, he is smart, very smart, like you!" she touched her children's noses and smiled, admiring how their faces lit up at the smallest inkling of knowledge. They both leaned in, desperate for more.

"He is the best dresser I know, always properly attired. And he is a perfect gentleman, impeccable manners. Why, now that I recall, he once laid out his cloak out so I wouldn't stain my dress in the mud!" Josephine giggled at that, admiring the gallantry her father exuded in wooing her mother.

She couldn't get enough, "Mama, what does Papa look like?"

This was inevitable. It was normal, natural even, for her daughter to ask this. Christine was presented with the parental quandary. It wasn't exactly a secret, now was it? Rather, it was something they needed to know. She had thought of retrieving the small portrait Christine had forced them to take following their wedding, but it was gone. She hadn't seen it in years. She cursed herself for it, having lost one of the only evidences of him. Would Josephine be surprised by the mask? Would she think it a game? Did Alexandre remember its purpose? Had he figured it out? Christine didn't know, deciding it to be best to tell them the truth. It was best to hear this coming from her, rather the discovering their fathers.. abnormalities upon his return.

"Josie, he had a mask!" Alexandre butted in.

So he did remember. Regardless, she had some explaining to do.

"Yes, ma petite, your father does wear a mask." She sighed deeply, praying God would offer her the right words. "Half of his face, it is… well, different. Yes, different from the other half."

The children continued to stare. This wasn't going to cut it.

"Many people, they are afraid. Afraid of his -er difference. This is why he wears a mask."

Alexandre cut in "Mama, was he born like that?"

"Yes." It was all she could say.

"That is sad. Why did God make him like that?" Josephine added.

"I do not know." It was honest, at the least. "Sometimes we do not understand what God does. But we must not pity him. He is strong, he has made a life, despite it all." She seemed to run out of words. This explanation was not the most eloquent; she yearned for the ability to pluck the right words out of seemingly nowhere, like Madame Giry, like him.

They all sat there a while, pondering what was just said. Alexandre had the bravery to turn the conversation towards a new direction.

"Does he sing, Mama, like you?"

"Oh! My darlings" she beamed at the recollection. Her face regained its life. "He possesses the most wonderful voice, alike that of an angel! He taught me how to sing, and I am sure he shall sing you two pretty lullabies upon his return, and shall weave the most beautiful melody upon his violin!"

It felt good to talk about him. It made him more real, as if he wasn't a dream she conceived of. It turned him back into a real part of her life, and she began to learn to treasure their time together, not drowning in their time apart as before. Yes, she missed him fiercely, but it receded to a dull ache, never to go away, like the many scars on his back, but to heal. She had plenty of blessings in her life, two to be exact, and she would not waste the time she had with her children mourning over the time she had lost with him.

"Mama, do you think that he shall teach me to play piano, more than I know now?" Alexandre leaned in, a worried look on his face as if his mythical father would say no.

"Of course, Alexandre. He loves you very much. He loves you both very much."

"But he has never met me. How can he love me if he does not know me?" Josephine inquired.

Oh, she was smart. Sifting through her brain for a rebuttal, an brief feeling of harsh truth struck her. What if her daughter was past childhood by the time he came back? Or worse still, what if they would never meet? She couldn't bear to think of it. Would she tell her daughter this unfortunate possibility? Christine hated to think of it. She finally settled upon one that she believed with the entirety of herself to be true.

"Josephine, do you know your father?"

"No." It was quiet.

"But do you love him?"

She mulled it over a bit. "Yes!", was her final decision. Christine smiled.

"Love is strong, my dear. It is the strongest thing of all. You must have faith in it."

Confused, but somehow satisfied with her mother's answer, she nodded.

"Alexandre, would you like to play for us now?"

He practically jumped to the piano seat. `