Christine

Adding more flour to the thickening dough, she rocked calloused palms harshly into the table. Her upper arms strained in response. Although the night prior had ended well, with singing and music and merriment, the day had been most grueling, the summer sun casting garish rays upon the constricting wool of her dress. As a result, the skin of her forearms, face and neck grew olive in tone, her once-dark hair lightening to its former shade of her youth. Certainly, would she to go back to the Opera, they would think her a beggar of some kind. What was the term they used in America? Ah, yes, redneck. Working outside some much had made her that, at least literally.

The weeding of their tomato plant had given her a sunburn the day before, and she rubbed it mercifully, kneading the bread. She considered wearing a hat next time. Heating up the wood-fire stove, she stoked the flames, staring through the yellow and orange ribbons in her automation. Dawn was poking through the pane glass, and the morning meal had yet to be made. She was surprised Nadir was not awake yet.

As if to answer her thought, she registered the shuffling of feet above her. He had been of great help since his arrival, and she truly enjoyed the company he offered. She was grateful for his friendship.

A few moments later, the man in question shuffled down the stairs, light creaks betraying the morning quiet. Offering a smile as he nodded his head in acknowledgement, he helped himself to boil a pot of water for morning coffee.

"I forgot to mention, Alexandre picked up a paper for you in town." It lay sitting on the table. Now that he was old enough, Christine allowed the boy to take trips to town unaccompanied. She knew that soon he would want to go farther than that. The boy was growing up much too swiftly, and she briefly wondered what kind of man he would turn into.

Nadir scanned its cover. "And is he up yet?"

"Of course not."

"On the other hand, I believe your daughter has snuck off again. I awoke to some footsteps outside my door only a short while ago." He chucked, flipping open the thin parchment.

Christine huffed. "That girl. When she comes back..." Perhaps her attempts at parental punishment were not proving to be as much as a deterrent as she hoped. She never particularly remembered being punished by her father, Gustave. Always a fairly well-behaved child, he never had reason to enforce discipline. Well, maybe he did, she just didn't recall, as she had been so young. She tried to understand her daughter. In reality, she was just walking around, how harmful could that really be? But she had to be firm. Last time, she was worried sick, finding her daughter nearly a mile from the house. It was ridiculous to allow a five year old girl to meander around the countryside! And as a parent her word must be followed. It was all very confusing.

Looking down, the bread was becoming, well, perhaps over-kneaded.

They settled into a comfortable silence. Christine began to hum quietly, mind wandering to parenting techniques. Erik would have come up with something. Well, he hadn't exactly had a positive model to take from, she reasoned, placing the bread over the fire. Preparing the table for breakfast, she detected the familiar bouncing steps on the porch. Brutus and Macbeth were barking. Loudly.

"Josephine, what have I told you about sneaking out?"

"But Maman-"

In a feeble attempt to quiet the commotion about her, she yelled. "Brutus, quiet!" He still did not. Usually at least the dogs would obey her.

Christine set a fork down, picking up a plate in its place. She had to raise her voice to communicate over the commotion. "No, Josephine, you mus-"

"Christine." A choked voice emitted from the doorway. It was rough and soft and heavy.

She knew who it belonged to. But she believed her ears to be lying. They certainly could be liars. Sometimes she was sharp when she believed to be singing the right note, and he would always tell her. By no means did she possess perfect pitch, though she could sometimes trick herself into thinking she did, her arrogant former self would conclude. Now, she was realistic. Her eyes looked up from her task, confronting the source of such a quiet, cracked sound.

The plate shattered. The dogs quieted, apparently accomplishing their task of informing her of the newcomer.

Numb, she stared. Were her eyes liars too? Evidently, she had been holding her breath, and a quick release of air pushed itself outwards, uneven, almost like a pant. A hand, still dusted with flour, reached up to her hairline, as if checking to see if her head was on straight. The other gripped the back of the wooden chair, the force of her weight causing the floor to creak like the steps.

Two sets of the same eyes stared back.

Maybe her eyes were liars. She didn't care. She wanted to believe them so badly that she didn't care. The joy of this moment would carry her until her death, she was sure of it. But now, she needed to discern the truth.

She stepped forward simply, afraid of convicting her eyes guilty. A smile formed on her face, involuntarily. So, her body had believed her eyes, had her mind?

She continued to stare into those eyes. The taller ones, now. Closing the distance, she reached out, pressing a hand to the figure's chest, assessing its reality.

Her hand was met with solid form. Christine exhaled again.

"Erik." She said.

Her arms managed to reach up and wrap around his neck, light and overflowing. He had to bend down a little to accommodate her, harms hanging limply at his trouser pockets. He felt wetness against his neck, her pressed against him.

The pressure of her seemed to shock Erik back to life, and his listless appendages suddenly gained a purpose. His embrace slowly encased around her form. In a brief release of tension, a welcome feeling following seven years of torment, he lifted her, wheeling the pair in a quick circle. Again, testing if she was really there, that it was not a trick of the mind, or of a mirage craved deep in the subconscious. She emitted a gurgled laugh at the movement.

"You're home."

"I am."

They both stood there, unsure of what was next. She could tell by her own closeness that he had lost significant weight, most likely close to three stone. He was skeletal, she wondered how he managed to keep on the horse for so long. Pulling away, Christine looked upon her husband. He had aged, grey hair poking out the sides of his head. Once gaunt skin, which had remained pale due to years underground, had tanned from constant sun exposure, making up for a lifetime without light. His hair swept slightly over his mask, much longer than the neat style she always saw him in. He smelled, well, traveled. Obviously he had not bathed in weeks. Despite it all, his eyes were the same. It was him, safe, and here.

And here he was, before her, after all these years. How they both had changed.

Christine hadn't really planned this far ahead. Of course, she prayed for this day for years, but she had never imagined how they would continue on. The children? She had supposed they would move past this, mess, with their lives together, a happy family, a future they had earned. Had she presumed wrong? It had been a long time, what if he fell out of love with her? She must look like a fool, waiting for him for so long when he didn't even want the life she offered. With Erik, it was best not to assume anything, so she changed the subject.

"You have met your daughter?" Another flat comment. She felt so dull!

Erik looked down at Josephine, standing in complete fascination of the display before her. The young child was not used to such behavior from her mother. She was happy and she didn't understand. Her head was craned, so as to look right back.

Much to Christine's relief, and awe, he smiled, although faintly, nodding once. He did not remove his eyes from Josephine.

"I found I was pregnant a few weeks after your departure. She is so much like you; your eyes, your hair, your creativity, your music, well both of them actually, and mon dieu she never sleeps! Even her-" She was rambling, she knew it. There was so much to tell, to catch up on, they had to start somewhere. How overwhelmed he must feel! To learn of a daughter ten minutes ago, return home after nearly seven years, she felt embarrassed for bombarding him with everything, a feeling she had not anticipated.

As if snapping out of a spell, he looked at Christine once more, effectively silencing her in his suddenness.

"Where is he?" Almost demanding in its intensity.

"Upstairs, sleeping. You may go up there if you wish, I am sure he would love such a surprise. He talks of you incessantly."

It looked as if Erik was the one getting surprised. He did not reply.

Suddenly, remembering of his weary state, she stepped towards the kitchen, rustling through drawers and cabinets to find something suitable for him. How exhausted he must be! He did not look good, the tan skin paling since he walked into the house. She did not want to think why.

"Please, Erik, sit down. Nadir is here, he has been a true friend these past months, to both me and the children. Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, I believe we have some fruit from yesterday somewhere in here. Or perhaps some ham? Bread is baking as we speak." She was rambling again. She felt awkward and pathetic.

He remained standing. "Water."

Before she turned to fetch it from the pitcher, however, she caught her husband's blazing eyes, practically seething with fury at Nadir.

"Daroga."

"Salaam dooet e man! I am glad you have made it out of the pit unscathed." The Daroga in question looked unperturbed. Her estimation of Nadir towards her husband made it seem that they were on good terms. Was she wrong?

With a nod of the head Erik took his seat at the table, a nonverbal reply. Nadir let out a cough, speaking up.

"I shall see to Oberon." Obviously he took the hint.

What had happened? Not just with Nadir, with everything? She found herself having difficulty in imagining his life for the past seven years. Where had he gone, what had he done? Did he long for her as much as she him? Her husband sat in his usual seat at the table, but in that familiar place he seemed a stranger.

Erik stared straight, sipping at the water. It was all very strange. They were married. So why did she not know what to say? I'm happy you're alive. I missed you more than life itself. Please never go away again. Finally, she came up with something, somewhere in-between that she hoped would pass as at least semi-appropriate.

"I have missed you so much, Erik." Her hand fell to his shoulder. He flinched.

She felt rejected. Were they back to the Opera House years, each afraid of the other's secret feelings? Not wanting to confront him, she removed her hand.

"Papa, will you play music for us?" Josephine said. Christine was thankful for the interruption. She did not think she could bear the force of the silence that would have ensued, sitting there like dead weight.

"Josephine, I am sure he is much too tire-"

"Yes, I shall, my girl."

"Erik, you don't have to."

"I shall. Might I remind you, I have not touched a piano for six and a half years." He turned to the child, making absurd motions with his hands "My fingers are practically itching."

A light laugh served as a response to that.

They played a strange game, communicating through the child in attempt of avoiding each other. Christine wanted to speak with him, had to, but it seemed that he didn't reciprocate the sentiment. Perhaps he only desired time with the children, and wanted nothing to do with her. She knew plenty of married couples who exhibited similar situations. They would take separate bedrooms, but remain together for the children. Raoul's parents had done the same, and it had worked fine, from the brief recount he had mentioned to her.

It would be best to change tactics then, focus her mind on the children.

"I will get Alexandre now." She announced.

In a few seconds the boy was essentially vaulting down the stairs, skipping three steps at time in his excitement.

"Papa!" Shirt barely tucked into his pants, with no socks on, he practically launched himself at Erik. Christine was surprised the chair hadn't fallen over completely. In a brief moment of childish immaturity, she was jealous she was not in Alexandre's place, in his arms.

What struck her, though, was the laugh that resounded. How she longed to hear it all these years! It was better than her imagination. Thick and rich and low, it filled up the room, reverberating off the wood paneling. It was more than ample reward for her patience.

"I have brought gifts for you both." He was met with wide grins.

Both? He hadn't known of Josephine; he must have collected extra gifts for Alexandre. Nevertheless, she was grateful, as her daughter was often, by circumstance, placed in her older brother's shadow.

"Ladies first." He said quietly.

Walking to his bag - he must have dropped in at some point - Christine watched in awe as her husband revealed within it a music box. It was small, practical to carry in a saddlebag, yet it displayed fine patterns and expensive quality. Showcasing various designs that looked similar to those she recognized from the large Persian rug they owned, as well as his dressing gown, it played a simple tune as he deftly cranked the dial. It even had a monkey atop!

Its receiver watched in adept attention, taking the box carefully as if it were the most valued jewel in the world - which it was probably close to in price, knowing Erik.

"Thank you Papa." Her joy was not overshadowed by her seriousness. She cradled it with great care, inspecting the monkey's various accoutrements and extravagant trappings.

Alexandre was next. Rocking back from his heels to his toes, the boy was impatient to discover what he would be gifted. Frankly, Christine wanted to know, too.

He pulled out a pocket watch, intricate and elaborate. Contrasting against the beaten bag, it was absolutely beautiful; gold leafed exterior showcased various patterns that were foreign to her. Showing Alexandre how to open it, the boy marveled at the skillful technique its creator must have possessed, which was evidenced in the marvelously adorned clock face.

"It is the right time, yes?" Erik said.

Squinting at the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway, Alexandre replied. "Yes, father. Oh thank you!" He embraced the masked man again.

Christine then realized that she forgot to pick up the mess she had made with the plate.

The rest of the day was spent, well, quietly, much to Christine's surprise. Excusing the children from their daily chores, she prepared the meals that day, silently urging Erik to eat more by inconspicuously setting more food on his plate. Still, he ate very little. He was so skinny! She vowed to herself that she would change that fact. He mainly spoke to the children, and her mood greyened. After a few simple songs he played, which she still soaked in like a starved woman, they all gathered into the parlor, and he sat in his old chair, fire flickering across his mask. Josephine rested her head on his knee, Alexandre splayed on the floor. Christine stood, her heart heavy. Did he truly not want her at all? He had burned down an entire Opera House for her, she thought darkly.

But she should not be thinking this! It truly was a beautiful scene before her. This man had been without his children for years! And they him! She should be relieved that they were finally getting to know each other. After all, she did love watching her husband with them. It felt so, - natural, domestic. A funny juxtaposition when comparing his former life. And the children, they were so happy! Their lives could finally be normal again. Christine knew, more than anyone, the trials of growing up parent-less. This gave her comfort, as she listened in to Erik entertaining them with his idealized adventure stories of his journey. She noticed he left out the assassination part.

Alexandre kept asking questions, of the exotic lands of Asia and wild animals and various languages Erik spoke. The mythical figure of his father was finally humanized, before him, in the flesh. Josephine was quiet, though no less active in her attention.

Nadir mainly kept to the background. Christine noticed his lack of comfort in the hours since Erik's return. She knew he felt that he was intruding, but even Christine felt that way. She was glad he was there, it would be pitiful indeed to be the only outsider, and she was his wife. Christine avoided the subject of her worries with her husband, clinging to casual utterances that characterized daily life, and keeping conversation centered around the children.

She smiled as he weaved together a wonderfully spellbinding story, reminded of the tales he would tell her in her youth, when she couldn't sleep.