And here is the next chapter. Just to make sure no one is taken aback by the mention of Christine wearing a corset while she's pregnant; yes, it's completely safe to do so. She isn't very far along. I am very involved in historical reenacting as a hobby, and dress up in period clothing a couple of times a week. When I was pregnant with my son I was able to wear my corsets laced normally until I was three months along, then laced loosely for another couple of months, and didn't really have to switch to a maternity corset until around five months. He's absolutely fine. :) Corsets are not torture devices if worn sensibly. Do feel free to private message me if you'd like further information on Victorian clothing, but I don't want to make this particular Author's Note longer than necessary, so I'll end here. Onward to the cooking lesson...

Chapter 9. July, 1887. Three months after the wedding. Friday (continued).

And now here they were, married irrevocably, and expecting a child. Which might be the last one they ever had, if Christine couldn't get her husband away from that piano.

Christine went to the door and peeked out. Erik was fully engrossed in his music once again, deaf to the world. Her eyes passed over him, seeing the way his shoulder blades were too visible and his jaw clenched. He was wearing a thoroughly wrinkled dressing gown over black trousers and a shirt whose cuffs were liberally stained with ink. His face – well, what could be seen of it – was even paler than usual. Though he was still wearing his mask, he had not bothered to put on one of his wigs, and what little hair he possessed was standing disreputably on end. He looked, in short, even worse than usual. Feeling a stab of pity mixed with exasperation, she turned and went to the sink. She filled a pitcher at the tap and took up a glass; she would at least put some water out for him. God knew how long it had been since he'd last had anything to drink.

"I'll be right back," she said, and Adele, busily unpacking their sacks, nodded.

Christine went back out into the parlour and set the pitcher and glass down, where he might see it if he happened to take his eyes off his work for two seconds together, but safely out of the range of his long arms. The last time he'd gone into one of these fits of composing, she'd thought to bring him a cup of tea and set it down next to him; but Erik, not knowing it was there, had reached out a blindly groping hand for a new sheet of paper and knocked the teacup over. The tea had, of course, spilled directly onto his work. There followed a most unpleasant scene, which she had no desire to repeat. With another dubious look at him, she hurried to put on a work dress and apron.

When she entered the kitchen again, Adele had donned the apron she had brought and was stirring up the fire in the stove. The supplies Christine had purchased were laid out on the table in the centre of the room. There was enough to make dinner not only for Christine and Erik, but also another batch for Adele and the children. There had been some resistance to this plan from Adele, but Christine had won the argument.

"Christine, there is no need for you to pay for our dinner."

"Yes, there is," said Christine firmly, putting two heads of garlic and some celery into her basket. "As a thank-you for helping me, if nothing else. And Erik certainly owes you something for everything he put you through over the years."

"He certainly does," agreed the widow, "but I do not like to see you spending your money on us. I am very capable of putting food on our table."

"It's Erik's money, not mine," said Christine, "And Lord knows he has enough of it, mostly ill-gotten. He makes me use only his money for household expenses and my own spending money, and save my own. Let me use a bit of this for something worthwhile for a change. It's the managers' money, after all; figure it's them buying you dinner if you want. I won't hear of anything else."

Christine had gone on to purchase spices, apples and ingredients for pastry crust, following her mentor's instructions as to what was the best.

"See these apples, Christine? They are the best kind for tarts. Do not use this kind here, they will not work nearly as well."

"Why?"

"Because these will turn to mush when cooked, while the first ones I showed you will hold their shape and be much nicer to look at."

Christine dutifully put the apples indicated into her basket. Now, they sat on the table, waiting to be sliced.

"What must I do first?" Christine inquired.

"Chop the onions. We must cut them into pieces about this size, see?"

Christine watched carefully, and followed the instructions as best she could. Adele moved from her own tasks to the stove to Christine's side fluidly, pointing out what the younger woman was doing incorrectly and showing her the proper way.

"Here, Christine, not that way. Hold your knife like this, see? See how much easier – Oh, for heaven's sake!" Adele slammed the utensil down on the table and looked toward the parlour in exasperation. "Isn't he ever going to get that line to his liking?"

Erik had, in fact, been playing the same bit of melody over and over and over, with minor variations as he tried out different methods of getting the sound he wanted. Christine was perfectly used to this sort of thing by now, but it could indeed be annoying in the extreme. Apparently the composer thought so too, because there was a sudden howl of rage and a muffled thud, as of something hitting the wall.

"What was that?" asked Adele, startled.

"Who knows," said Christine, shrugging. "Just so long as it wasn't the inkpot, but I don't think he'd throw that."

There was a string of incomprehensible words bellowed from the other room, and Adele looked questioningly at Christine, who rolled her eyes and explained, "He thinks I can't tell he's swearing if he does it in a foreign language."

Adele nodded in understanding, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. "Well, at least he is still thinking of you."

"I suppose so," answered Christine, and smiled back. She turned back to her chopping. "Like this? Is this right?"

Together, they assembled the soup ingredients in a deep pot on the stove, and then it was time to season them.

"Now the salt – no, Christine, not that much!" Adele grabbed her protégée's wrist. "We French do not salt our food as much as you Scandinavians do. You must learn to like food with only enough salt to enhance the flavour of the other ingredients, not overpower them."

"Yes," Christine said, embarrassed. "Erik is always telling me I use too much salt."

"Here. This is about how much to use. Any more and you will ruin it. Now the pepper – see how much I am putting in?"

Christine nodded obediently. "When do we put the wine in?"

"Now. We will need to deglaze the pan with it – that means to put some into the pan we used to brown everything, bring it to a boil, and pour it over the other ingredients. This will put every last bit of flavour into them, instead of leaving it in the pan."

"All right," said Christine. "I will go and get some wine. White, right?"

At Adele's affirmative nod, Christine went through the door in the side of the kitchen wall which she knew led down to Erik's wine cellar. She flicked on the switch for the electric lights, which no longer shocked her as they had when she first came here – Erik really was clever to have been able to electrify his entire house – and went down the stairs into the room below. She walked into the centre of it and stopped, looking around at the dozens of bottles that surrounded her. Adele had been vastly amused to learn that the Opera Ghost had his own wine cellar in the basements of the Opera House, and that it was as extensive as this.

"Well, what better place for it, I suppose," she'd said, laughing.

Christine hunted until she found the correct section. She did not come down here very often. Her hand hovered uncertainly over the bottles; she felt unbearably young and ignorant. After a few moments, she picked two of them, her choice based entirely on their attractive labels. If Erik couldn't be bothered to participate in the evening's wine selection, he'd just have to drink what she chose. He'd bought them, after all. But on the whole, she reflected as she went back up the stairs, perhaps she wouldn't tell him that she'd chosen them based on their labels.

Eventually, everything was done. The finished soup was in its pot on the back of the stove, keeping warm; the apple tarts sat steaming on the countertop. The table was set with china and silver, with one place setting at each end, a bouquet of flowers, and long white tapers in the candelabras, waiting to be lit. Brushing off Christine's effusive thanks, Adele packed up her portion of their afternoon's endeavours and left, promising that the next lesson would be in poaching fish. Christine was encouraged; she liked fish. However, she thought Adele was unlikely to teach her the methods of cooking them that she had once enjoyed back in Sweden. Oh, well. If Erik liked her efforts, that would be good enough. Perhaps eventually she'd introduce him to the flavours of her home country. But not till after she mastered the art of French cooking.

Now, however, she needed a bath. She would have a nice long soak, she decided, and then get dressed in a pretty evening gown, before bringing the food to the table and lighting the candles. Her resolve faltered somewhat as she passed him on her way to the bathroom; he was still in the same condition he'd been in hours ago, though the water had, she noticed, been drunk. Surely…surely he wouldn't refuse to come and eat dinner with her, when she'd tried so hard to cook it for him? She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, looking at him over her shoulder, and then turned determinedly toward the hallway where the bedrooms and bathrooms were. She'd just have to make him stop working. She could do it. Of course. Definitely.

O-O-O

Christine went into the Louis-Philippe bedroom – their bedroom, effectively now, as she'd made Erik stop sleeping in his coffin and the other bedroom both – and through it into its green marbled bathroom. She started the tub filling, put in some lilac-scented bath salts, and went back into the bedroom to get undressed. Once naked, she moved about the room, tossing her chemise, drawers and stockings into the laundry hamper and hanging up her dress and petticoats. She put her shoes onto their shelf; now there remained only her corset to put away, and she started toward the other side of the room to put it into the armoire.

Halfway there, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and stopped dead. She'd seen herself before, of course, but for some reason felt compelled to stop and stare at her own naked body. She wasn't showing a bit; she was not even two months along, and the doctor had told her that it would be perhaps two more before there was any appreciable change in her figure. Her eyes travelled over the familiar lines, full breasts – she'd developed early, starting her monthly bleeding at fifteen – tiny waist, round hips and thighs, with small ankles and feet.

Just how much was pregnancy going to change her looks? Erik loved her body, he'd told her so many times; what if he didn't like the way she looked afterward? Would he turn cold to her? What if he found another woman with a better figure?

She told herself firmly that this was ridiculous, that her husband loved her, and that in any case poor Erik was highly unlikely to find another woman who would receive him (the unkind thought came unbidden, but she could not stop it). She ran her hand over herself, thinking that the whole thing was a fait accompli anyway. Her vanity would not be stilled so easily, however, and as she looked down at the corset in her other hand, the potential loss of her splendid figure seemed suddenly far more tragic than it had a moment ago. She'd always had that reassurance; it was something she could simply take for granted, that she could achieve the desirable neat waist without pulling her laces dreadfully tight as a few of the more vain women of the time did. She'd gloried in her husband's open adoration of her body, in the thousand compliments he paid her, in the obvious fact that looking at her drove him nearly mad with desire, so much so that he frequently could not control himself. Would she never again experience the thrill of his suddenly seizing her and tossing her onto the couch or the hearthrug or whatever else was convenient, throwing up her skirts and hunting madly for the opening in her drawers, and taking her without even managing to get them both undressed first? Would she never again enjoy hearing his beautiful voice whispering to her how lovely he found her, as his long hands slid over her bare skin and made her twist and writhe amongst the bedclothes? All over, all over!

Christine collapsed to the floor and wept stormily, her body heaving. After a few moments she found she couldn't breathe, and got up to get a handkerchief. As she was blowing her nose she remembered the bathtub, and dashed into the bathroom to find to her relief that it had not overflowed yet. She turned off the tap and leaned against the tub for a moment, wondering if Erik had heard her crying. She listened; no, the piano music was still issuing unabated from the front room. She snorted. Typical.

She put the handkerchief aside and lowered herself into the bathtub, sighing as she relaxed back against it. At first she remained annoyed at Erik for not coming to comfort her; then, after a bit, she began to think of how embarrassing it would have been to have him find her in a heap on the bedroom floor sobbing, stark naked and clutching a corset (which, she recalled, was still in the middle of the floor). The whole thing seemed unbearably ridiculous now. Was this the beginning of the emotional upsets the doctor had warned her about? How many more times was she going to go to pieces over something trivial?

Oh, well. Who knew, maybe if this happened in front of Erik, it might actually distract him from his composing.

Maybe.

Christine reached for the soap and lathered up the washcloth. She slid it slowly over her breasts, and couldn't help thinking of her husband's hands doing so instead. The fears of his loss of interest forgotten, she closed her eyes and thought longingly of sharing love with him. It had been two days already before he'd started on this latest bout of work, as she'd been unusually tired, which she now could attribute to her condition. So, now it had been three days, and that was far longer than they usually went without indulging themselves. What a change it had been, to end up with the open enjoyment of each other that they now both revelled in.

Especially since their wedding night had been a fiasco of the highest order.

O-O-O O-O-O