Erik is still Erik, even at a time when most people would be very happy... bit of a short chapter here, but it was the logical break point in the text. I will try to post the next chapter soon, to make up for it!

Chapter 31. July 1887.

"Shall this do for a time, then?"

Erik's question was asked in a tone which held a hesitancy not remotely like the commanding tones of "the Phantom." But he wasn't the Phantom right now, in any way; he was a man, who was walking through a house a few steps behind his wife as they discussed whether it would be a suitable one to rent until their own was completed.

"Yes, I think it will be all right," Christine answered. "The kitchen is quite small, and the street outside is busier than I think you would prefer. It will be different living in this neighbourhood. But it is in a good location, and I like the layout of the rooms."

Houses in the center of Paris, when available at all, rented at astronomical prices, and Erik had refused absolutely to consider living in a flat, cheek by jowl with other people. The landlord, he said, would throw them out the very first time any of the neighbours heard them quarrelling, or Don Juan Triumphant being played. Christine would have preferred to remain close to Mama Valerius, but she knew he was right. So she had consented to look at houses in areas which had good transit service into the 9th arrondissement. She stepped in front of the house's bay window, and turned slowly on the spot, gazing at the shafts of sunlight pouring through it. Then she caught sight of her husband's expression.

"What is it?"

He stood in the doorway, one gray-gloved hand on its frame. "Oh... it is only that... to see you in the light like that, with it falling on your hair, and know that you are my wife... and listen to you talk about us as though we are any normal married couple looking for a house to rent... it is like a dream."

Christine was quiet for a moment, and then she echoed, "A dream... ?"

"Yes. And one which... I never thought would become reality."

She stood and looked at him, as she heard the sound of the daroga's voice, tactfully keeping the rental agent occupied in another part of the house. There was such a look of tenderness in Erik's eyes, a timid joy, that she went to him and kissed him, just a quick brush of lips lest they be seen, awkward around the latest version of the lifelike mask. But it was a promise, and a reassurance.

She drew back, and, looking into his eyes, said, "It has become reality, and I am your wife."

"Thank God," he breathed, gazing at her, and she knew that if they were alone, he would be kissing her again now, far more passionately.

She squeezed his hand instead, and said, "I think this house will be fine. It is small, but it will do for us for a little while."

"I am sorry the new house is not built yet," he told her. "I should have started the process as soon as we were married."

"That is all right," she replied, "It would not be ready right now anyway, if you had only begun three months ago. And I liked living in your beautiful house under the Opera. But that won't do once the baby is here."

Something changed then, and it was as though he froze very suddenly in place. A veil slid down over his eyes, hiding away from her the emotions that just a second ago had been blazing there for her to see clearly. He ducked his head, and then stepped away from her, saying tonelessly, "If you wish to take the house, we should tell the man so, and start the process moving." He went out of the room and down the hall.

Christine stared after him, confused and distressed. What had happened? She heard him telling the agent that they would rent the house, and even from this far away she could tell that there was a strange note in his voice which she could not understand. Apparently the Persian heard it too, for she heard him ask Erik if all were well. Erik retorted swiftly that it was, and now Christine could hear a distinct edge to his voice. Oh, dear. The daroga had known Erik far longer than she had; why did the man insist on asking her husband questions at times when Erik obviously didn't want to be bothered?

They went back to the Opera, dropping the Persian off at his flat. Erik said not a word in the carriage or on the way down below, but went immediately to his piano and began to play. Christine curled up on the couch and listened, watching his stiff back and wondering what she could do to bring him out of this sudden ill humour.

He must be nervous about the baby. She supposed it must be harder for a man who married later in life, to adjust to the rapid changes that came with a wife and child. Maybe he just needed a little more time to accept it. And he could have that time; the birth was still six months off.

Surely... surely he didn't wish it weren't coming at all?

No. No, that could not be. Christine went on listening to his playing, until her stomach informed her it was time to eat. She rose off the couch and said, "Erik, I'm going to fix dinner."

She'd deliberately pitched her voice so he could hear it above the piano. But he did not respond or even nod. She stood uncertainly for a moment, and then went into the kitchen, repeating her statement as she passed him. But he still gave no sign that he had heard. By the time dinner was on the table, his mood had changed once again, and he drew her into a conversation about inconsequential things with what seemed very much like false cheer. She felt sorry for him, for the unease which must be the explanation for his odd behaviour, and was careful this time not to press him about his moodiness. Little by little, he seemed to relax somewhat, and she was convinced that she must be correct about the cause of it. She resolved to be as tender and gentle with him as she could, and he would soon adjust to the situation. As they talked, Christine began imagining him standing in the light by the bay window of the rental house and holding their child. Would it have his hands? Surely it would inherit its father's genius; although, she had to admit, that might be a bit of a problem should it be a girl. How would she ever find a husband, if she were that much more intelligent than most any suitor that might come calling? Perhaps it would be better if it were a boy. Would he like a son? It seemed logical to Christine that Erik might have an easier time understanding another male; he was always so baffled by feminine things.

Erik broke off in the middle of a sentence to ask, "And what are you smiling at, Christine?"

"Nothing," she said, not wanting to mention the baby again now that he was in a more pleasant frame of mind. "Do you want any more chicken?"

"No, thank you."

"I'll get the creme brulee," she said, pushing back her chair and standing up.

With dessert Erik drank brandy, which he did from time to time, and Christine noticed that he had poured rather more into his glass than was usual for him. But she said nothing, and he became gradually more jovial as she led him into a discussion of how cleverly Offenbach had satirized the emperor in Orpheus in the Underworld. Yes, this was the best way to deal with him just now. She smiled at him as much as possible, and made flattering comments about his wit and his ability to explain things to her, and all traces of his earlier mood seemed to be gone. Feminine wiles, on occasion, came in very handy indeed, and she wondered how wives managed who were married to men wiser to the ways of women than her poor Erik was.

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