Another chapter that is basically about Erik being Erik... but in a considerably less amusing way than in Chapter 35.

Chapter 36. July 1887.

Christine hummed as her scissors snicked through the white cotton spread out on the dining room table. This baby gown pattern, which she had found in a ladies' magazine, seemed simple enough; maybe she could have them all cut out by the time she had to clear the table for dinner.

She heard the front door open, and called out, "Hello!"

Erik came into the dining room, still in his cloak and in the act of taking off his hat. Christine took one look at him and set down her scissors.

"You're wearing evening clothes!"

"Yes."

"Erik, it's three o'clock in the afternoon."

He drew out his watch on its black jet chain and flipped the lid open. "A quarter past, to be exact. Look at that, I managed to remember to wind this."

"Do you think I don't know what it means when you wear evening clothes during the day?" she demanded, glaring.

"I am sure that you do."

She was unable to think of a comeback for a moment, and then said, "And what have you been doing upstairs this time?"

"Merely keeping up appearances, my dear," he said calmly. "The Opera Ghost has magnanimously decided that he can do without his salary, to please his wife, but the time may come when he needs it again and it is as well to keep the denizens of his Opera House aware that he is still keeping an eye on them."

Christine folded her arms across her chest and fixed her husband with a stare which she tried to make as intimidating as possible. It seemed she was unsuccessful, however, because he only laughed and remarked lightly, "Well, I was going to come and kiss you, but you look as if you would bite me if I did."

"Erik, you know I don't like you playing 'the ghost.' "

"Christine, I would gladly give you the world if you wanted it, but I do not think it wise to close the door on future opportunities, should we have need of them. I have put a good deal of effort into creating the legend of the Opera Ghost, and I must keep some fallback positions open. One never knows what may happen. I gave up the extortion of the managers, at your request; but the time may come when I must have recourse to it again."

He was always so paranoid, so afraid that some terrible ill might befall them. Would he ever be willing to let his guard down and simply enjoy each day as it came? Probably not easily. She would have to help him. Christine relented and said, "You can come kiss me if you like."

He did so gladly, and then glanced idly at the fabric and pins spread over the table. "What are you working on?"

"Clothes for the baby."

Erik went suddenly still, and then in an explosion of motion, hurled his hat into a corner of the room, snatched up the scissors and a scrap of fabric, hacked it into a circle with two eye-holes, and threw the rudimentary mask into her face. Christine jumped backward as he crashed the scissors back down on the table, and then, looming over her, he hissed, "Well, then you had better start with that!" He turned on his heel, cloak flaring out, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Christine stood still herself for an instant, and then ran to the door and opened it, peering into the hall, only to have a wall of sound hit her as the bellowing roar of the pipe organ made her jump again. So he had retreated into that room once more. She thought of running to the door and hammering on it, but she knew from experience that he would ignore her. If he even heard her over the noise he was making; he was causing the very walls of the house to tremble, as the frantic chords crashed and tumbled over each other.

She shut the door, picked his hat up off the floor for him and tried to return to her work, but couldn't concentrate. Normally listening to Erik's music was her greatest pleasure, but not when he played like this. It went on for nearly two hours, and then he turned to his violin. Relieved to have only the wailing strains of that instrument in her ears, Christine cleared the table, prepared a simple meal and waited with trepidation for him to come out, hoping against hope that he wouldn't be in too bad of a temper by that point. They were going to have to sort out his evident fears about the baby. Wearily she girded herself up to be kind and understanding once more.

But he didn't come out at all that evening, and after a short period of silence, during which Christine could hear the scratching of his pen when she crept up to the door and put her ear against it, at around ten o'clock he started in at the organ again. She felt like crying. She was tired and wanted to go to bed, and not to have to deal with Erik in the mood he obviously wasn't out of yet. But the noise would be even worse in that room.

The thunderous organ went on and on and on. In desperation, she rolled up a rug and placed it against the closed parlour door, hoping to block out some of the sound. Then she lay down on a couch and put a pillow over her head.

Christine spent an indeterminate amount of time trying to sleep, mostly unsuccessfully, and jolting out of a fitful slumber whenever a particularly harsh chord sounded. When he finally stopped, she was too exhausted to get up and undress to go to bed properly, and stayed on the couch. She awoke grainy-eyed, fuming, and in no mood at all to see her husband. She staggered off the couch, aching all over, got her morning illness over with, and then washed and changed hurriedly. His door was still shut; she didn't know if he were even still in the house, and did not care to find out. She would go and spend the day with Mama Valerius, and perhaps she could take a nap in the afternoon to regain a little strength before she had to come back and face him.

At the door she paused, wondering if she should leave a note. He might be worried if he had no idea where she had gone. No, she decided. Let him be upset. He deserved it.

At her old flat, Anne the maid met her with a worried frown.

"She's worse, Madame," she said in a low voice. "She won't wake up till past noon. She's too thin, but she won't eat but two meals a day, if that."

"Really?" said Christine in dismay.

"Yes, Madame. And it takes her so long to eat! Why, she spent near two hours eating dinner yesterday."

"Well, have you called the doctor out?" asked Christine, taking off her gloves and thrusting them into her skirt pocket.

"No, Madame, I was waiting to speak to you about it."

"Well, we'd better have him in. I'll send word." She looked indecisively toward the old woman's bedroom. "Should I wake her, do you think?"

"Yes, I think so," said Anne. "We best start getting her on an earlier schedule, Madame, if you ask me. Maybe if she gets up earlier than usual today she'll go to sleep earlier too, and then we can do the same tomorrow, till finally she won't sleep so late."

Christine went into the bedroom and woke up her adopted mother. Mama Valerius was disoriented and incoherent at first, but eventually managed to sit up with some assistance, and asked Christine how she was.

"I'm fine, Mama. I'm sorry I don't come to see you more often."

"It's all right," said the old woman, smiling vacantly. "I'm sure you're busy at the Opera, with performances every night and all…"

Christine was taken aback for a moment, and then said, "Mama, it's summer. There aren't any performances right now."

"Oh?" said Mama Valerius, and went on staring out of the window. Christine took a deep breath and smoothed the bedcovers.

She spent a painful day there, not finding the haven she had wanted and forcing herself to see how much her guardian had declined in just a few short months. Had the fact that Christine no longer lived with her somehow caused this? She devoutly hoped not; what a burden of guilt to have to carry. But then, if she had married Raoul she would also have had to leave…or would Raoul have been willing to take the old woman in and live with her, as Erik surely was not? Christine tried not to think about these things, but was not entirely successful.

She dragged her feet as she returned, hoping Erik wouldn't be at home, till she realised that it would be worse if he were not, as then she would have to sit on tenterhooks, wondering when he would be back and what frame of mind he would be in when he arrived.

He was there, and he was frantic.

"Christine, Christine," he cried, running from the bedroom, his clothing rumpled and his yellow eyes wild, and the sound of desperate terror in his voice. "Christine, where have you been? I woke and found you gone, and no note; I searched for you, and I could not find you. My God... I thought you had finally come to your senses, and left me... Christine, my Christine..."

He moved to take her in his arms, and she stepped back and snapped, "Don't you dare!"

Erik stopped dead, first startlement and then apprehension playing across his unmasked face. "Christine, are you angry with me?"

"You can honestly ask me that? You ask me what I'm doing, I tell you, and you spend the rest of the day sulking and thundering away on that thing!" She gestured derisively in the general direction of the pipe organ. "And you keep me up all night when I need to sleep, and then you have the gall to be upset when you didn't know where I was?"

"I kept you up all night?"

"Yes!" she retorted. "I couldn't even go to bed because the noise would have been too awful there. I slept on the couch."

"Oh, Christine... I'm sorry. I did not know how late it was. I simply stopped playing when I was ready to, and slept in that room. I was unaware of what time it was."

"Of course you were, you wouldn't open your door long enough for me to tell you! Just like before! As soon as you get upset about something, you lock yourself up in that room and you won't come out until you're good and ready, never mind what I'm doing or feeling! Don't you realise how loud that horrible instrument of yours is?"

He passed a trembling hand over his forehead, resting the other against the wall to support himself. "No, I didn't... I've never been the one listening while someone else played it.. I am sorry, Christine."

"No you're not. You'll do the same thing the next time." She slammed her parasol into the storage rack by the door and started to stalk past him. He caught her elbow.

"Let me go!" She tried to jerk away.

"Christine, please!" He let go of her arm, but fell to his knees before her and seized her skirts. "Christine, please, don't be angry with Erik! Don't you realise he shut himself up so he could not hurt you while he was in a temper?"

"You what?" she said sharply.

"Christine, the last time I was angry I said things that hurt you. I did not want to do that again, so I hid myself away from you and tried to burn away my black mood without doing you any harm. I thought I was doing the right thing this time!"

"Well, you weren't! How could you think it didn't do me any harm when you played like that in the middle of the night?"

"Erik is sorry!" he pleaded, twisting his fingers in the fabric of her dress. "Please, Christine! I did not know what time it was, you know I never do when I'm playing! Don't be angry with me! I don't know what is the right thing to do, but my God, I am trying!" He shook her skirts with the force of his emotion.

Briefly, Christine was tempted to relent and pity him, but she pushed the urge away and demanded. "Why did you get so angry anyway?"

"Because... because..." His mouth twisted miserably. Her anger came flooding back, stronger than before.

"You have to accept that we're going to have a child!" She was getting more and more furious. "Why are you acting like this? Erik, do you not want this baby?"

"Christine, I... please do not ask me that..."

"If you didn't, then you shouldn't have gotten married," she stormed. "You're half responsible for it. And you've got six months to learn to be happy about it, so you'd better start soon! Now let me go!"

She jerked at her skirt, and he released her reluctantly. She started to stalk down the hall, and he called anxiously, "Where are you going?"

"To take a bath. You leave me alone."

She dawdled in the bathtub, not wanting to go out and have to talk to him again, dozed off involuntarily, and then was startled awake by a rap on the door.

"Christine? Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said crossly. "Why?"

"Because you have been in there a very long time, and I was worried." He was quiet for a minute, and then said, very humbly, "Please come out and eat dinner. I made something, so you would not have to cook."

"I'm not hungry," she snapped, more because she was angry than because she actually wasn't hungry.

"But Christine, you need to eat, especially – especially now."

He still couldn't bring himself to mention the baby. Her overstretched nerves frayed farther.

"Go away and leave me alone!" she retorted. There was a pained silence from the other side of the door. Christine noticed that her back was aching, and sat up in the cooling water. The skin on her hands and feet was wrinkled; how long had she been in here, seething first and then falling asleep?

The clock chimed six. She'd been in the bath nearly an hour. No wonder Erik was worried. Christine supposed she'd better get out after all. She hauled herself forward, stood, and then for a single precipitous moment, slipped on the bottom of the bathtub. She caught herself before she fell, but not before crying out. Erik was there in an instant, invited or not, seizing her arms and steadying her.

Christine fell forward against her husband's chest, disregarding the fact that she was getting water on his black silk brocade waistcoat, and started to cry. Everything was just too much, and she was so very, very tired. Erik lifted her carefully out, set her on her feet again, and toweled her off with great gentleness, all the while looking drawn and miserable himself.

"Erik is a monster," he muttered, "to treat his wife so, and not let her get any sleep when she is with child. No wonder she is forced to tears."

Listening to his bizarre speech patterns was more than she could bear just now. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Erik's hands fluttered over her, cautiously patting her head and her shoulders, obviously not sure what to do to comfort her. Then they stilled, and he gingerly wrapped her in the velvet dressing gown she'd brought into the bathroom, helping her slide her arms into the sleeves. He lifted her up again, and carried her out and into the dining room. She was too exhausted to struggle.

"What are you doing?" Christine murmured against the fine wool of his coat.

"Taking you to the table," he responded quietly. "You must eat."

Through a growing daze, she saw the table laid and ready, and allowed him to set her down in her chair. He put food onto her plate and soup into her bowl, and she ate obediently. She was hungry, it was true. She drank a little wine when he poured it for her, and then she set the glass down and rested her forehead on her hand, closing her eyes.

"Are you finished?"

"Yes," she sighed. She felt him lifting her once more, and didn't argue. He was carrying her to the bedroom, and singing, very softly and sweetly. Christine had a brief, vague sense that she was supposed to talk to him about something to do with his voice, but she was so tired, and his song was so beguiling, and she could not resist it long enough to remember.

An indeterminate amount of time later, she awoke to hear him calling her name. She blinked, and sat up. He was standing by the bed holding a tray.

"Wha – what?" she protested indistinctly, unable to make her mouth work properly when at least half her brain was still asleep and not capable of giving her muscles coherent orders.

"Get up, Christine," he said, setting the tray down on the night-table, and she saw blearily that it contained two croissants on a plate and a cup of steaming coffee.

She scrubbed a hand over her face, still not fully awake. "Get up…" she repeated stupidly after him, and then shook her head hard, and he swam into slightly better focus. "Why?"

"Because I am taking you on an outing."

"A – a what? Where?"

"You'll see."

"Is it morning?"

"Yes. Get out of bed, please. I brought you a little breakfast – I am sorry the croissants are stale, I did not have time to go out for fresh ones – and I picked out a gown for you to wear. Here."

Christine yawned widely and pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes, awareness gradually returning, and she saw that Erik was still standing by the bed, now holding out one of her dresses, with a faint air of anticipation about him. He was obviously trying hard to suppress it, but she could tell all the same. He could be just like a child when it came to surprising people, particularly her. She yawned again. Dealing with the childish side of him was a bit much first thing in the morning, but she knew he would be terribly upset if she didn't go look at whatever it was that he was proposing. It probably wasn't worth making him angry again.

She shoved back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, but then decided she'd better have her coffee first. She reached out a hand for the cup and picked it up, but the instant the scent hit her nose, her stomach lurched.

"Oh," she groaned, and set the cup back down with a grimace. "I'll get dressed in a minute, but I have to go be sick first."

"Hurry up, then!" he snapped, throwing the dress onto the bed and stalking out. He slammed the door behind him, making the objects on the shelves rattle. Christine shut her eyes tightly, and contemplated getting back into bed and refusing to get up. But his surliness hadn't diminished her stomach's insistence on turning itself inside out one bit, and instead she ran to the bathroom. After the unpleasant business was over and she had rinsed her mouth and washed her face, she thought again about declining the surprise. But... her husband had given her a direct order.

She twisted up her hair, made the rest of her morning ablutions, and went back into the bedroom, where she sat and gloomily ate one of the croissants, and drank her cooling coffee. The dress Erik had picked out for her was a very plain wool one, in fact the plainest she possessed. Why was that? Was he making some sort of comment about her? Perhaps he thought she was too extravagant. Just to be contrary, she pulled out the frilliest, laciest summer sheer frock she had, and was reaching for clean underthings when she jumped and nearly fell as the organ thundered to life again. Her mouth was just falling open at the sheer audacity of him doing the exact thing which he had been abjectly apologizing for only yesterday, when the music ceased as abruptly as it had begun, and there was a sudden, pulsating stillness. Christine waited with bated breath, and then she heard the organ bench scrape on the floor, and silence again after. She stood still for a moment, vibrating with desire to know what he was doing. Then she gave in, and ran into the hallway, still in her nightgown, to throw open the door to his bedroom.

Erik was pacing. He simply hadn't been making any noise doing it, like a great cat; a talent which had made it easy for him to act the part of a ghost. He whirled around to look at her, and she demanded, "What are you doing?"

The words came out rather more peevishly than she'd really intended, and she saw the resentment smouldering in him. "I am trying not to disturb you, as I did the day before yesterday, while I wait for you!" he hissed, his yellow eyes glaring. "Are you going to get dressed as I told you to?"

"Yes," she said sullenly.

"Good. Do it." His voice was low and controlled, but she found she did not care to push him any farther, and she turned and walked away without another word, shutting the door between them.

She would have liked to have taken as long as possible getting ready, but he took up his pacing again, this time audibly, and the sound of his boot heels clicking on the floor was giving her such a headache that she finished as fast as she could instead. He was doing it on purpose, just to annoy her. Snatching up a tiny flower-trimmed bonnet and some lace gloves, she went stamping into the other bedroom. His eyebrow went up as he took in her attire, and when he spoke, his voice was not angry now, but silky, with an undercurrent of sardonic amusement.

"Is that what you intend to wear?"

"Yes," she snapped, bristling at his tone. Was he amused at her or at himself? She could not tell.

"Why didn't you wear the frock I set out for you?"

"I didn't want to," she retorted. He seemed on the verge of saying something else, but then visibly checked himself and shrugged.

"Suit yourself, then," he said dryly. He pushed past her, coming back out of the Louis-Philippe room a few minutes later with an unfashionably wide brimmed straw hat and a pair of leather gloves.

"Put these on at least. You'll get dreadfully sunburnt otherwise."

Sunburnt? Where were they going? In spite of herself, her curiosity was piqued, and she followed him out of the house and up through the tunnels without further resistance.

Near the door to the Rue Scribe, she heard metallic clacking on the stone floor, and when they came around a turn, a large white shape loomed out of the darkness, pricking its ears forward and tossing its fine head against its lead rope.

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