In which Erik reflects at length, not to say begins to obsess...

Here's the next chapter, folks. And a thank you again to MarySkater for the horse-related information.

Chapter 40. July 1887.

Something was prodding the back of Erik's head. He came awake with a start, and looked up to see a large white head a few inches above him, its ears pricked forward anxiously. The nostrils widened, and blew a breath out at him.

"Oh," said Erik, "it's you." Cesar blinked, and nudged him again, more forcefully. "How did you get over here? Surely you did not break the tether." Getting up, he examined the long rope which Cesar was trailing. There was a loop round one hind leg, and the rest had snagged on a bush.

"You would not have gone far like that." Untangling the rope deftly, he saw that the end of it was not broken, but wet, with signs of being chewed. "Ah, so you have learned to untie a quick-release knot, have you? Studying the arts of Monsieur Robert-Houdin? Have you been getting bored in your stable at home? Perhaps they are not exercising you enough. Or perhaps it is my fault. I have not taken you on an excursion for months."

He led the horse back to the tethering stake. Much of the ground near it had been cropped, so he pulled up the stake and moved it to a fresh patch of grass, then tied the rope to it again, differently this time. "You will not untie that one, my friend. On your own head be it if those stray colts return, for it will take me longer to free you now. Before our next outing, I must contrive something better. And perhaps I should send a word of warning to Monsieur Lachenal. Horses who untie knots often learn to unfasten bolts, and we do not want you straying. I was careless not to consider the possibility."

Careless, indeed. His moments of such were getting more and more common. Troubling. He rubbed a hand over his face, and yawned. Why did he seem to need more sleep than he ever used to? Was it the frequent indulging in marital relations that was doing it? Did his previous ability to function quite well on only a few hours of sleep most nights, stem from the fact that he was not expending his energies with a woman? Or…was it simply that that particular bodily need, going unsatisfied, had created tension which was then diverted elsewhere, into inventions and compositions and blueprints, the mastery of languages, of sleight of hand, and of other arts which did not bear recalling?

Perhaps it was only that he was getting old. He and Christine had rolled apart as they slept, and she was curled on her side, her head on one folded arm, and clearly still asleep even though he'd been talking to the horse. She must not yet be recovered from her sleeplessness of two nights before; he ought to let her rest now. They would be getting home very late.

Erik walked idly down the slope toward the pool, the horse following behind like a faithful dog. The grass was soft under his bare feet; he stopped before he reached the rougher, stony ground near the water, and turned to scratch Cesar under his chin, before moving his hand down the arched neck and then over the broad white back. There was a crust of dried sweat where the saddles had rested. Fetching a brush from one of the saddlebags, Erik groomed Cesar's back clean. There was no need to do more, so he returned to merely stroking the animal. The grooms of the Opera knew their business, and kept the horses' coats in top condition. If they had not, they would have found themselves out of a job on very short notice, for Monsieur Lachenal did not tolerate incompetence in those he supervised. It had always been pleasant for Erik not to have to keep a close watch on him, at least; there were plenty of others who needed it more, and it was helpful to have some whom the Opera Ghost did not have to bother with. He had, after all, only so much time.

And he was not expending nearly as much of it on the running of the Opera House as he used to. With nothing in particular which needed doing, other than maintenance on his home, he once had put in a good many hours roaming about the building, spying on anyone and everyone within it whom he had a mind to. If he saw something to which he took exception, there would be a strongly worded letter on the managers' desks, one copy for each, made with the document copying device which Erik had invented for his own use, and which was, he was convinced, far superior to the others he had read about. It was hard enough for him to write, with his awkward, unsightly script which was the souvenir of a naturally left-handed person's being beaten into learning to write with his right hand. Having to make two of each letter which he wanted both managers to receive would have been far too much trouble, so he had simply invented a machine for the purpose, and easily too. Child's play.

Child's play…Christ. He was going to have to come up with a way of keeping his inventions and creations out of reach of his own child, once it got old enough to walk…crawl? Did children get into things when they were only at the crawling stage? He wasn't sure. Perhaps he ought to look into that subject, as well as reading up on pregnancy? It would be as well to know what to expect. There was usually a much greater chance of his losing his temper over something if he were caught unawares by it, and Christine would undoubtedly be furious with him if he shouted at the child. Patience was not included in the list of his many talents, but perhaps he was going to have to try to cultivate it. He had no particular interest in doing so, for himself; impatience was, in his opinion, extremely useful, as it caused him to accomplish things which lazier people would not so much as conceive of, let alone do. But he knew already that his zeal for things which intrigued or enthralled him sometimes upset Christine. She would surely be much more angry on their child's behalf even than she was on her own.

Well, he had already put a spacious workroom for himself into the plans for their new house. It would not be all that difficult to design another one of his complicated locks, which no child would ever be able to undo. If he were occupied with other things at the time when it was needed, he could even simply copy the one he'd put on the front door to the underground house. That design should serve well enough. Christine could undo it now, but she was an adult woman, not a child, and in any case he'd had to show her how to, and take her through the process several times before she could do it on her own.

Cesar's head was drooping in the relaxation of physical pleasure, his eyes half-lidded. Christine's eyes often got like that too, when he stroked her. He turned the hand unoccupied in scratching the horse over, looking at its thinness and long fingered-ness and general skeletal appearance. His hands, while of course not as bad as his face, had nonetheless never been anything he imagined any woman would want touching her. Horses were one thing; they didn't care about humans' standards of beauty, nor did the cats which he petted if he happened upon one. There had been cats in the palaces of the Oriental monarchs; pampered things which slept on silk cushions and ate better than the servants did. They had always liked it when he ran his hand over their sleek fur. But Christine…

She had drawn back from his touch, that morning after he kidnapped her from her dressing room for the first time. He had been enjoying the presence of a woman, this woman, far too much, and in a momentary lapse, he had reached out to her instinctively. Her recoiling from his hand had cut through him like a knife, after the way she had eaten with evident enjoyment the lunch he laid out for her, and in front of him too, and had even made a semblance of polite conversation with him. It had been thrilling, the first time a woman had ever done anything of the sort. His fifty years of life seeming not to matter, he had slipped all too easily into the reckless excitement of a foolish youth having his first experiences in the company of the fairer sex, and the joy of it running through his veins like fine brandy, he had felt the sudden urge to behave like a gentleman for her, and rashly offered her his hand to assist her out of her chair. And thus he had exposed himself to the inevitable – or so it seemed afterward, when he violently reproached himself for having been so stupid – rejection, which had come in the form of her disgusted expression when she touched his cold skin, and her widened eyes, and the way her body shrank back and away from him.

Just as had nearly every other woman he had ever even gotten close to. Oh, there had been a few exceptions, such as Madame Giry, who had never been known to shrink from anything, not even the body of her husband, found dead on the stage floor by his own wife, after suffering a sudden apoplexy while working in the flies above, so that no one ever knew whether it was the attack or the fall which killed him; and Erik's grandmother, who had been a rare but treasured visitor to her son-in-law's house, and someone who was willing to touch her grandson without shuddering, in fact the only one of his family who did. One of his very first memories was of her binding up his finger after he had cut it on…something. He couldn't remember what. But the sensation of delight that someone cared had been carved deeply into his developing mind, only to then highlight the fact that his own parents did not, or at least, would not allow themselves to. Not at that point, at any rate. His father never did feel anything for him, even after he got older and his talents began to manifest themselves; if anything it only seemed to make the man despise him more, if such a thing were possible. But his poor mother…

He found that for once, he did not care to think about her just now. With the impending baby, his own parents and childhood had become an all-too-common intrusion into his thoughts, and he was thoroughly tired of them. He pushed them away mentally, even though the alternative was wondering why Christine seemed to enjoy the touch of his hands so much now. Just why this was, he had no idea. What a difference a marriage license seemed to make. He thought his skin was perhaps a little less chilly now, which change he attributed to Christine's constant efforts at seeing to his physical needs – all of them. It was frequently annoying to be pestered to eat and sleep when he had other things he wanted to do more, but it was also undeniably heart-warming. No one had cared so much about his well-being for a very long time, if indeed ever. And while he did not enjoy being told to go to sleep when he had a composition to complete or a repair to be done…well, there were other things which one could do in bed, far more enjoyable than sleeping. And once Christine was satiated and sound asleep, then he could use his arts at moving smoothly and silently to get up and go back to his previous pursuits. If he chose to, that was; but he didn't always, for there was such a joy in remaining in a soft bed with her, running his hands over her smooth warm skin and her glorious hair…

His hands, which she seemed to have developed a bizarre fascination with. Certainly she tended to watch them with a look of enthralment as he did some task, nothing like when he used his voice of course, but one which unsettled him in a way which singing to her did not. So far as he knew, she loathed the crimes which his hands had been wont to commit, before their marriage; why then did she want to leave her own tasks to come and watch him work with them, or want him to touch her constantly? He did not understand it. But perhaps that was merely one of the things about feminine thinking – logic was entirely the wrong word for it, from what he could tell – which defied comprehension. Trying to puzzle out Christine's thought processes caused his own brain to go in circles like a dog chasing its own tail, useless and tiring; was it better to simply shrug one's shoulders and conclude that that was just one of the things which was supposed to make women so charming? That over the mysteries of female lives there was drawn a veil best left undisturbed?

But his mind did not work that way. It wanted to understand, to master, and it did not like leaving something unexamined, whether it were the workings of a watch or a mathematical proof, let alone the mind of the woman he adored. And he wanted so badly to stop inadvertently upsetting his wife; was it not then a worthwhile pursuit to try to learn how not to? Even if he ran time and again into something which made no sense whatever to him, try as he might to find some in it?

There was a cough from above which interrupted his thoughts, which had begun going in the aforementioned circles, and he turned to see that Christine had awoken and was grimacing.

"What is it?" he called.

"Nothing," she answered. "It's just that my mouth tastes awful; I must have been sleeping with it open."

"Would you care for some wine, then, to wash the taste away?" said Erik, leaving Cesar and kneeling down to rinse his hands briefly in the pool, and then coming back up the slope to her.

"Yes, thank you."

He opened the bottle and poured some into both glasses. Christine took hers thankfully. When Erik tried his he frowned, and said, "Not all that impressive; my apologies. That was a better vintage the year before."

"I think it's fine," said Christine, taking another sip. "You are far too particular about wine. Heaven knows I never try to buy any for you when I'm shopping. I'd be sure to get something you didn't like."

"Do you think me so churlish as to complain about something which my loving wife bought for me?"

"When it comes to wine? Yes."

He reached over and stroked her cheek. "Erik is so very, very lucky to finally have a wife who tends to him. But he is old and set in his ways, and…sometimes he needs reminding of how lucky he is."

She arched a brow at him. "Oh, you mean you had enough of a rest?"

It took a moment for him to realise what she was referring to. Then he said, "Your every desire is my command, Christine, as always. But are you sure you would not like some lunch first? It is past noon."

"It is? Did you wind your watch for a change?"

"No, I was too busy preparing your surprise, but any fool can look at the sun and see that it is past its zenith."

"Since when do ghosts spend enough time in the sun to know the difference?"

"Hah hah. So, lunch, or…"

"Lunch first," she said with a smile. "I am hungry. And then afterwards you can show me how much you are not old, despite your claims that you are."

"Merely deprivation, my dear. And there is no guarantee that such an effort would be successful a second time today."

"Hah hah, yourself," she replied. "I am sure you will acquit yourself with honour as usual. Best have something to eat first though, to keep up your strength. Did you eat any dinner last night? I wasn't paying attention at the time."

"No, my stomach was tied in knots."

"I thought as much. What did you bring?"

They began laying out the food which Erik had packed, and then Christine asked, "Speaking of meals, do you want to move the stove and table and so on out of your house into the rented one, or get new ones?"

"I do not know," Erik responded. "I had not really thought about it."

"What about the other furniture?"

"Whatever you like," he replied, keeping his attention carefully on the left-over roast fowl he was carving, and his voice neutral. "We can bring it all up, or get new, just as you please."

Christine did not immediately answer, and he thought he felt her eyes boring into his back. He tensed, readying himself for more of her questions, but she merely said, "Why don't you show me the blueprints for the new house again when we get back? Surely we ought to make decisions about what kind of furniture to have based on that, and not on a rented house which we will only have for a short time?"

"Yes, that is sensible," he answered, and handed her a plateful of food to distract her. They talked of unimportant things while they ate, and then Christine set her emptied plate aside and picked up the Verne novel he had brought.

"Do you like this one as much as you usually do his work?"

"Yes, so far. Why?"

"No particular reason, just making conversation," she replied. "Thank you for bringing my book."

"I expected us to be out here all day, and I thought you might want something to do. Unless you would like to see more of the forest?"

"Why? Is there something interesting nearby?"

"Well, there are some menhirs not very far away."

"Some what?"

"Some menhirs. Ancient stone structures, erected by some prehistoric people. There are several of them."

Christine's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes! Let's go see them." Then she stopped, considering, and asked, "But will we run into anyone else there?"

"No. It is quite overgrown in that spot of the woods, and far from any of the walking paths. I have never seen anyone else there, and the scientific literature on that subject doesn't mention them. I do not think anyone knows of their existence but me."

"All right, then, I want to see them."

He smiled at the girlish joy which she was still capable of showing from time to time, and helped her up. "It will be a few minutes; I shall have to resaddle Cesar."

"No, don't," she insisted. "I want to try riding bareback, like you did."

"No. You are pregnant. I will not risk you falling off."

"I won't. You'll hold me on."

"Christine, I do not think that is a good idea."

"Why not? You did before, when I was half-insensible."

"You were not with child at the time, and I was a fool to put you on a horse's back in the condition you were in, in any case."

"No you weren't. I was perfectly safe with you there to hold me on."

His innocent little ingénue had become a scheming manipulatress of a woman, he reflected, who knew exactly how to flatter her husband. He attempted stalwartly to ignore it. "Christine, I repeat, I do not think that is a good idea."

"But I want to," she said obstinately. The conversation went back and forth for a bit, till Christine succeeded in devilling her poor husband into allowing her to try. Having surrendered, he put her stockings on for her again, and took her shoes out of the saddlebag to slip onto her feet. Without stirrups, she would not need her boots. He had not brought shoes for himself, and so he pulled on his stockings and slid his own boots back on, retrieved the bridle from the ground where he'd dropped it next to the saddles, and put it on Cesar, right over the horse's halter, as they'd need to tie him up again when they reached their destination. He wound the long lead rope around Cesar's neck several times and tied it. That way, Christine would have something to grab on to if she felt herself slipping off.

While he was occupied with the horse, she had been packing up the picnic things, and shoving the saddlebags and the rolled up quilt under a bush. Erik led Cesar over to a large rock near the pool, and, once Christine had stepped up onto it, he lifted his excited wife onto the horse's back. She twisted, trying to tuck the back of her skirt under her.

"What's the matter?"

She blushed. "Nothing, only…my drawers…"

He realised suddenly that, given the particular arrangement of ladies' undergarments, when riding bareback there was a strong possibility of horse hairs ending up someplace they did not belong at all. He helped her get her dress safely underneath her, refraining from comment, as anything he could have said would surely have been ungentlemanly in the extreme. Then he swung up behind her, locked his right arm securely around her waist, and took the reins in his left hand, before setting Cesar off at a sedate walk. Christine was nearly bouncing with enthusiasm.

"Erik, can we go faster?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Just for a little bit?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so. "

A distraction was clearly in order. He looped the reins over his free arm, and worked his hand under her skirts. She squealed and slapped his arm, but did not seem to have any serious objection. With his hand on her thigh, and only a single layer of cotton broadcloth between the two, he began to think of having her again, perhaps this time up against a tree. There was a likely-looking one over there…But no. The next time they loved, he wanted her naked. A hasty joining, performed while mostly clothed, had its own sort of thrill, but it was not the same as seeing her gloriously bare before him. He realised, then, that he had never seen her thus in daylight. He thought of the menhirs' glade, but with stony ground and thick bushes, that was hardly a suitable place. Might she be willing to undress completely once they arrived back at their picnic site? He knew from experience that other people never ventured near there, but she might still be apprehensive. But Erik could be very persuasive…

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