There was a chill in the air too harsh for spring. Christine wrapped her arms about herself, staring down at the ivory ruffles of the wedding dress as frost-coated leaves crunched beneath her boots.
Every time she closed her eyes she could see Raoul's face, purpling against the red noose. Her ears were still ringing with his breathless gasps for air, his pleas for her freedom even as his eyes began to roll back, his hands clutching at the rope.
There had been no decision to be made. How could there be? She had fallen to her knees in an instant and done what she could - whatever she could - to save him.
She could not even remember what she said, but whatever it was, her angel accepted it. He freed Raoul just as his legs began to fall limp, like a puppet on a string.
And he had not died. He was alive. That was all that mattered.
Raoul was alive.
She turned to the man beside her. His hand, the same that had cast the noose about her fiancé's neck, held a lantern up to guide their steps. His other rested at the small of her back in a hard fist.
"How much further?" she asked.
His eyes met hers and, for a moment, seemed to glow in the dark. The shadows of trees danced behind him, bathed in lantern light.
"Not far," he replied.
"You have said that for hours," she retorted, jaw tightening. Her hands clawed at her elbows.
He gave no reply, though his hand spread against her back, palm flattening to her spine. She shivered.
The journey from Paris to wherever they were now had been mostly stagecoaches until then. The gendarmes were surely looking for him, so a train would have been too risky. When they had left their most recent coach, she had hoped they were close. But they had been walking for what felt like hours in the biting wind. Her feet had long since grown numb. She was not even wearing proper stockings, only thin, silk things that had turned to ice on her skin.
"I'm so cold," she said. "Please - where are we going? There's hardly a road here."
"That was the idea," he replied in a low voice. Bitterness tinged his words. "Here - hold this for a moment."
He passed her the lantern. She turned towards the trees, watching the shadows, light and dark, pass through the branches and trunks. He undid the fastenings of his coat and swept it about her shoulders. Then he took back the lantern from her.
She looked up at him as she stroked the wool fabric over her shoulder. His coat was warm, smelling of firewood and sweat. He wrapped an arm about her shoulder and gestured forward with the lantern.
"Come," he said. "We're nearly there, then you can rest."
They continued along the elephant-path through the woods. An owl's hoot reverberated through the night air, followed the cry of some far-off animal. She bowed her head, watching the steady movement of her own feet, the swishing of pale skirts.
It was strange. As she thought about it, she could not remember the ceremony, only arriving at the tiny chapel and departing. But it had occurred, they had been married, under God and the law, properly married, just that afternoon...
"We're here, Christine," he said.
She lifted her eyes. Before her was a little cottage in pale brick, overrun with ivy. The windows were dusty and dark.
He pushed her forward by the small of her back. Her legs had seized, her knees had locked. She hugged his coat about her shoulders.
He had to practically drag her inside, though she offered no resistance, made no protest. Her body had simply forgotten how to move, rigid with fear at the realization that, once she entered this house, she would never leave.
The door shut behind them. She inhaled, then coughed as dust filled her lungs.
"I fear it may need some work," he said as he set the lantern on a nearby console table. "I haven't been here since…" His voice drifted. "But no matter. It will do just fine."
In the orange glow of the lantern, she could make out a parlor with furniture decades out of date. There was a settee in carved walnut with lavender toile de jouy upholstery. Two armchairs sat across from this with a marble-topped table between them. The fireplace had an ornate mantlepiece that was curiously bare, save some pebbles of dust. The walls were done in violet damask-printed paper. Everything was patterned or ornately carved - expensive, awful antiques.
What truly drew her eye, though, was the piano in the corner with music still propped atop it, as if someone had gotten up in the middle of a piece and not yet resumed.
Her companion struck a match beside her. A gas lamp squeaked as he adjusted it and held the flame to the glass. Soon the room was flooded with light.
The furniture was even worse when illuminated. Dust blanketed glossy walnut and patterned fabric, expensive pieces tarnished only by age and lack of use. Indeed, it appeared someone had simply left thirty years ago and never come back.
Perhaps someone had left thirty years ago and never come back.
"Christine?"
She turned back to her captor, her husband. He adjusted the gold watch in his waistcoat pocket.
"You must be tired," he said. "Come."
He unfurled a gloved hand towards a little hallway through the parlor. She went ahead of him, fatigue filling her joints like lead.
"Here," he said, gesturing to a white-painted door.
He slipped a key into the lock. She rubbed her arms beneath his coat, stomach coiling into a knot.
The door opened on rusty hinges. Inside was a little bedroom in the same ugly, overdone furnishings as the parlor, but this time in dark blue. He struck another match and began lighting the room.
"How many are there?" she asked hesitantly.
"Of what?" he asked.
"Rooms… Bedrooms."
A darkness came into his eyes then. His jaw tightened, teeth clenched beneath his malformed lip.
"A strange question to ask on your wedding night," he said in a biting tone. "As if it matters… But this is yours, Christine, only yours."
"Oh."
"Unless, of course-"
"No… No this will do."
He gave a solemn nod. His eyes swept over the room for a moment, his expression unreadable, and not only because of the mask concealing half of it. She watched him warily, wondering if he was changing his mind, weighing his options. He could take her then and there, with no difficulty. She was his wife. He had every right to do as he pleased, and she would not fight him, could not fight him.
Without a word, he turned and walked back out into the parlor, pulling the door half-shut behind him.
She let out a shaky exhale, then brought a hand to her mouth to quiet the sob that escaped her lips.
Once she had composed herself, she sank down on the bed, still wrapped up in his coat. Dust leapt from the quilt in a lazy haze.
Perhaps she would die from some condition of the lungs, or perhaps a diseased rat would slip into bed with her at night. Both seemed preferable to the knowledge that, when she woke, it would all be real. It would be inescapable in the morning, the hard truth of her new existence laid bare. She would never see Raoul again, nor Meg, nor Madame Giry. They would remain memories now, as distant as her father in his grave. But they were alive, they were well… Was there more that mattered than that?
She curled up on her side, tucking her knees against her chest. What was Raoul doing at that very moment? Was he lying in bed also? Could he even sleep, knowing that this was her wedding night with a murderer? Perhaps he had followed them and would knock on the cottage door in the morning with the gendarmes.
But she knew her husband had considered every detail, every possibility. No one knew where she was. Even she barely knew. Her knowledge of France was quite limited… unless they had crossed the border into Belgium? Surely that would take longer than a day of traveling, but she could not be sure.
Outside the half-open doorway, her husband's shadow crept along the walls. He appeared to be making up a fire, and she wondered if perhaps it would be better to sleep on the settee, or even in one of those armchairs, so as to be closer to the warmth of it. Her hands were still so numb.
She finally burrowed under the unfamiliar sheets, pulling them to her chin. They smelt of dust and old perfume, but she was too exhausted to think much of it, of whose bed this used to be, whose room. It was a place to rest is all, finally rest. Nothing else mattered at that moment.
As she drifted, her limbs too heavy to lift, she heard, through the haze of fatigue, the sharp sound of an out-of-tune piano. Wood and metal grated for a moment, then a note was played, one after the other, adjusting as needed until each was perfect.
He was tuning the piano.