180Hi, folks! Thanks so much for reading and for all the lovely comments you've left me these past few weeks. I'm so glad you've been enjoying the story—I've loved working on it so much. Sorry for the slight delay with this chapter. I've been fortunate enough to be able to visit my family for the past few days and haven't had a chance to get this posted. I hope you all are staying healthy and safe. Stay tuned for the final chapter next week!
The nearly freezing rain was coming down hard when Christine arrived at the opera house late in the afternoon on the day of its grand opening, and she was grateful that she only had to make a short dash from the carriage to the entrance. She was so full of excitement and anxiety that she felt as though she could jump out of her skin. After all these months, all these years, tonight was the night she would finally step out on stage and sing for an audience. The fact that she was making her debut on stage as a lead, and on such an important night, doubled the jitteriness that seemed to come from eagerness and terror equally. She had hardly known what to do with herself all day and had spent much of her time restlessly wandering the house without even Erik to distract her—he had left for the opera house early that morning to make sure a mess of last-minute issues were attended to. Even if he had been home, she knew it was likely that his nervousness would only have fed into her own. She wanted to go and find him now, to make sure that he had not completely broken down during the day and to give him what reassurance she could, but he had insisted that she focus on preparing herself for tonight. He would come to see her before she went on, he'd promised, but she should not trouble herself over him. Tonight would be one of the most important nights of her life, and she ought to focus on making sure she was thoroughly ready.
And so she made her way to her dressing room, a lush, comfortable room that felt far too grand for her. It was the kind of room that was meant for prima donnas, for artists who sang with companies all over the world to great acclaim. By all rights, she should have been in one of the plain, shared dressing rooms with the other women in the chorus; most of them still had more experience performing than she did. When Erik had first taken her into the dressing room, she'd told him she felt like a fraud, laughing a little to try to cover the real ripple of doubt it sent through her. He'd assured her that she shouldn't feel that way, of course, and she had grown a little more used to the idea of inhabiting such a space, but it still felt a little bit like she was intruding, like the room belonged to a great diva and not to her.
Despite this, part of her was thankful to have the comfortable, quiet room now; her nerves were such that, if she had been sharing a room with other girls and had been expected to join in on the friendly chatter, she might have become so overwhelmed that she'd simply collapse. As it was, she could work on collecting herself and preparing her voice in solitude, without noise or distraction, and that was about all she felt she could manage.
She went through her usual warm-ups with more precision than normal, preparing her voice for the night with great care, before turning her attention to the libretto. She knew it well by now but studied it anyway, determined to see that each word was perfectly engrained in her memory, turning each one over in her mind and recalling the meticulous work she and Erik had done on her pronunciation. The French that had felt awkward in her mouth a few months ago now fell smoothly from her lips. Shortly after she had completed her review, her dresser arrived to help her change into her costume. The cream-colored gown that the dresser carried in with her had been made especially for Christine and fitted snugly over her corseted waist, very much in the modern fashion, but Christine loved it for the tabs along the bottom edge of the bodice and the little puffs in the sleeves—the bits that made her feel like she was stepping into another time, into a fairytale. Once she was dressed, her hair was arranged into a neat braid that fell long down her back, and she rouged her cheeks and lips.
Her transformation in Marguerite complete, Christine was left alone again, and for a moment she could only sit and marvel at her reflection. On the dressing table in front of her were several little arrangements of flowers, from the managers and the director, and one from dear, sweet Dora. The most extravagant among them was an arrangement of brilliant red roses, and she'd known without needing to look at the card that they were from Erik. The blossoms framed the image of her in the mirror like a miniature garden, and as she looked at the image she couldn't help but expect it to fade away before her eyes, for all of this to have been a dream. It was completely impossible that she could actually be sitting here. Soon the orchestra would be seated and the conductor would take up his position, and she would be able to hear the first scenes of the opera, and then she would be on stage, too, and none of it seemed real. It was simultaneously too good and too utterly terrifying to be true.
Her reverie was interrupted by a light knock at the door and a familiar voice gently calling her name, and she felt the grin spread across her face as relief washed over her.
"Come in," she called, and then Erik was there with her, and the weight of everything else lifted.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, just taking her in, a warm smile tugging up his lips. He wore his fine black suit with the white silk waistcoat, and though Christine couldn't help but notice that there seemed to be a slight tiredness to his posture, she found him quite dashing. As he stepped into the room and closed the door, she stood from her dressing table and went to him in a rush, suddenly unable to think of anything but being near him. Between her desire to be with him for the sake of her own comfort and her desire to be there to comfort him, his presence after a day of separation was a balm to her spirit. Her arms were around him before he had even fully turned to face her, but in a flash he had clasped her to him, holding her as tightly as if they had been parted for weeks and not mere hours.
"You look so lovely." His lips were near her ear and he spoke softly, sending a pleasant shiver up her spine. "You're perfect."
"Oh, Erik," she sighed. "I'm so excited and so abjectly frightened I hardly know what to do with myself. And I haven't been able to stop worrying about you all day."
"There is no need to worry about me," he told her, although the heaviness with which he leaned on her suggested that it had been a trying day. "My work is over, at least for tonight. All I have to do is enjoy the performance and suffer through a bit of small talk. You're the one with the work still ahead of you."
"But you've worked yourself absolutely ragged. And I know you must be anxious about tonight."
He pulled away from her a little then, taking her hands and pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead. "I do not want to trouble yourself about me tonight—there will be time for that later, if you must trouble yourself at all. I want you to enjoy every moment of tonight."
"You ought to enjoy it, too," she said. "As much as you can, at least. This is the product of all your hard work."
Letting his forehead drop to rest against hers, he let out a small sigh. "I will enjoy it much more when all of this is over and we can return home."
"Are you very tired?" she asked gently, though the answer was obvious.
He hummed in confirmation. "But I am certain that seeing you on stage tonight will revive me."
"I hope so. And I hope that the audience will receive my performance half as kindly as I know you will."
"They will."
Christine smiled; he'd always said that with complete confidence, and even after all the pressure that had been put on him, even now when they were minutes away from the performance that would set the tone for the entire season and that could very well end his career, that confidence didn't falter.
"Let's not think about it," she said decidedly. "Or the board, or anything else. Tonight I'll sing for you and only you, and then we'll celebrate the culmination of all our hard work and not worry just yet about what anyone else thinks."
"That sounds like a wonderful idea."
Leaning in to close the rest of the small distance between them, she gently pressed her lips to his, warmth blooming in her chest at the feeling of his soft smile as he returned her kiss. It was easy, then, to block everything else out, to imagine that the two of them were the only people in existence. For a moment she was certain that she had nothing to worry about, not because she was sure that tonight would go well or that she would be well received, but because this seemed to be the only thing that really mattered. As long as Erik was by her side, as long as she could bask in the deep comfort of his arms around her, the rest didn't matter so much. Maybe they really would move abroad and seek out an opera company that was more open to Erik's forward-thinking taste, as she had suggested to him weeks ago when rehearsals had only been beginning, or maybe they would move to the country and live a quiet, modest life. Or maybe all of this would go just as well as they had hoped, and she would be a star and he would be the genius breathing new life into the Metropolitan Opera. Any of those situations could make a perfectly happy life for them, and Christine felt the last remnants of fear fade away as she thought this.
Erik's thoughts must have followed a similar path, and she felt him relax in her arms, the tension releasing from his shoulders even as his arms tightened around her. Christine was aware of her head growing quiet pleasantly light as she kissed him, her pulse quickening and her breathing with it. As firmly as she was pressed to him now, she wanted to be closer. She wanted to kiss him until both their worries were gone forever. But she knew it wouldn't do for her to begin her performance as Marguerite with swollen lips and the quite unmaidenly flush she could feel coloring her cheeks. So she reluctantly pulled away.
"I should let you finish getting ready," Erik said softly, although her remained close enough to her that his lips almost brushed hers as he spoke, and he made no move to step away.
"And you should go take your seat and receive the first of your congratulations. The opera house looks wonderful, and everyone knows how much of that is your doing."
It was true—tonight the Metropolitan Opera looked brighter and grander than it ever had. She had only had a few glimpses of the lobby, the auditorium, the luxurious halls that had been quiet when she'd passed through them but were now filled with people, but even then it had been easy to see just how brilliantly everything had come together.
"Your compliments are enough for me." He pressed one more kiss to her lips, this one lingering but gentle. "You'll be magnificent, Christine."
"Your compliments are enough for me," she echoed. "I love you, Erik."
"I love you."
Even after he'd slipped out of the room, Christine remained standing where she was for a moment, her eyes closed as she allowed herself a quiet moment to memorize the sweetness of his lips against hers. He was her husband, and they loved each other, and tonight could be the beginning of a dream career for both of them. None of it seemed real. If someone had tried to tell her that this would happen a year ago, she would never have believed it. She could barely believe it now. But here she was. In just a few minutes she would hear the opening notes of Faust, and it would feel like the beginning of everything.
Christine's nerves did not return after Erik's visit to her dressing room. They did not return when she was told it was time to make her way to the stage, or even when she took those first steps from the dimness of the wings into the bright stage lights. She was so entirely focused on the music, on remembering the staging, on arranging her face into just the right expression, that she barely registered the audience stretching out into the vast darkness in front of her. She imagined that she could feel Erik's gaze on her, though, and the thought sent a thrill through her
Then it was time for the Jewel Song, and she drifted around the stage dreamily as she sang, dazzled by her newly ornamented reflection in the little hand mirror. The music swept her up like it always did, and she let her voice run lightly and coquettishly over the notes that had become so familiar to her. When her voice rose in her victorious final notes, her spirits rose with them, and she could feel herself beaming with the joy that coursed through her. The applause came as soon as her voice cut off, and for a moment she was disoriented, unable to hear the last notes from the orchestra. And then she realized that the shouts and applause were for her, and her breath caught and her face grew warm with embarrassment and pleasure. There were shouts for an encore, but she subtly motioned to the conductor that they should continue—this was only her first night and she was certain she did not have the right to perform an encore, and there was plenty for her left to sing anyway. The conductor, a kindly Italian man who was making his own debut tonight, nodded his understanding but, giving her a warm smile, allowed the applause to continue a few moments more.
Then came her scene with Faust, and her mind drifted back to the first time Erik had sung this part with her. All of that uncertainty as she was beginning to love him but not wanting to love him—it was no wonder singing with him had made Marguerite's part feel so real and alive. She let the memory seep into her voice as she sang now, her notes sometimes sweet and sometimes fearful but always longing. When she'd sung this part with Erik, when Marguerite had finally given in to Faust, Christine had been left feeling like her legs might give out beneath her. Her final notes didn't leave her with such rapturous intensity now, but she knew that her voice replicated that feeling. The curtain closed and she was left in darkness, shaking and trying to catch her breath as the applause roared on out of sight.
She wished that Erik would come and see her during the intermission, even though she knew he couldn't. There would be so many people for him to greet, and anyway, he'd said that she ought to remain focused during the break and that a visit from him would only be an unhelpful distraction. Still, she wanted to know what he thought of the performance, what was going on up in the boxes, if people were giving him the recognition he deserved for such a lovely opening night. She wanted to press herself close to him, to nestle her face safely into the crook of his neck, and feel the security of his embrace again. This was all so much, almost too much, and she wanted that particular kind of peace that only seemed to settle over her when he was near. But she would have to wait, she told herself. Her dressing room was now filled with the fragrance of the roses he'd given her, and that would have to be enough of him for the moment.
Before she could let her mind linger on the thought for too long, she was back on stage being thrust into the fourth act and was immediately consumed by Marguerite's descent into madness. The piece that she shared with Mephistopheles had become one of her favorite moments, and she relished it even as the emotion of it left her trembling and vaguely uneasy. Then there was nothing left for her but the final scene. Her gown was exchanged for a plain linen shift and her wig was replaced by one with long tresses that cascaded freely over her shoulders, and for a brief moment she was paralyzed with nerves. But the moment she took her place on stage again, she was only Marguerite, and this scene was all that existed for her.
At first her voice was dreamy and distant, but as Marguerite's madness turned into a plea for salvation, Christine's voice rose until she felt like she was singing with the force of her entire soul. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she gave herself wholly over to the music, and by the time the trio reached its end, the tears streamed freely down her cheeks. Her last notes were ecstatic and left her breathless, and she was hardly aware of her final words to Faust before she was engulfed by the heavenly sound of the chorus. Then the curtain was lowering as the orchestra's refrain grew slow and soft, and for half a second everything was dark and still, and Christine half wondered if her soul might have actually left her body.
At first she did not realize that the thunderous roar that suddenly overwhelmed her senses was applause. But then she was being ushered to her place for the curtain call and reality returned to her, and she could not stop trembling as she stepped back out into the light.
The applause drowned out even the pounding of her heart when she stepped to the front of the stage to take her bow. Only then did she really look out into the audience, her eyes adjusting to the dim light just enough for her to see the rows upon rows of people stretching far back into the darkness. People stood and cheered and shouted for her, and she stumbled back, covering her mouth to suppress a sob as fresh tears sprang forth. Then her cast members were by her side, and she was thankful for their arms around her—she was certain she would have collapsed without them. Her gaze drifted up to the boxes, up to where she knew Erik was, and she beamed. She had him to thank for all of this. And soon enough he would be with her, the one person who would truly, wholly, share her joy.
She did not remember making her way from the stage to her dressing room except for the impression that a great many people had stopped her to congratulate her. Their kind words blurred together and her cheeks were stiff from smiling, and she didn't know how it was possible to feel so energized and so absolutely drained at once. Her dressing room felt silent in comparison, even with her dresser's chatter as the woman helped her back into her own clothes. For once Christine was grateful for the assistance; her hands trembled too badly for her to have done up the tiny hooks of her bodice herself.
When she was finally alone, she gingerly lowered herself into the chair at her dressing table and exhaled for what felt like the first time all night. Nothing of the last few hours felt even remotely real, but it all had been. The warmth of the lights, the thrill of the orchestra playing only feet from her, the roar of the applause, it had all been real. It was almost too much to think about. The reality of the night had only just started to set in when there was a quick knock on the door, and over the dull murmur of other voices passing outside the dressing room, she could make out Erik's voice.
"Christine?"
"Come in," she called, suddenly as breathless as if she had just come off stage.
She stood as Erik entered, her heart hammering, and for a breathless moment he held her gaze with a small smile. Soon, though, the smile grew into a bright grin, and she was rushing to him and throwing herself into his arms. The sound that escaped her was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She buried her face in his jacket, and he cradled her as her shoulders shook, stroking her hair and murmuring gently.
"Oh, Christine. My beautiful, perfect Christine. You were flawless tonight."
She smiled, letting out a shuddering sigh, her face still pressed into his chest. "I cannot believe it."
"How did it feel to perform?"
"It felt…" she met his eyes, letting his warm, intense gaze steady her. "It felt like flying. It felt like I was not myself, but also like I was a truer version of myself than ever before. It was terrifying and exhilarating and I loved it."
"Good." Erik pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You have a great many nights like this ahead of you, I imagine. The audience loved you."
"And you? Did I do you justice tonight?"
He hummed softly, drawing her closer again until her forehead rested in the crook of his neck. "Your performance was a gift to me, Christine. I have never heard anything like it, and knowing that you were thinking of me… it was the greatest privilege of my life."
Her chest constricted at the soft sincerity of his voice, and unable to find the right words to reply, she leaned up to kiss him. He met her lips eagerly, one hand coming up to cradle her face, and she sighed and melted into him. Her head felt light and her legs felt weak and she was so exhausted and so invigorated, and this whole night was just so much. She could hardly make sense of it all. But this made sense; the thrumming of his heart under her palm and the warm pressure of his lips were all she wanted right now.
"How are you?" she asked softly when they parted. "I hope that tonight was not too trying."
"I'm fine," Erik told her, tracing a thumb over her cheek. "Seeing you perform tonight more than made up for the discomfort of necessary socializing. Generally I found the people I spoke with to be complimentary, even if somewhat reluctantly."
"You deserve more than reluctant compliments."
"I consider it a victory given how… adversarial some of my professional relationships have become."
"Oh, Erik, it wasn't as bad as all that, was it?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "I knew things were strained, but adversarial…"
"I didn't want to worry you," he soothed. "Besides, it doesn't matter so much now. Opening night seems to have been a success. As long as the papers report as much tomorrow, I will be on much more stable ground."
She gave him a doubtful look, reassured but not ready to let go of her concern for him, and he smiled and went on hastily.
"Anyway, let's not think about any of that right now. You have just made quite the triumphant debut, and we ought to celebrate that. I have heard from several people that they would be delighted to receive you at various reveries tonight."
Christine's face had softened into a small smile. "If you do not object to skipping the public celebrations, I believe I would rather go home."
"There's nothing I would like better."
Pausing to press one more gentle kiss to his lips, she turned to gather her things, and in a moment they were emerging back out into the world. The activity had slowed since Christine had returned to her dressing room as people were eager to get to whatever celebrations the night had in store, but there were still those who lingered, their excited chatter filling the halls. Nearly everyone they passed turned to congratulate them—first other members of the company, and then members of the audience in all their finery. They all had praise for the performance and gushed that they could not remember the opera house ever looking so wonderful, even on its original opening night ten years ago. Even so, it was still a relief to emerge into the cold night, having finally made their way through all the people. Their carriage was waiting for them, and when Erik had helped her in and climbed in after her, Christine moved to sit beside him, contentedly nestling into his side.
The rain had turned into sleet, and the soft tap of it hitting the carriage was a welcome reprieve from the commotion at the opera house. Neither of them spoke as they drove along, but drowsiness was not settling over Christine just yet. She was too determined to memorize every detail of this night, replaying her time on stage in her mind even as she thrilled at the feeling of Erik's thumb stroking up and down her arm. By the time they reached the house, she felt fully awake, reinvigorated by the cold and the quiet moments that had allowed her to catch her breath. Erik kept his arm around her as they rushed inside, and when he pulled away to allow Christine to remove her cloak, she felt bereft of the touch.
"Perhaps some champagne is in order if you are not too tired," he said, and she smiled.
"I am not tired at all, and I think that is a wonderful idea."
Soon they were comfortably installed in the study, chosen so they could close the door and Erik could remove his mask without fear of being disturbed. They sat together on the piano bench, champagne glasses mostly forgotten their feet as they spoke softly, their words broken up with gentle kisses. Christine wasn't certain just how long they stayed there, but she had no desire to move, no desire to be without him. There was so much joy and relief and excitement between them, things that each of them just had to share with the other. When Erik did finally suggest that perhaps they ought to retire, that she must be ready to rest, she agreed with some disappointment. The idea of being parted from him just now seemed almost physically painful; she needed him by her side to remind her that all of this was real, to share in the nearly overwhelming emotion that only he could truly understand. She needed him by her side because she loved him.
He walked with her upstairs to her room, stopping outside her door and leaning close to let his lips brush hers.
"It baffles me," he murmured, "how I could be fortunate enough to have the love of such an incredible woman."
"I am every bit as fortunate," she said, taking both his hands and bringing them up to her lips, pressing reverent kisses to his knuckles.
"Goodnight, Christine."
"Goodnight."
But when he began to pull away, her grip on his hands tightened, and he paused. Her heart hammered as he looked at her questioningly, and it was a second before she could summon the boldness to say what she was thinking.
"You could stay. If you want to."
"Stay." He repeated the word slowly as if it was in a barely remembered language and he was searching for its meaning. "Do you wish for me to stay?"
"Yes." Her voice was growing breathy and her cheeks were heating under his direct gaze.
Erik gave a thoughtful nod. "You wish for me to share your bed? As we did in Newport?"
"No. Well, yes, but—" she cut off and looked away, scolding herself for the burst of self-consciousness. They had always been frank with each other; this should be no different. She met his eyes again, speaking softly but evenly. "I wish for you to share my bed as my husband."
For a moment he didn't speak; his mouth opened and closed without forming words, and though his face was uncovered, Christine could not read his expression. Her chest tightened at the thought that he was searching for a way to politely refuse her, but her anxiety did not have time to fully take hold.
"Yes."
She looked at him carefully. "Yes?"
"Yes," he said again, his words coming out in a quiet rush. "Yes, if that is what you wish, and if you are certain, then I would be happy to stay."
Smiling, she leaned up to press a gentle, chaste kiss to his lips. Then, with both of his hands still twined with hers, she stepped back toward her room, pulling him with her.
"I'm certain."