"Ooo," Christine laughs, pointing a mittened hand out towards the beach. Jumping up and down in her excitement, she slips on the snow that carpeted the pier during the night.

Grabbing her before she lands with one hand, Erik catches himself on the railing with the other. Once both are firmly on their feet, he turns his attention to the group of men on the beach. "The Polar Bear Club! Of course, they celebrate New Year's Day with a swim."

"How can they bear the cold?" she asks, leaning into her husband's chest.

Erik laughs, "You made a pun, my dear. The Bears are bearing the cold although they are mostly bare and you cannot bear to watch them."

"Bare is certainly the correct word – bathing clothes are getting flimsier and flimsier," she says, turning away from watching the men and a few women running into the waves, her cheeks pink with cold and embarrassment.

"Sad to say there are barely any people here to watch them," he continues.

"You are a very silly man," she laughs. "That is quite a bearable joke, though."

"Thank you, madame," he says. "We are fortunately bundled up which makes their situation even harder to bear."

"Stop," she says, shaking her head with laughter. "I am happy we still had some of Gustave's old winter clothing stashed away at the Eyrie for our outing. Even so, I am still cold."

"You look as charming in his winter gear as you did in your blue dress last night…and afterwards. Undergarments are becoming flimsier and flimsier as well."

"That was different," she says, poking his chest and walking farther onto the pier. "It was warm inside…and private."

"Mmmm, very warm, indeed."

"Now you are being fresh. Look. Only our footprints have disturbed the snow," she says. "The pier is so peaceful – not a soul around." Bending over, she bends over to pick up two hands full of snow, compressing it into a ball. Turning around she tosses it at him striking his shoulder.

"So that is how it is going to be?" Following her lead, he makes his own snowball and pitches it at her, careful not to throw too hard yet hitting his mark hard enough to knock her on her bottom.

"Not fair," she cries, rubbing her hip.

Slipping and sliding toward her, he pauses to grab another handful of snow. "You cannot start a battle and then cry foul when your fire is returned," he says, kneeling down next to her plopping the snow atop her woolen watch cap.

"I can and will," she retorts, scooping up more of the white powder and tossing it in his face.

"Ah, hitting a man at his weakest point."

"Oh, Erik," she cries. "I did not mean…did I hurt you?"

"Only my pride because I did not anticipate such a diabolical opponent," he laughs, sitting down. Removing a handkerchief from his pocked, he takes off his mask, wipes it off and puts it back on. Then scoops up more snow and rubs it on her nose.

"You are mean."

"You sound like Emilie," he laughs, getting up, holding out his hand to help her up.

"You have no idea how much that hurts – more than falling down," she harrumphs, using the railing to balance herself as she gets up.

Pulling her close, he kisses her deeply. "Better now?"

"Always better when you kiss me," she says, giving him another brief peck. "Do you think they are missing us?"

"Perhaps, but I am not missing them at the moment," Erik says, taking her hand. "Gloria said they were all fine when I telephoned and to enjoy our holiday."

Strolling from the pier onto the beach, away from the crowd now gathering around the swimmers, Christine stops and falls onto her back on the snow banking on the sand.

"What are you doing?" Erik says, resting his hands on his hips.

"Making an angel."

"You are already an angel."

"So are you – the Angel of Music," she laughs. "Now you can be a snow angel."

"I think not."

"Come on."

"I am concerned I might not be able to get up again."

Moving her arms back and forth making her angel, Christine lies in the snow grinning up at him. "Please."

"I am afraid."

"Of what?"

"Falling backwards."

Sitting up, Christine dusts the snow off her sleeves and shakes the snow off her hat before returning it to her head. "With all the traipsing about you did on those narrow stairs under the opera house, you are afraid of falling?"

"I had a slight accident years ago."

"You will fine," Marie said, looking back at the house. "Your mother is at church and I should like you to experience the snow."

There was something enticing about the white powder covering the lawn.

"Come on. All you have to do is fall back onto that pile over there and you can become an angel."

"I can be an angel?" the six-year-old boy's amber eyes widened in amazement.

"Yes."

Hesitating slightly, Erik took a deep breath and did as Marie told him. He felt his heart tighten as he allowed himself to fall backwards. The pain brought a flood of tears to his eyes before he could even cry out. "My head," he was finally able to stutter. "It hurts so much."

"Oh, no, dear boy," Marie cried, running to him, cradling him in her arms. Pressing her hand against the now exposed part of his cruelly formed head, she fumbled around behind him to find the knit cap that fell off when he landed.

Grabbing the hat, he pulled it back onto his head and ran back into the house. "I will never be an angel."

"I watch the children make their angels in the backyard and it amazes me how fearless they are," he admits. "I take it you made these angels quite often when you were a child."

"Yes," she says, holding her hand out for him to help her up. "We had lots and lots of snow in Sweden. You did not?"

Lowering his head, he shakes his head. "I was not allowed to go out," he says, rushing the words, "now I am so tall, I feel afraid. Somehow it seems like it would be easier for smaller people."

"Come here and sit down."

Sighing deeply, Erik does as she says, sitting down on a fresh patch of snow, he tugs his watch cap tightly over his ears, then closes his eyes.

Standing behind him, she says, "Lie back into my arms and stretch your legs out – straight in front of you."

"I am not sure…"

"You will be fine; I am not going to let you fall." After lowering his upper body, resting his head on her lap, she carefully lays him on the snow. "Now stretch out your arms and sweep the snow with your arms and legs at the same time."

"I feel foolish."

"And you look foolish, my darling, but you have just made a snow angel."

Struggling to get up, he jumps away from his angel and looks at the pair with admiration. "I did…not a bad job. I made an angel."

"For someone so creative, you might have thought of it yourself," she laughs, dusting the snow from his pea coat. "I am sorry you never learned to play."

"Yes, well…you suffered your own lacks," he says, placing his arm around her waist. "What I miss more is we never had a real courtship."

"We did so," she argues, "when I came here, you courted me."

"And yet, I wish our time in Paris had been different."

"That bridge has been crossed," she says, pressing her head against his shoulder. "However, if you are of a mind, I would enjoy you taking me on a date to the lovely restaurant in the fabulous Phantasma hotel."

"A date?"

"We could pretend we are courting – at least for a few hours or days…"

"Gloria did seem to imply there was no rush for us to be home."

"Then let us have a brief courtship if only this one day."

"I made a snow angel and get to court my wife all in one day."

"I told you this was going to be a wonderful New Year."

"That you did. That you did."