"Explain this to me again," Erik says as he paces the sitting room. "What are these documents for?" Waving a hand at the sheaf of papers laying on the coffee table retrieved from a pocket of the charcoal grey pinstriped morning jacket worn for the morning's venture onto the streets of Paris.

The new suit a concession to Christine's suggestion he wear some other color than black when dressing to go above ground as he calls it. Sadly the new garment only added to his foul mood. The day, which started out well and with hope, became one of discomfort and anxiety mostly due to what he was sensing as her disappointment in him.

"You are always accusing people of looking at you in a strange way."

"Are you suggesting my choice of garments is the reason?"

"All your suits are quite…elegant…unique."

"You are saying excessive."

"While I do love your cloak with the beading…and the hat with the feather…during the daytime hours…well…"

"They do not fit in with the people going about their everyday business?"

"Rather than your mask, they likely believe you are a famous actor or singer and wish to know who you are."

"You are most diplomatic, my dear," he said. "I suppose a suit in gray…dark gray…might suit me."

The light in her eyes and small nod was enough of an answer.

When at home, his choices run the gamut from the Mandarin jacket, a gift from the herbalist he came to know when journeying through China…the heavy brocade in varying shades of blue with gold embroidery was his preference when composing – to the burgundy velvet smoking jacket he now dons.

The events of the morning consisted of more public exposure than he was exposed to for the past several years…if ever. The Mairie is a place he avoids at all costs. Even when working with Charles on the Palais Garnier, if any plans needed approval or permits, an assistant was sent. Often to the displeasure of said apprentice because more often than not, something would be wrong with a signature or date or some such and a repeat visit was necessary.

"If M. Saint-Rien could go and explain to the clerk…"

"No."

"Surely your presence would save time…"

"No."

How can he explain to Christine why government offices, especially those which housed anything to do with credentials or a possible arrest are anathema to him? The sight of his mask invariably puts the gendarmerie, police, sheriffs or any other officer of the law on high alert. Many times he found himself detained, questioned and, on more than one occasion, incarcerated for no other reason than his face…or the mask…an assumed disguise suggesting he was up to no good.

The one time he willingly accepted the invitation of a sheriff – the Daroga of Mazandaran to be exact – soliciting him to meet his employer, the Shah of Persia, because of his musical and magical gifts, almost brought about his death. This, even when acting under legal authority, since his crimes were committed for the sovereign. Once he left Persia, he swore to avoid any and all officers of the law after his successful escape with the help of the same said Daroga.

"It is the law of France," Christine sighs, as she applies some finishing touches to the bodice of the white silk gown. The pale lavender of her day dress fashioned of simple cotton chambray is in sharp contrast to the delicate, finely woven fabric spread across her lap. A smile crosses her lips at her handiwork. The shell-edging was the perfect finishing touch to the peplum flaring from the bodice.

When they decided to marry, she began going through the many frocks Erik purchased for her, looking for one of the fancier ones to remake into a suitable dress for their nuptials. A pale pink caught her eye – a dress she never wore which has a certain bridal quality to the ruffles and bows adorning the skirt and blouson sleeves.

"No," Erik said, upon seeing the dress. Disappearing into his bedroom, he returned with what was, from all appearances, an actual wedding gown. "What of this?"

"Whenever did you buy it?" she asked, running her fingers gently over the silk. "I do not believe I have ever seen such lovely fabric or beading. Only very wealthy women wear white especially created from these materials."

The flush on his face provided an answer.

"You?"

"A work in progress," he muttered, shrugging. "I was hoping to finish it, but…"

"This is what you have been doing when I am sleeping?"

"Not exactly."

As she learned, Erik actually began work on the wedding dress when he was still her tutor and Angel of Music. Her angel was a flesh and blood man who could sew, cook, heal wounds, and keep house in many ways better than her Mama. Certainly more competent than she – her Mama dying when she was just a child. Living on the road with Pappa really offered no exposure to an actual house to keep. Knitting and sewing were skills she excelled at and it was with this confidence told Erik flatly when she took the gown from him.

"While your work is quite good, I will finish this…if you do not mind."

The frown on his face was quite comical as he sputtered, "Quite good? That is what you think? Quite good?"

"Yes." Noting the edge of pain in his voice, she adds, "Excellent, actually, better than any seamstress…but mine is better…and I should like to add my own touches."

Bending over her as she sat on the ruby red sofa, he examined the fine stitching. "Nicely done. I must admit, you are quite correct...yours is better."

"Thank you." Her bright blue eyes rolling at the compliment. At least with Erik, you knew he was speaking the truth as compliments did not roll easily from his lips.

With most of the other chores, she is quite content leaving them to him. A lack of exposure to different foods and methods of cooking found her having no understanding of fine dining…or any real dining to be honest. A croissant with a healthy slice of cheese and an apple or pear suited her just fine as a meal. Filling the void in her stomach being the reason for eating, not pleasure…although an occasional macaron set her mouth watering in anticipation of the sweet.

For all his lack of appetite and a stilted sense of taste due to the damage to his nose, Erik is nevertheless quite a fine chef and often delights her with stews or roasted meats and root vegetables he puts together in the small kitchen. If the gown is any indication, the fact she has to let out the bodice is proof her diet is filled with good and tasty food. For his part, Erik's former gaunt frame is filling out as well, so the letting out of seams on his trousers and jackets is now one of her homely duties.

"You are developing cheeks," M. Khan laughed only the day before when he visited.

"I beg your pardon," Erik said, rubbing his hand against the side of his face.

"You no longer look like a skeleton. Your bones are now covered with flesh like a normal human being," the daroga laughed. "No one would dare challenge you as a purveyor of death."

"Not unlike yourself," Erik sneered. "I shall take that as a compliment."

"As it was intended."

"One never knows with you."

"Why can we just not find a small church in a smaller village and make our vows in front a priest or minister – preferably blind – or whomever you believe would be willing to bless the marriage of a beautiful young woman to this wretch of a man?"

"We could do that, but the marriage would not be legal," she says, putting aside her work, patting the sofa for him to take the seat next to her.

"One would think marriage might be easier to enter into. The state should want women cared for; babies born within the law."

"Babies? Why are you speaking of babies?"

"Babies happen after marriage, is that not so?"

"Babies also happen before marriages."

"I know that…I simply meant…the act…the creation…when couples…"

Christine throws back her head and laughs. "You mean you wish to engage in carnal acts and are wondering why we have to wait?"

"I would not put it so bluntly, but…"

"You are the one so insistent we wed," she says, nuzzling her nose against his cheek before giving him a quick kiss.

"Do not tease me woman." He stands up returning to his pacing. "Why must we announce to the world…or Paris…or anywhere for that matter we are going to be married."

"The state requires we post banns to find out if anyone has any objections to our being married."

"And if someone does?"

"They must show a good reason," she explains. "This is also an announcement of our intentions for those who might wish to celebrate the marriage."

"Harrumph. As if that might be so," he sneers. "Then we find a church?"

"No, then we get married in front of a magistrate at the Mairie."

"Again? We must go back there again. Swearing things in front of some official who works for the government?"

"Yes. Why is that so difficult for you?"

The pacing stops and he faces her. "The law and I have never been on very good terms."

"We are getting married; you are not on trial."

"This is necessary?"

"And we must have two witnesses…Madame has already agreed to sign off as my guardian."

"More rules…"

"Unless you want to wait until I turn twenty-two, which is only a few month from now."

"So, Adele and Nadir will be there?"

"Yes…then we can marry in church," she says. "In fact, we must see the priest at the Madeleine."

"Another ceremony? At the Madeleine?"

"I should like to be married in the eyes of God as well as the state – and wear this lovely gown – at the most beautiful church in Paris to the man I love." Standing up, she goes to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her head against his chest. "I told you we need not wait to be married before…well, you know."

"No," he says, kissing the top of her head. "You deserve all the rigamarole. I am just a foolish man, often afraid of his own shadow. How long must we wait now that we have posted our banns – what a choice of words - almost as if they are expecting the entire betrothal to fall apart."

"Not that sort of ban," she giggles.

"I know, I was attempting a joke."

"Ten days. Then the official marriage."

"At the Mairie?"

"At the Mairie."

"I suppose if I survived today without being arrested…"

"And M. Khan will be with us – they know him there," she reminds him. "The gendarmes might believe you have already been arrested and in custody." With a gentle squeeze, she releases her hug and returns to her sewing. "I must finish this dress, otherwise I shall have nothing appropriate to wear."

"You would not marry me then?"

"I might only wish to live with you in sin."

"Christine!"

"Please stop worrying, my love."

"Perhaps I should make some dinner…have a brandy to steady my nerves," he says over his shoulder as he walks to the kitchen. "I fear if I keep complaining you might change your mind entirely."

"Unlikely, but one never knows."

"Christine!"

"Go fix our dinner."

"You will still marry me?"

"Yes."

"You still love me?"

"I do."