Christine was pale, but composed, for the duration of the ride home. She could’ve laughed when she realized she was not wearing any shoes, but her chest seemed void. She sat motionlessly in the carriage, her delicate hands folded in her lap, and her gaze downcast. There were no more tears; it seemed she had finally cried her eyes dry. Now, she simply felt drained, as though someone had cut a hole inside her, and all energy had slowly leaked out of her body over the past week.

What did you expect? She asked herself bitterly.

Nothing. She had just wanted to tell him, to apologize…to prove to him that she wasn’t as heartless as he believed—or perhaps, to prove it to herself. Still, his words had wounded her, and, in spite of herself, surprised her. He had truly let go of her, then—and now she must learn to stand on her own.

But I saved you, Erik, and somewhere in your mind, you found it in yourself to love me. When he had reached for her, held onto her in his darkest hour… For those few precious moments, I had your heart. And she had not missed the look in his eyes, when he had been standing over her just as she awoke. It had flitted away in a matter of seconds, but she had seen the startled adoration he had so heatedly denied.

It is no use lingering on lost chances; she reprimanded herself, biting her lip. Even if he dared to care for you again, you are a married woman, Comtesse de Chagny.

She glanced out the window, wincing at the dark hue of the sky. She would be home late again, and she knew Raoul would be waiting for her—waiting for his wife to come home after spending a day in the company of another man.

“Must you burden us both with your little games?”

“Oh, Raoul,” Christine murmured dejectedly. “You do not deserve such punishment, all for loving someone…”

Christine did love Raoul—she had always loved him. He was her deliverance, and she was eternally grateful. But if they went on trying to survive in a marriage that was so obviously failing, it would end up destroying them both. She could feel her heart split in two at this acknowledgment, to realize that the fairytale she had created was doomed from the start. It had seemed all too perfect, when they were younger, and now Christine had discovered that something beyond perfection only has a farther way to fall, and it only takes one tip of the scale to send it tumbling.

Flaw was the essence of existence; without it, there would be no continuation. You needed wrong to have right, evil to have good, hate to have love…and a world with no dark side was not a world at all.

* * *

Disoriented and lost in thought was how Christine entered the Chagny estate. She climbed lithely up the stairs, her feet reflexively moving to meet each step, her mind somewhere else entirely. Only when she had sat down in her bedroom and eased on a new pair of shoes did she take in the eerie silence.

Usually, she could hear movement in the kitchens below her, or the hushed voices and scuffle of footsteps as a pair of maids walked down the hallway. Sometimes Raoul even had the fire lit, though the nights were usually warm in Nice, and she would venture towards the comforting sound of crackling flames.

Tonight, however, the house was noiseless.

She craned her neck out into the hall, unnerved. There was no one. She traveled through the vacant corridors, wringing her wrists. Afraid in your own house, she thought mockingly, but could not entirely expel the fear in her voice as she called out for the servants.

“Adèle? Vienne?” She almost ran down the stairs in her haste. “Deniau?” Reluctantly, she made her way to the door of Raoul’s study. Bracing herself, she turned the knob and went in.

* * *

Raoul knew who it was before he even turned. Even in his state, he could still recognize Christine’s light steps, her tentative nature as the door slowly creaked open. This time, he did not think to hide the bottle or the half empty glass.

“Bonsoir, Christine.” He tried his best to keep his voice steady. She inclined her head, and he could see plainly that she was nervous.

“Raoul, I am sorry for coming home so late in the day again,” she murmured quickly. “If you would only let me explain—”

She stopped talking and stared at him as he thrust his chair away from the desk, the legs scraping loudly against the floor, and came slowly towards her. “Christine, let us not linger on unpleasant details.” He did not want to hear of her day spent away from him—suddenly, he was overcome with some unidentifiable emotion, in between jealousy and desire.

She stood there so innocently, her dark eyes so wide he could swim in them, her lips—

She stiffened as he kissed her, cold against his touch. His hands, clumsy with drink, wandered from her shoulders down her arms, then came to rest on her waist. Still, she did not respond.

God, do you even love me any more?

He flung her away, cursing. “Why? Why? Am I not your husband anymore, Christine?” He shouted as she staggered backwards with small cry, clutching the back of a settee for support.

“Raoul,” she gasped shakily, “My love, you are not yourself…”

“Don’t call me that!” He yelled, his voice breaking, “Not when you don’t mean it!”

Christine took a step back, fear coursing through her veins. She had tasted the whiskey on his breath, and could see the red rims around his eyes; he was completely drunk, and completely unpredictable.

“Raoul, where are the servants?” She asked, trying to distract him.

“I dismissed them for the night,” he answered. “I thought perhaps…” He trailed off, scowling.

Christine froze. She was alone in the house? Raoul might not mean to hurt her, but he had no control of his actions when he was this heavily intoxicated…

“But, you have come home so late, after again spending the entire day with that—that murderer, and—”

Christine felt a flame of anger stir in the pit of her stomach. “He is not—”

“You’re defending him?” Raoul said in disbelief. “Christine, that man is mad! Do you not remember what he did to the Opera House? Has that escaped your memory?”

Ashamed, she turned away.

With a resentful groan, Raoul rested both his hands on the front of his desk, letting his head hand below his shoulders. “How can you still care for him,” he whispered, and Christine flinched at the unchecked misery in his voice. “Why did you let him haunt you, Christine?”

He abruptly pushed all the papers off his desk. “It was because of your unwillingness to move on, to forget him, that your nightmares returned! It was because of your goddamned infatuation with him that we now sleep in separate beds!” Spinning around, he took one huge step forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her. “It is because of you, and because of him, that our child is dead!”

An alarm went off in Christine’s mind. Something within her exploded, and, raising a hand, she slapped Raoul harshly across the face. He released her, stunned.

“Is that what you think?” She asked hoarsely. “That I killed our child?” She wrenched the door open. “I have spent four years mourning, Raoul de Chagny, and only just today did I finally manage to forgive myself for it all.” Her voice quivered in rage. “I will not be dragged back into that nightmare.”

Marching out, Christine slammed the door behind her. Raoul stood there for quite some time after she left, and then sat down behind his desk, letting whiskey and tears claim him.

* * *

Dion smirked to himself as he read over the note that had just been delivered.

“My Estimable Student,

“Your intentions were noble, I am sure, when you assigned Madame le Comtesse de Chagny to care for me…”

Erik had most certainly recovered. When his footman had arrived, grinning like an idiot, Dion had immediately known his plan had been successful. He had been waiting with bated breath for the past two days, practically living at his door, waiting for a message from either Christine or his teacher.

“I assure you, the sentiment does not go unnoticed. However, your discernment in doctors must be questioned…”

His acerbic wit had recovered as well.

“Due to the inexperience and late arrival of medical assistance, I obtained unnecessary injury, an infected wound. As such, I am afraid our lessons will have to be postponed until I fully regain my health. I am well taken care of by my servants, so you need not send any other troublesome women to tend to me.”

Dion chuckled at this last sentence. Folding up the letter in high spirits, he started upstairs. He stopped in mid-step, as there came another sharp knock at the door. Sighing, he backtracked down the stairs. Any trace of a smile the letter from Erik had mustered up vanished, as he opened it to find a morbid Christine de Chagny, along with a traveling suitcase and a fresh bruise on her left cheek.

“Christine,” he gasped, his jaw hanging open.

“Hello, Dion,” she greeted him in a strangled voice. “I am sorry to barge in on you like this, but—”

“No, no—not at all! Come in…” He stepped aside, quickly closing the door behind her. She smiled wanly as they stood in an awkward silence, Dion opening and closing his mouth several times.

“I would normally not…be so…dramatic, but I could not stay at my home any longer.” She paused, watching Dion. He only gulped and nodded slowly. “Er, perhaps we should sit down? Forgive me for imposing you, but some tea would be lovely…”

“Oh!” Dion exclaimed, his manners suddenly returning to him. “Yes, of course, follow me.”

They sat, once again, in his library, and, the tea being served, Christine finally seemed to relax in the familiar comforts. She virtually collapsed on to the sofa, setting her suitcase down with a thud, and leaning against the cushions wearily.

“So, er, what brings you to…here…?” Dion asked uncertainly, watching her sip the tea warily, as though he expected her to burst into hysterics at any moment.

“I would not have troubled you, but I am afraid my friends in Nice are few,” she replied, with a weak laugh. “And do not look at me so, I am not going to faint.” She gave him a teasing smile to reassure him.

“Forgive me,” Dion said, returning the smile, “but you seem so…downhearted, my dear.”

“Raoul and I quarreled,” she said in explanation, and Dion’s gaze immediately went to the bruise on her cheek. “Oh!” One hand flew up to cover it, and she shook her head. “No, that was not Raoul, that was—er, an earlier accident. Raoul did not hurt me.”

Dion sighed in relief. “I would go to any means to protect you, Christine,” Dion said seriously. “You are a true friend.”

She smiled warmly in response. “As are you, Dion, but it is not protection I need—simply a place to stay, until I find a way to straighten things out with my husband.” Her face went a shade paler. “I am afraid that we will not be…together…for very much longer…”

Dion was overcome with sympathy for this woman that was saddened beyond her years. “I am sorry, Christine.”

She waved her hand flippantly. “Let us not speak of it,” she murmured, swallowing some more tea.

Dion watched her, amazed at the strength this woman must have to compose herself so often. If he were in her position, he would have fallen to his knees and begged for mercy long ago. But not she; she seemed to have transformed from the submissive, meek Comte’s wife of a month ago, into a self-sufficient, courageous woman. She was wise past her years at the age of twenty, and Dion felt he could learn so much if she would one day take the time to sit down and tell him her life story.

But now was not that time.

Instead, he had a plan to perhaps save three people from themselves, and now was his chance to put it into action.

“I am greatly indebted to you, for taking care of Erik these past few days,” he started, and was not surprised when an unhindered sadness surfaced in her eyes, then was pulled back and lost in their brown depths. “He sent me a note just now, with thanks…” Well, it was not entirely a lie.

She looked up, startled, a glimmer of hope betraying her blank countenance. “With thanks?” She repeated. Dion nodded encouragingly.

“And, see, Christine—I am afraid my father and I are going away on the morrow, so you could not stay here…” She tried her best to hide her disappointment at this news. “But, I am sure Erik would be delighted-” Only slightly an overstatement, Marchand. “—to have you, for as long as you need.”

She snorted in disbelief, and Dion stared at her surprising unladylike demeanor. “You and I both know that is not true,” she told him, averting her gaze.

“Christine, when he hears the urgency of your situation…and I understand he has not fully recovered from a flesh wound—he would still need someone to care for him. I am sure his servants could not handle him as well as you.”

She shook her head, smiling. “You assume so much, yet you barely even know the story behind…myself and Erik.”

“It is not so much what people tell me, but what I observe. It is not difficult to see the depth of the feelings you harbour for each other.”

She flushed noticeably. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, a little too hastily. Then, sobering, she gave a little sigh. “No matter how grave my state of affairs may be, Dion, I fear Erik will never speak with me again.”

Dion grinned wickedly. “Who says you must speak? Here, let me write you a note-” He rose and went to his desk, retrieving a quill and parchment. “We shall see if he lets you stay, my dear Comtesse; we shall see.”

* * *

Christine was torn between trepidation and amusement as she entered Rue Manor, Beaumont spouting joyous greetings as he took her tiny suitcase. Since it was already well into the night, the candles in the foyer had all been lit, and the mahogany was awash in golden light. With all the red hangings and dancing shadows, Christine was sorely reminded of her last opera, Don Juan Triumphant.

Beaumont purged her nostalgic thoughts, asking if she would like to be taken to Monsieur de la Rue’s study, where he was currently working. Christine declined politely, handing him Dion’s note and stating that she would wait in the entrance hall until he returned. Beaumont, though puzzled, complied readily, putting her suitcase down and striding off purposely.

Christine clasped her hands in front of her, watching him go. Not quite sure what to do with herself in his absence, she simply stood, trying not to fidget, and gave into memory.

* * *

“A message for you, sir.”

Erik looked up, glowering at his butler. He had specifically requested to be left alone for the night, and the idiotic grin on Beaumont’s face was not promising. He had been working on a new piece, trying and failing miserably to exclude Christine from the melody. Her shadow was cast over every note, and he had been about to tear it up and start anew.

He doubted the next composition would be any better, however. His left shoulder was distracting him from his work as well, the wound aching horribly and sending shots of pain down his arm whenever he moved it—but he refused to tell any of his servants. He would not let them attend to him if he were within an inch of his life.

“This had better be important, Beaumont,” he said acidly to the cheerful man.

“Oh, it is, Monsieur.” He came forward and handed Erik the note, and, turning away, added, “Oh, and the Comtesse is in the foyer, awaiting you.”

Erik went rigid. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, Madame le Comtesse de-”

“I know what you said,” Erik snarled. Then, suddenly weary, his shoulders slumped and he rested his head in his hands. “You may leave.”

Beaumont left without a word, Erik dispelling a shaky breath as he heard the door close behind him.

Christine had returned? He had never expected to see her again—though of course, he had always thought that when they saw each other—and yet it had only been hours before she had come back…but to what purpose? Erik examined the note. It bore the Marchand seal, and he groaned.

I should have known.

Dion had set up another one of his brilliant plans to save Erik from himself, by setting Christine loose in his household. With apprehension, he opened the envelope.

“Erik,

“I am greatly pleased to hear of your good health, but I must ask you a favour. Christine de Chagny is in great need of your assistance…”

Erik’s lips compressed to a thin line.

“She has informed me of your circumstances, and I assure you she will be no hindrance to you. If you would only set her up in one of the rooms in your vast household, I am sure you two would not even have to speak to one another. She only needs a place to reside until she can confirm her divorce from-”

Divorce. Erik reread the line. His eyes had not been mistaken. Divorce—Christine was getting a divorce. He had to stop himself from crying out in delight, and jumped from his seat, pacing as he quickly read through the rest of the note.

“—From the Comte de Chagny. As I am sure you can understand, her situation is an awkward one. She is now awaiting your acceptance—or rejection—of her request in your foyer. Please choose wisely.

Regards,

D. Marchand”

He set down the parchment on his desk, and stared at it blankly. He did not know what to think. Christine, staying in his house—how could he cope with it? He could not handle speaking with her for five minutes. And now that she was getting a divorce…what would that mean?

It could mean nothing, he told himself, suddenly embittered. It could mean exactly what the note says; she simply needs a place to stay until she can rid herself of her husband.

But she is coming to you! Another part of him said, and he resumed pacing. She could have gone to any one of her friends, but she came here!

“…You two would not even have to speak to one another…”

It was true. Erik could simply tell Beaumont to give her a room, and then avoid her like the plague for the month or so that she was here.

It sounded ridiculous, even in his head. No, he would face her, he would see she had a room, and then he would simply leave her to her own devices. He had no doubt she would want to let him alone as well.

Squaring his shoulders, he stepped out of his study and strode down the hall to the foyer. He felt his throat tighten as he caught sight of her, still in her now stained woolen dress, her curls highlighted with red and gold as she chatted amiably with Beaumont.

They both turned as they heard his footsteps, Christine going pallid and Beaumont stepping back quickly. It was then that all of Erik’s resolve shattered—as Beaumont moved away to reveal the left side of Christine’s face, and the hideous purple bruise that had formed there.

The feelings of earlier that evening swarmed him, when she had flown from his room, her grieved confessions still lingering in his ears. He had wanted to take her in his arms and beg for forgiveness, slowly realizing the truth in her words, cursing himself for inflicting such pain upon her. He had lounged in a pool of self-hate the rest of the night, forcing his shoulder through the arduous act of dressing and holing himself up in his study.

He was somehow relieved when he saw similar feelings of anxiety and guilt reflect in her eyes as she stood at the door, holding her suitcase as though she expected to be leaving. And her cheek…he could not tear his gaze away from it, the mark so obvious against her white complexion.

Had Raoul done this to her?

“Comtesse,” he murmured, pleased that his voice was stable.

“I would prefer not to be addressed by that title, while I am here,” she said slowly, unsurely, as though her words were a new food she was not sure she liked.

“Ah, yes, so I hear it shall not be yours…for very much longer…” He watched her carefully for her reaction. The corners of her mouth quivered a little, and she looked away.

“No, it shan’t.”

They stood nearly half way across the room from each other, but her sweet scent invaded Erik’s senses, and he felt himself stagger mentally. “You will, of course, be permitted to stay in Rue Manor-”

A smile broke out on her attractive features, and Erik felt his heart swell.

“-For as long as you wish.”

Beaumont, smiling as well, took the suitcase from her grip. “I’ll sort out her room, then, shall I?” With an inclination of his head, he disappeared down the right main hall.

The silence was suffocating. Erik was sure the pounding of his heart would start echoing if someone did not speak soon. “Your cheek,” he ventured, gesturing.

She immediately moved to cover it. “A simple accident,” she supplied quickly.

“Ah,” he responded in a choked voice. “Then, it was not—”

“Raoul? No.” She blushed.

“May I ask…?”

Her eyes widened a little. “Well, you must—you must not blame yourself,” she stammered, and Erik went cold. Himself? “When you were ill, in your delirium…you tended to…strike out, at times.” She scrambled for words. “I was not quick enough…I…Your hand—”

“Yes, I understand,” he gasped, turning away. “Beaumont should be back any moment to show you to your room. Goodnight, Madame.”

Once in the sanctuary of his study, Erik leaned against the back of the divan and moaned. He had struck her. Right across her flawless cheek, he had flung his hand, and—He did not know how he could do it, even in his sleep. How could he not blame himself? If only she had never tried to help him, he was beyond help…

Erik shook himself. He was acting like a lovesick idiot. And if it was already this stressful, how could he ever live through the weeks yet to come?

* * *

Christine’s room was small, but refined. It was at the far end of the house, as far away from Erik’s room as she could be. She wondered why Erik had designed such a feminine room when he made the house—white lace and lavender walls, as though he was expecting female companionship.

She felt an unfamiliar tug at her gut as unexpected jealousy passed over her. Had Erik had female companionship? Had there been another woman staying here, enjoying his company, listening to his music, like she once had in his home underneath the Opera house?

Dispelling any such thoughts from her head, she slowly began unpacking the few gowns and tokens she had taken with her from the Chagny residence. One other woolen dress, her favourite formal gown of blue satin, and one of light green taffeta, meant for summer. Also she had her nightgown, another pair of slippers, and a photograph of her father. She hung all the clothing up in her closet, and placed the picture on her bedside table.

Finally, she began to undress, struggling a little at the lacking of maid and presence of laces. Eventually, however, the wool and corset were both off, and she slipped her nightgown on over her chemise. She found a robe of plain cotton in the closet and wrapped herself in it.

Then, sitting at the edge of her bed, she tried to take in all that had happened that day.

She had gone from her home, to Erik’s, then home again, then to Dion’s, and now back to Erik’s…

It was too overwhelming. She decided to try to sleep, instead.

The mattress was sinfully comfortable, and she melted into it with a sigh of pleasure. Everything in Erik’s home seemed to be high quality, and she realized with Dion as his employer, he must be the owner of quite a fortune.

But, no matter how soft the mattress was, how plumped the pillows, her body would not succumb to slumber. She tossed and turned, throwing the blanket on and off, but it did no good. Rising from her bed, she put the robe back on and opened her door.

With a furtive glance down the darkened hall to make sure she was alone, she ventured out into the house. Perhaps she would explore Erik’s vast manor, and then try to get some rest. It would not hurt to know her way around.

The floor creaked under her stealthy steps, as she peered into shadowed doorways and admired rooms that looked as though they had never been entered. One was a magnificent parlor, complete with ornate fireplace and grand piano that was covered in a fine layer of dust. He had never played it.

Another seemed to be an artist’s studio, with an easel and a huge window looking out onto the ocean. Christine stood admiring the view for some time, before she transferred her gaze to the paintings. Many were unidentifiable, rough brushstrokes, of blazing crimsons and rich purples and shocking yellows. A few were human forms, females, all in pastel pink, nearly washed out in the white around them. Only the slight shadow, the dainty hands, and the tilted head gave way that there was a person amidst the blankness.

One canvas still rested on the easel, covered by a stained cloth. She lifted it curiously, and gasped. Underneath, another portrait of a woman, the features slightly blurred, but the brown curls and large dark eyes were unmistakable. It was of herself.

She left the studio in a hurry, feeling as though she was invading in something extremely private of Erik’s, and made her way along the length of the hall. She paused as she saw a shaft of orange light underneath a pair of sturdy double doors, illuminating a small section of the corridor.

She only knew one other person who would be up at this hour.

She eased open the door, squinting slightly as firelight assaulted her eyes. Slipping through the small opening, she hurriedly shut the door behind her, taking care not to make any noise.

There was a large desk at one end of the room, nearly lost in shadow as Christine gazed down the long space. Directly in front of her was a brick grate, a small fire burning in it, and the slouched form of a man in a loose white shirt. She watched, transfixed, as he brought a hand up to massage his left shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” She whispered timidly, and he leapt to his feet, whirling around.

“Christine,” Erik breathed, trying not to gape. “I did not hear you come in.”

“I was careful not to disturb you,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth turning up a little. “Your shoulder, is it bothering you?”

“No,” he answered immediately. She raised an eyebrow skeptically, and he amended, “Not often.”

There was an awkward silence.

“I also wanted to tell you again, it was not your fault, about my cheek,” Christine said, embarrassed.

Erik stiffened immediately, his eyes turning glassy. “My apologies, for anything I might have done while I was ill.” He turned and sat back down, staring into the fire.

Hesitantly, Christine came forward and lightly rested a hand on his injured shoulder. “I could reapply some salve to it, you know,” she murmured. “You should not be moving around so much, it slows the healing.”

Erik felt energy jolt through him when she touched him. “It is fine, I assure you.”

Christine tried not to be hurt by his cold tone. She came and sat on the other end of the couch, staring at her hands. It really was unfair of him now; she was trying to make up for things…

Erik’s head pivoted as he heard a small sniffle from the other end of the couch. He cried out as he saw Christine’s shoulders shaking with silent sobs, and tears slipping down her bruised cheek.

“Christine, please,” he begged her, moving closer to her.

“Don’t!” She yelled, standing and moving away. “Not after just…Sometimes I think I’ll never understand you, Erik, and your sudden moods…” She brought her free hand up to cover her eyes as she started to weep harder. Erik stood as well, unsure of what to say.

“I destroyed my marriage to save you! Raoul was mad with jealousy, I drove him to drinking, Erik—I destroyed my marriage, and my husband…” Christine’s voice was now broken with sobs.

“It seems to be a trend with you, destroying men,” Erik said coldly, resentment coursing through him at mention of the Comte.

“You unfeeling cad! Must you make this worse? I don’t know why I came here, thinking perhaps I could find some comfort.” She had turned to look at him, spitting the words in his face.

“I don’t know why you think you can redeem me, you foolish girl,” Erik retorted venomously. “I am what I always was, and nothing can change that.”

“God, Erik, I know I wronged you, but must you hold on to it so tightly?”

“Wronged me? A brutal understatement, Christine—you betrayed me in front of the world! You revealed me, shamed me in the opera I had written for you!”

Christine groaned in frustrated. “I had to, Erik!” She said shrilly. “There were police everywhere, if you hadn’t gone through the trapdoor, they would have shot us both!” She closed her eyes tightly. “I would never be able to bring myself to do such a thing if it wasn’t to save you, even if Raoul asked it of me. I swear on my father’s grave.” Suddenly, she dissolved into tears again. “And now I’ve lost Raoul! I spent four years lost in self-pity, mourning for a man who had been alive all along, mourning for the child I had killed—my child, Erik! Dead! Not even half a year old…My Phillipe…dead…”

Erik felt a numbing cold wash over him. His chest seized up as he tried to register this information. Christine had lost a child. Christine had saved him…Christine…

He reached out for her, and she collapsed readily into his embrace, clutching his shirtsleeve tightly as she wept.

“That’s why I had to save you, Erik…Phillipe died of fever, right beside me…And I knew, I just knew if I cured you…Was it so wicked of me? To sacrifice my marriage to find forgiveness?”

“Hush, Christine…” He rubbed her back soothingly.

“He blames me, Erik, Raoul blames everything on me!” She rested her head against his chest, exhausted. “And his is right…”

Erik held her tighter, reveling in the feel of her. How long had such an image haunted him? How many times had he tried to drive it out? And now it was very much real, and he could hardly believe it.

Then, a painful jolt from his shoulder made him hiss in irritation, and Christine immediately backed up. “Your shoulder,” she murmured. “Forgive me, I had forgotten-”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Erik replied softly, brushing the tears from her face.

“I must put more of that salve on it, Erik,” she insisted, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were still lingering at her sides. “Where is it?”

“In my room,” Erik replied. “Christine, it isn’t necessary. You are in no shape to-”

“And neither are you,” she interrupted him, taking him by the hand and guiding him into the hall. “If you don’t treat that shoulder, it will only get worse. Even you know that.”

“I can’t remember the way,” she told him, relieved that it was dark so he could not see her blush.

Erik sighed. “I don’t need-”

“Stop arguing and take me to your room.”

Something in her tone, perhaps it was merely that she was ordering him to do something, convinced him to listen to her.