Blemishes
Chapter 23: New Territory

"My dear, you aren't still thinking about the incident, are you?"

Christine hadn't realized she'd been holding the same spoonful for the last ten minutes.

"Don't misunderstand," he continued, "I realize my sensitive little wife needs her time—"

She frowned, "Well, that doesn't sound patronizing at all."

"It isn't, I am stating an observation. You are uncharacteristically sensitive, and we've already discussed your tiny form."

She stuck her tongue out at him—he had half a mind to do the same, but he wasn't an absolute (and adorable) child like her.

"What I mean to say is that I know you need time, but you also need sustenance: so, eat."

"I'm only thinking about your surprise tonight."

"Mm," he softened, "I see my wife is as curious as ever."

She was silent for a little while, finishing her food a scant more before taking the smallest chance to ask for a hint.

"No."

"No?" She pouted.

"No. No hints. You'll simply have to wait."

"You said we would discuss it."

"In time."

"You're mean."

"That won't get you anywhere, you've already insulted me to hell and back today. Something about being a 'dummy', if you recall."

"Can't you at least tell me what time you'll give the surprise?"

"Where would the fun be in that?"

"What sort of surprise is it? You said a 'gift of sorts', is it a physical gift or are we going somewhere?"

"You will see all in time, my dear."

"If we're going somewhere after dark then I'll have to change into something warmer."

"Rest assured I will have planned everything in advance, so you don't need to worry yourself about it."

"We are going somewhere, aren't we?"

"If presuming pacifies you, then by all means, presume away."

"I'd just like to be a little more prepared this time bearing in mind how yesterday went."

He glared daggers, the message clear—tonight would be nothing like yesterday.

"Alright," she gave in, "fine, I won't press anymore."

He stood up and gestured to her plates. "Finished?"

"Yes, thank you. So," she put her head in her hand, tapped her beautiful cheek and looked up at him with gloriously inquisitive blue eyes that threatened to floor him, "what are we going to do now while I wait for my surprise?" It took him a moment to function, but he eventually made it.

"A more thorough tour of the premises."

"Oh! That sounds nice."

"I thought it might. Madame, if you please," he offered his arm, "We'd better start from the front, no?"

He formally introduced her to the entrance, the larger drawing room, and yet a smaller room for tea she had only passed on her way to the gardens that morning. He showed her to the restroom and a room for laundry. This, as far as he had shown her, was it of the downstairs. On the second floor, she was already acquainted with her own room and knew where Erik's was, so they skipped to the three rooms in the hall that were new to her. Each had been furnished as a unique guest room.

"Will we be having visitors in our future?"

He had only shrugged and beckoned her to come up the next flight of stairs.

"The attic," he clarified. It seemed that it could have been quarters for servants if any were to live here, but for now had been fashioned as a library, an office, and a sitting room. A small spiral staircase also led to what had to be the tallest place in the building and was set up as a miniature observatory. Most of the area was empty for now, but Christine wondered if this wouldn't become one of his regular dwellings once everything was settled. It wasn't as big as it seemed, which made her curious regarding possible secret rooms.

"How long have you been building this, Erik? It couldn't have been in the last year, could it?"

"No, it's been some time. It's not the only one, but it is my favorite. There are only a few additional changes—for your sake, of course."

"You built this before we were married?"

"Oh, long before that. Time for the outside, this way…"

Aha! She knew it. It was as if by his presence alone that one of the bookcases rolled aside.

She couldn't help but mutter a facetious, "Why did I have the sneaking suspicion?"

"Why Christine," she could hear his smirk, "perhaps it is a wife's intuition." He laughed at her eye-roll.

There were three doors in total that were accessible from the hidden flight down: he did not omit where each went. The first led to Erik's room, the second to the outside, and the third to the cellar. He explained it was bare save for a boiler. She gave him a look of disbelief, to which he shortly replied that they'd talk about it in the future and need he remind her that manners of self-defense are imperative for a life of safety.

"What sort of self-defense? Erik, for my sanity's sake, it better not be another torture chamber."

"Christine, caution is key."

"And that makes whatever contraption you're hiding down there necessary, how?"

"You never know what enemies may come around, my dear."

"Is it a torture chamber?"

He tutted, "Christine, you know well enough that I long to live a simple life and there's nothing very simple about a torture chamber, now is there? These are only some… precautionary measures." He took mental note that perhaps he ought to dismantle some of the precautionary measures considering the most recent promises made to Christine.

"You're giving me a tour then—and you'll be explaining what each 'measure' does. If this is meant to be our house, I'm not living over a horde of murder contraptions."

Yes, definitely need to do some dismantling.

"Certainly," he said, fingers twitching at his side. Christine could practically hear the gears grind in his head, "just give Erik some time, hm? For, ah, cleaning. No one's been down there in a long while and you know what that means: dust, lots of it, indescribably dusty, and I would hate for you to catch some sort of illness."

"Erik."

"Yes, Christine?"

"Do not hide anything from me."

She brushed past him, and for a moment he thought she'd demand to enter the cellar after all. To his relief, she stopped in front of the door to the outside, "I'm sure you have more of the house to show me."

"Yes, allow me."

He led her around the gardens from there and was comically keen to exhibit the location of the shovels: she tried her best to be annoyed but ended up amused (it did nothing for his ego). There wasn't much else other than a curious and vacant set of stables, and the expanse of forest and land that dutifully hid them from the world. When at last they reentered the house, he bestowed her own set of keys.

"You have access to every room," he assured, "—even mine."

"Even the cellar?"

"Yes, you'll notice each," his fingers brushed over hers in demonstrating, "is adorned with a description for the door it opens. But I ask you not to venture into the pit—ah, cellar, until it's been spruced up, as stated prior."

"I'm just making sure."

"I understand, my dear," he glanced at the grandfather clock with a hum, "It is nearly time for your surprise. You ought to wash your face and ready yourself for the evening. I, too, will be preparing myself. Oh, and, do select the cerulean gown: you will want to look your best and it is most complimentary."

"I will want to look my best?"

"Indeed. Now off you go."

The cerulean evening gown was a favorite of Christine's. Her own personal preference driven by the fact that it was bought by her adopted mother when they first came to Paris. Beyond its sentimental value, it was a beauty to behold and there was certainly not a penny spared to retrieve it. Her mamma was a woman deeply involved in charity, what she procured from her own profession generally went to necessities and righteous causes—so the dress had been a true gift of indulgence. Christine had tried to convince Mamma Valerius to return it, but she only received a pat on the head and a knowing smile.

"You're a lady now, you know—a student of the Palais Garnier no less," her mamma had told her, "and a lady as fair and accomplished as you deserves something that makes you really feel it."

The memory made her smile. It didn't take too long to get ready, and it wasn't evening yet when she'd left the room—only a quarter past four. Was this something that was going to happen exactly when twilight fell? Was it timed? She came down the stairs to see him pacing back and forth, nervous and fidgeting—in full evening attire, and a completely new mask. It was most peculiar for the fact that it didn't look like a mask at all. The detail was so shocking that if they were strangers to happen upon each other walking down a street, she wouldn't even question it.

She recalled him speaking of the accessory! It had been in passing on that night—when he had asked her to choose between a Wedding Mass or a Requiem Mass. He had told her with all the madness and sorrow in the world how he longed to be an ordinary man and that he had created a mask which would make him look like one. But since then he had never spoken of it and Christine had never seen it.

It seemed to meld with his skin, which was brighter and less sallow—makeup, perhaps? His cheeks were fuller, along with his lips (these were his own but similarly colored to a livelier tone). His nose was a separate appendage and easily gave the impression of growing naturally from the face. He looked… like a perfectly normal human at a glance—if not still a foreboding individual with his daring height, pressed lips, dark clothes, and still pale skin. Only in examining carefully would the artificiality become distinct—the edges around the lips, the lack of mobility and expression, it was off.

It made her feel uncomfortable.

"Erik, what is this?"

"Ah," to witness her husband speak with such a foreign face was unnerving, "Christine. You are… sublime."

"Why—" Before she had time to question him any further, there was a knock at their door and a young man's voice calling for the mistress or master of the household.

"I will see to the door. My wife, why don't you start some tea?"

Her brow was indefinitely furrowed whilst he all but pushed her into the kitchen and assured the awaiting individual that he was coming. She would do as requested but that couldn't stop her from trying to be sneaky and glimpse at the door. Everything bewildered her at this moment—her husband's mask, him talking with someone at the door face-to-face as if he did it every day. What sort of false reality had she entered?

"Good afternoon, M." She heard the same voice.

"What brings you?"

"Are you the master of these grounds?"

"I am," Erik confirmed.

"You have a visitor, M. I hope you don't mind, I didn't think it suitable to bring her outside unless I knew for sure we'd come to the right place, she said she didn't know herself and it's starting to get nippy out here: I wouldn't want to be the reason she up and caught her death," he cleared his throat under Erik's impatient gaze, "I'll come bring her around now."

"I'll assist."

"Thank you," the man had said, but Christine sensed a note of dread.

"Christine," she heard Erik, "I'll be out but a moment!"

She stood, removing a saved batch of pain de chocolat for the tea, her mind buzzing with a billion theories. It wasn't long before the door opened again, and there was yet another voice—a woman's. A voice she was all too accustomed to.

"Oh, thank you," Christine nearly dropped the entire tea set, "you have such a beautiful home! You have no idea how delighted I am to finally meet you! Where is my Christine?"

"To the contrary," her husband's response was good-mannered and warm—a far cry from the curt tone he'd taken with the coachman, "the delight is all mine. She will be here presently. Thank you, M., for escorting her safely—for your trouble," she hurried out the kitchen to confirm her suspicions. There Erik was, pushing her mamma in a wheelchair with a suitcase in tow.

"Oh mummy!" Christine ran into the elderly woman's arms, "It's so cold outside! I can't believe you came all this way. Why did you come, this can't be good for your health!"

Her mother tsked, "You worry too much about me."

"I invited her," Erik clarified simply. Christine could only stare at him in total bewilderment. She knew her husband had interactions with other people out in the world besides her, he had errands to run and was a consultant to people of power and artistic prowess… but for some reason, she had never entertained the slightest notion of him willingly making an effort to contact and invite her mother to visit them!

"God bless you, M., for doing so. I so miss my dear Christine."

"Understandably, Mme."

"We have to keep you warm," Christine decided to save her shock for later, instead putting her mind to ensuring her mother's comfort. She managed to make it to the fireplace but found the wheelchair somewhat problematic when it came to a permanent location. She'd have to move her out. This wouldn't be a problem for Christine, in fact, moving her mamma had been part of routine when they'd lived together. She and the maid would take turns whenever she was home. All Mamma Valerius had to do was fit her arm around her daughter's neck and it would be but a deft turn to maneuver her where she wanted to go. But as Christine inclined to do just that, Erik gently urged her aside.

"Let me, Christine," she was wordless, "Madame, if I may."

To say Christine was astounded when Erik—her Erik, who could not bear to knowingly touch her with any ease in almost the entire first year of being together, actually bent and fully picked up Mamma Valerius was a gross understatement. She could hardly believe her eyes. Such a vision was never one she thought she'd witness—and her heart curiously ached for it.

"Thank you," Mamma Valerius herself was a bit breathless, certain that the coldness she had felt emanating had naught to do with the polite man and everything to do with her poor circulation (which the doctor regularly and irritatingly commented on). Layers of fat and the gentlest breeze would chill her to the absolute bone.

"No thanks is necessary, Mme. I believe tea is ready, I'll return shortly. My dear," Christine hadn't realized she'd been gaping until he'd called her to attention, "you should find a place to sit."

"Christine," her mamma beckoned her to take the place beside her, "You never told me your husband was so fluent in Swedish!"

Christine cleared her throat, "He, mm, knows quite a few languages."

"Remarkable! Does he hold any other professions besides voice instructor? You've hardly spoken of his background!"

"He's… he's been a lot of things here and there. Architecture, for one."

"Really! Has he had a hand in any notable structures?"

"Oh, yes—several. He assisted with the Palais Garnier even. But what—?"

"Extraordinary!" The old woman exclaimed, "What a talented gentleman! But I am surprised I have never heard of his name!"

"He prefers a private life, mamma." Christine improvised (it was not wholly inaccurate).

"I see. Nonetheless, if it is true—and it must be, as my dear daughter tells me—then there is no doubt he is some sort of genius! No wonder that darling boy felt so threatened."

"Mamma!"

"Oh, why didn't you invite me sooner so I could meet him and see you?" Her hands were cold on Christine's cheeks, "I've missed you more than words can express!"

"I'm sorry, I should've visited you more often."

"Or invited me."

"Yes," she was about to bring her thumb to her lips until the most disapproving glare threw it back down into her lap, "or invited you… I just haven't had a lot of time."

"Becoming a spouse is a consuming occupation, dear. But, really, it's terribly cruel of you to leave me all alone like that! Letters are nice, but I'd rather see your lovely face! And you aren't even singing anymore! After all the work you and the spirit—"

"Not the spirit, mamma."

"You are certain, Christine? I could have sworn the angel of music had come to you."

"No, mamma… the angel of music was Erik."

"Oh, yes, yes, I forgot! They are one and the same. You told me already! How silly of me—pardon an old woman. But after all the work you put into your voice, and how devoted you were! I tell you, never forget your passion. Nothing ever stopped me for as long as I could stand and go through with it. In fact, since receiving this chair, I've been dabbling again. Only painting for now—I should most like to resume my photography again, but it proves a little more strenuous"

"That's wonderful, mamma!"

"Indeed," Erik said, setting a tray down with the tea and pastries, "I'm familiar with your work, Mme Valerius."

"Really!" The woman started, "And please don't speak so formally, call me mother."

Erik's pleasant expression (what he could make of it) faltered, "I'm afraid I can't oblige such a request."

Mamma Valerius turned to Christine questioningly.

"Erik has no intention of offending, mamma. Only… "

"The word is associated with memories I and no other person would care to dwell on. I assure you, madame, it's nothing to do with you."

"Oh," her mother nodded slowly, "My apologies, had I known I wouldn't have said anything about it. Call me what you like. How about Bertha? I just don't want you calling me madame the entire time. It's hardly familiar and we're family now."

Family.

"… Bertha."

"Splendid! And what do I call you?"

"Erik is sufficient."

"Erik! My word, you can't actually be Scandinavian?"

"I was born in France; the name was found in Scandinavia."

"Ah, I see… so you are familiar with my work?"

"You were noted as the best photographer among your contemporaries in Stockholm, no?"

"I suppose several people considered me that, yes! I did commissions for royalty after all."

"Your approach in portraiture is both natural and imaginative. There is scant artistic freedom permitted in such an official field, but you do well to provide a more humanitarian aspect within the confines."

"You are most generous, Erik!"

"Not at all—these are simply my observations," and had he directly broached the subject of her painting skills, he could have been quite critical. But surely that wasn't how one goes about conversing with polite company! Besides, the woman had earned a compliment or two for her astute gathering of his superior intellect.

"Your husband wrote me, Christine, and told me that I am invited to stay for the next two nights—if you don't mind looking after me. I didn't bring Cécile, I wanted some time to spend with my daughter and her new family myself. She's been getting on my nerves lately too, she can be such a busybody sometimes!"

"Of course I don't mind—our door will always be open to you, mamma!" She glanced at Erik. Clearly, he hadn't expected such an open promise but said nothing in objection (aloud).

"Thank you, dear!"

"Here, I'll put these away," Christine got up and set her mother's cup on the tray, gesturing for Erik's as well (he'd been using it as an object to keep his hands busy with).

"No!" Erik grabbed the tray himself, before clearing his throat, "I shall see these to the kitchen myself. Please—sit."

"Thank you… Erik."

He inclined his head and Mamma Valerius did not take heavy note of the bizarre exchange.

"Darling, isn't that his violin there?"

"Oh—yes, one of his many."

"I would love to hear him, if he wouldn't mind. Only I remember you telling me how beautifully he plays!"

"Sure, mamma, I'll ask him when he returns."

And when he did, he gratefully obliged—glad to have something to distract him from the present circumstances.

"Requests?"

"Anything, anything at all."

Erik settled on Johan Helmich Roman—a piece which would appropriately welcome Madame Valerius and yet remain complicated enough to divert him from any apprehension. It wasn't that he was devoid of social talents—(okay, he was of most but still) he knew performance, business, interrogation, negotiation… but in-laws? Entirely new territory. It was a relief to know he wouldn't have to worry about prolonged exposure (God knows what that would do). This meeting was merely a method to test the effectiveness of his mask in closer proximities, and, it helped that it was also a convenient way to demonstrate just how good he could be around someone as simple and helpless (and who Christine loved as much) as Madame Valerius.

He'd come up with the arrangement while going through relocation options, of which there were several. First, he could bring Christine here and then have her come back with him to the opera house and let her help (as she would doubtless insist). But as much as he loved his tenacious wife, he felt it would be easier if he could just move everything alone without having to worry about her. He'd brought all those things down without anyone's help, he didn't need anyone now—and he absolutely didn't want her to injure herself in some sort of attempt to reach something or push something or God forbid carry anything. There was also the high and inconvenient probability of arguments occurring to keep in mind.

Second, he could just leave her at the home: this unraveled thousands of anxieties. For example, she might drown in the nearby lake, she could get caught in a hunter's trap, be discovered by any number of old enemies (though the likelihood of any old enemies still being alive or having the deuces to weed out his location was incredibly slim), perhaps she'd be found by the boy, or cut her fingers off trying to cook a meal, or go exploring about in places that are still unsafe! For God's sake, what if she fell asleep facedown and suffocated herself! He couldn't leave her alone, it was lunacy.

To address those concerns, his initial thought was of the daroga as a possible guard. It crossed his consciousness as fast as it came, and he promptly felt like strangling the Persian after deliberating. He didn't care how honorable or capable that fly claimed to be, he was cursed to unwittingly cast all his acquaintances to their untimely ends! And Erik wasn't going to have that sort of unluckiness thrust upon his wife.

Beyond the daroga, Erik had also considered a number of Christine's associates from the Palais Garnier, but all of them were either serial gossipers with a penchant for interfering in business that isn't their own or shockingly dull and pointless (or the mistress of a man that he was accused of murdering). He needed someone that cared for his wife's wellbeing as much as him and whose companionship would render itself useful and rewarding without ruining… well, everything.

And that's when he thought of it: her adopted mother. He knew Christine missed her but refused to see her out of mortal fear for her passing. While Erik had only recently learned what it felt like to live in terror over the potential loss of someone you truly love, he couldn't imagine such a feeling towards a mother. But that didn't mean he had completely forsaken all understanding of such a concept nor was he unable to ascertain the importance of that sort of relationship for his wife.

A motherly presence, he was aware, is important—these are figures which can make you or break you. Though providence and her own spirit had a hand in it, Madame Valerius must have been a pivotal teacher, mentor, and provider for the early and personal growth of his Christine. And now? She was ill, senescent, and perfectly desperate just to be with her daughter—thus making the chances of her trying to use information against either of them unlikely and futile. If Christine could be trusted not to share too much regarding their circumstances (and by her letters and her prior visits, she had already proven as much), all would go well.

The only real hiccoughs he'd experienced (not including the prior night's mishap) in choosing Valerius was one, that pesky nurse which urgently tried to deter her from coming. She'd kept questioning how Valerius could trust a man she'd never met who won't even send an address! This, undeniably, was brought on by hiccough number two: that devil of a Persian poking around. The nosy brat.

Erik wasn't sure if the daroga wasn't just jealous that Christine's mother had been invited to their new home first. But then he'd begun to notice an unusual pattern in behavior: weekly visits, afternoon teas, tedious and repetitive small talk about nothing at all for the sake of making just a bit more conversation. Erik realized the exchanges could be advantageous.

Make no mistake, in all his wretched days living on this unremarkable planet he had never (repeat, never) desired a hand in the romantic ongoings in his not-friend's pathetic bachelor life—yet there he ended up, doing just that. To think he had written such ridiculous notes just to keep that great nincompoop of a booby out of his business made the idea of jumping off Apollo's lyre especially appealing. The only thing that made any of it bearable was that it had succeeded, and both were too distracted to make any progress in either dissuading Madame Valerius or developing any further inferences regarding Erik's (or Christine's) current whereabouts.

He was certain Valerius had been the best choice—that he would be able to move the rest of their home efficiently and quickly while Christine could stay here and both take care and be taken care of. All he had to do was survive tonight.

Author's Note:

My background for Christine's Mamma Valerius is based off the real life individual she was inspired by: Kristina Nilsson's chaperone Bertha Valerius. She was a photographer and painter.

I feel like there's stuff missing but for some reason I can't fill in the gaps as easily until after I've published the chapter—so… here you go! There may be editing in the future. Hope you enjoy! :)