She wakes slowly, body heavy and limbs tired, loth to move from this exact position of comfort – on her back, elbows and knees bent, perfectly languorous. Why would she want to move when for once everything is just so and –

There's something missing, something essential to complete the picture. Where are the arms that should be wrapped carefully around her waist, as if afraid of breaking her, and where is the chest that she should be tucked against?

Where, in short, is her husband?

She stretches out a hand and pats down his side of the bed, as if he could be hiding there on her. Cold, the covers disturbed. It's a while since he left then. So why is there no music? Usually when he leaves like this it is to compose quietly and yet there are no violin strains seeping into the room, no soft piano keys.

Something couldn't have happened, could it?

With a groan and the sure knowledge that she won't be able to get back to sleep until she finds the wayward man and assures herself that he really is all right and there is no need for the wild beating of her heart, she rolls out from the bed and slips a dressing gown on. It's his, his comforting scent of soft warm spice left on the collar so that it seems to fill her whole body as she inhales. The fluttering of her heart settles, and she sighs. Surely there is a logical explanation for why he is not in bed. There is no need to panic. The silk is smooth on her bare arms, and the gown's drape reaches the floor, hiding her night dress – not that that matter because it is perfectly discreet. He would have it no other way, the fact of his marital rights deemed irrelevant and tender closeness being of the foremost importance.

Her poor, dear husband. However did she end up with a man like him?

Perhaps it is best not to dwell on that, actually. She still hasn't forgiven him, after all, for some of those things he's done.

She pads out of the bedroom, the soft rug warm underfoot, hiding the cold stone-flagged floor. So considerate of him, really. If only he had stayed in bed so that she wouldn't have to leave it for to go in search of him.

As it transpires, finding him is not as difficult as she feared it might be. The drawing room shimmers in the soft golden glow from the fireplace, and there he is, deep in his armchair, hands steepled beneath his chin, and wearing that damn mask again. Her distaste for the mask has been well-expressed – the ravaged cheek beneath it is beloved by her for the fact that it is his and so it matters not what it looks like now; any horror which it filled her with has long-since passed and it is merely another part of him. Him. The man she loves and has vowed to spend her life with.

He does not see her standing before him, his eyes closed and mind lost in thought. Ever so slowly, carefully, so as not to startle him, she reaches out and places her fingers lightly against his uncovered cheek. He frowns, brow furrowing and right hand wrapping around her wrist.

"Darling, you should be asleep."

His voice is soft, pitched low though there is no need to be now, not when he knows she is awake. Perhaps it is respect for the darkness which enfolds them, and the thought makes her smile just slightly. He would respect the darkness, wouldn't he? It helps so much to hide him.

"So should you."

The half of his lips that she can see twitches and he blinks his eyes open, moving her hand to kiss her fingers gently.

"I apologise if my absence woke you."

She smiles, feeling her eyes crinkle. He's just sitting there, his finger so light now around her wrist, always treating her as if she's breakable. Well she's not breakable, and he needs to learn that. One would think that he would know by now.

"Oh, I don't mind, darling." And she slips onto his lap, breaking the loose grasp he has on her to wrap her arms around him. Throwing her legs over the arm of the chair, she tucks her face in under his chin and presses one soft kiss to his throat. The skin is deceptively smooth here, fragile beneath her lips and a shiver runs through him. "Carry on thinking. I'll just stay here for a while." Sighing, she closes her eyes and presses herself closer to him.

Being this close to him is intoxicating. The heat of his skin radiates through his nightshirt, and she can feel each breath he takes, hear the air swirling down into his lungs. Hesitatingly, he wraps one arm around her, resting his fingers lightly on her arm.

"Are you certain, Christine? I have no wish for you to get cold."

She nuzzles into his throat, kissing him one more time. "Don't worry," she murmurs. "I won't."

When next she wakes, she is back in bed, wrapped in his arms and still wearing his dressing gown. She knows without looking that he is asleep – his breathing is soft, and slow, and he would never hold her so close if he were awake unless she made the first move. Smiling to herself, she burrows back under the covers and closes her eyes. No point in waking and spoiling this comfort until the time is right, after all.