“Just a bit further,” Christine assured me, huffing a little as she dragged her luggage along, “It should be beyond that hill over there.” Her cheeks and the tip of her nose had grown pink in the frigid air. Her brows were furrowed with exhaustion from our long walk, and it was clear that she wanted nothing more to reach the cabin, drop her bags, and collapse on the featherbed. However, despite her discomfort, she managed to maintain a cheery disposition.

As you have probably guessed, that was not the case with me.

“I should think that hailing a brougham would have been far more practical,” I began, nearly ready to rip out the tongue of the next unfortunate person who gave me a nasty look.

“Erik, here are no broughams here, at least not in these little side streets. Besides, look at how lovely it is here!” She grinned brilliantly. “You wouldn’t want to miss this scenery, would you?”

“Yes, I would very much like to miss this scenery,” I snapped rather rudely, and then immediately regretted it.  “Oh, my dear, forgive me…I certainly did not mean to be cross with you, goodness knows you do not deserve it…I simply…it is difficult for me, you see…”

She stopped for a moment, a look of concern on her face as she placed a gloved hand upon my upper arm.

“Are you alright? Should we sit for a bit? Oh, I feel so stupid, I’ve forgotten you are still ill—“

“No, no, I am fine, I assure you,” I lied, “I was actually referring to…well, I—I have not ventured out among…others…for years. It is…a strange experience, to say the least. I must confess that I am longing for the cellars right now.”

“I understand. But soon, you shan’t have to trouble yourself with matters such as those. The cabin is secluded, very secluded. I requested one very close to the forest, away from the others. It isn’t that far away, I promise.” A dreamy smile crept up on her lips. “Oh, Erik, this is going to be wonderful. I haven’t spent Christmas in a cabin since I was a little girl in Sweden. I’ve been so busy for the last couple of years with rehearsals and performances that the holidays have been a bit of a bother. Constant practice, you know, I don’t really get out much. And I…don’t really have anyone to celebrate it with, save for Meg and Antoinette, but they are always away visiting family. There’s always Raoul, but you know…his sisters’ cooking is…well…”

I suddenly felt a searing pang of guilt.

Constant practice, you know, I don’t really get out much.

Was I to blame? I often agonized over whether or not I had pushed her too hard. In the years before we met face to face, she would occasionally break down into frustrated tears during lessons, and then apologize, admitting that she was fatigued. Her singing career dominated nearly every aspect of her life, something unquestionably normal for me, but that may have raised objections from normal people who wished to actually go out there and live.

Music is my life—Compose, play, sing, compose, taunt the managers, play, compose, and then the next day would begin. Practice, practice, practice, and then perform, perform, perform. There was little time for petty activities like sleeping or eating. Foolishly I had expected the same out of Christine, but had failed to realize that an angel must never be treated that way, lest she wilt beneath the pressure.

How was I to know? I had never met an angel before…

I truly am a monster. My stomach hardened into lumps at the thought of it; Christine, hunched over her desk and studying her libretto by candlelight while the rest of the mortal world was celebrating and rejoicing in the lavish joke that was life. Christine rejoicing in the company of a creature like Death himself, because she was never permitted the company of Life. Christine collapsing from exhaustion upon her divan instead of singing carols by the fire, stuffing stockings, and decking the halls with boughs of holly…or whatever it was that one did during the holidays.

I’ve robbed her of fun! I thought with a grimace, No wonder she is so inappropriately excited to spend time with me—this is her only source of entertainment outside of her career. She doesn’t know any better! You have created your own personal china doll! Oh, you twit! You cotton-headed, buck-toothed, bumbling twit! How dare you?

I am astonishingly dense at times.

“…this one time where she made an apple pie, and let me tell you, it looked like a moldy sock,” Christine continued, unabashed, “Come to think of it, it tasted like one, too…Erik, are you alright?”

Her lovely dark eyes bore holes into my soul, filled to the brim with concern, and I wanted to shake my head and cry, “Foolish, beautiful girl, do not trouble yourself with me! I do not deserve this, any of it! Don’t you see? I have manipulated your mind with these dead hands, I must have! You are delusional. Why on earth do you insist on my company? What reason could you possibly have to wish for my presence other than years of brainwashing? That is it; that must be it! No wonder you smile when you look into these garish haunted eyes, no wonder!”

Oh, I wanted to die. I had actually had the gall to think that perhaps there was more to it. Forty years of perpetual slaps to the face, and I still had not learned.

“I am fine,” I repeated hollowly for the umpteenth time, suffocating under that blanket of shame.

“Don’t worry—as soon as we reach the cabin, I’ll see to it that you get some rest. What was I thinking, bringing you out in this weather when you’re ill?” She ran a gloved hand through her tousled curls, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I brought some herbal remedies that should help. They work wonders when I’ve got a cough. There’s this one cream that clears the sinuses when you rub a bit of it under your nose—ah—er, well…I
suppose it could still work either way, so long as you can smell it…”

And still she believed that she cared for me. Medicine! She brought medicine!

Darling, dear Christine…all the medicine in the world will not erase what I have done to you.

xxxXXXxxx

The bell of the local church echoed through the miniscule village, calling the faithful to prayer. Each resonant toll was like the cruel crack of a whip across my back. I dragged myself through that miserable little town, growing sickened every time I caught a glimpse of her stunning, peaceful face. Why was it that I was repeatedly deluded into thinking that life would take pity on me and grant me a reprieve?

Don’t think about it, I urged myself, Be silent. Enjoy the illusion while you can.

“There it is!” she breathed. My eyes wandered to the solitary little wooden cabin nestled in between two mighty pine trees and sitting proudly at the entrance of the forest. A wreath laced with holly hung from the door, and fresh firewood was piled on the porch, waiting patiently to serve its purpose. I suppose it was quaint enough.

Christine squealed.

“Oh, my gosh, look at it! Look, Erik, look!” She tugged on my sleeve and giggled. “Isn’t that the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen? What do you think?”

I grunted.

“I know!” Something told me she was not listening. “It looks like a little gingerbread house! Oh, look at the wreath, how lovely! And the chimney is smoking, and…”

“Why is the fireplace on?” I interrupted.

“What was that?”

“I said ‘Why is the fireplace on?’”

She shrugged. “Perhaps the management has decided to pre-warm the cabin for us.”

“And risk the place catching fire while no one is watching it?”

Her brows creased. “Well…maybe there is someone staying there and watching it for us.”

“There is someone in there?” I asked, anger licking my insides, “Why is there someone in your cabin? Who would dare--?”

“Our cabin,” she corrected, and I grimaced at her blind fondness, “And there probably is no one. Really, Erik, you shouldn’t worry so much, you will make yourself sick.”

“I am going to get sick if I walk into that cabin and find some drooling booby sitting in the rocking chair and waiting to gawk at the Opera Ghost—“

“Erik, there is no one in--—“

“Oh, bonjour! Claude, venez-vous, les invités sont ici!”

“Mother, do not yell so loudly, you shall cause an avalanche--!”

“AVALANCHE!” cried a smaller voice, "Avalanche-y, avalanche-y avalanche-y!"

All I could do was stand there and stare numbly at the three approaching figures that had emerged from “our” cabin. One was a squat elderly woman who bustled toward us with her wide mouth stretched to the apples of her withered, rosy cheeks. The second was a man of average build with a great red moustache and hair to match, hair that was identical to the third person’s fiery mane. Said person was trotting ahead of the others and tripping over a large scarf draped around his scrawny neck…

“Hey! Hey, grandmere, it’s the Phannum! The Phannum’s stayin’ here! Why didn’t ya tell me you were stayin’ here, Phannum?” Sebastian called.

I suddenly thought that an avalanche did not sound so terrible.