Dear Erik,

I haven't needed to write to you for a while, which I had hoped was a good sign that I was getting over my grief over your death. I am beginning to fear, though, that you were right when you told me I could never, ever leave you—you seem to be present with me all the time in my mind. You were all I could think of when I sang in church last week. You would be proud of me, though, because I managed to remember to keep my chin down when hitting the high notes. I still remember with fond amusement, the time you demonstrated the difference in sound between hitting them properly, and "trying to reach for them with your chin." It was such an awful sound that I was afraid the corps de ballet would come running to stop me from killing some poor cat! That was in my dressing-room before you ever showed yourself to me, and I remember thinking that angels are beings of spirit. Do they even have chins? It was no wonder that little Giry and little Jammes were always bleating about being afraid of the ghost, if that is how you haunted them! And while I think of it, did you really have to frighten them so? I know it must have amused you, but my dear, they were so shrill!

I must apologize, Erik, for the way I reacted when I discovered that you really were not an angel from heaven. How silly I was, to think you might have been! I do think, though, that you could have been a bit more honest with me back then and spared me the pain of my disillusionment! I do sometimes wonder what might have happened if you had told me from the beginning that you were a man, and had taught me anyway. Perhaps things could have been different.

Certainly I would not have been treated as coldly after I sang as Raoul has been treating me. The silly boy—he knew I loved to sing. Why, then, must he act so cold and distant toward me every Sunday when we're driving home from church? He has never asked me not to sing in church; he has merely forbidden me from going on stage anywhere. So why is he so aloof? He doesn't thaw out until mid-week, but by then I'm anticipating another chilly Sunday after church so I can't really enjoy the time he spends with me when he isn't being cool or reprimanding me.

I knew it would be cold in Sweden, but I thought it would be warm in my own home.

He spoke to me quite sharply the other day about my being too "familiar" with the house staff. I was only chatting with one of the maids a little, because she had asked where we were from and was very excited to hear that we'd been in Paris for the last several years. It was quite innocent, honestly, but Raoul overheard us and called me into his study to speak to me about it. He reminded me that I am a countess now, and that I'm required to keep a certain distance between myself and the servants; it wouldn't do to treat them as equals, because then they'd start putting on airs and thinking they were entitled to special privileges. I wasn't treating her as an equal (though, as the daughter of a peasant, I really am); all I was doing was treating her as a person. But Raoul didn't see it that way.

And in truth, I might not have been quite so inclined to chat with her and keep her from her work, if I had any other friends to talk with. But no one comes to see me here, and when I go to see them they are very uncomfortable with a countess in their midst. Sometimes I wish that Raoul were nothing but a peasant, like them! Like me. He has changed from the sweet boy I used to know; as a man, he has a much more commanding presence. I just wish he would save his commands for the navy, and not apply them to his own wife. I know that he loves me, but when the only time he spends much time with me is to scold me for not upholding his noble honor well enough, the love gets harder to see.

Raoul's two sisters, with whom he used to live, came up to visit. I use the term "visit" extremely loosely, as it was not an enjoyable time for any of them. For me it was neutral; as soon as I saw how they were going to be, I withdrew to my room. I don't think I spent more than five or ten minutes with them, and so emerged unscathed. Poor Raoul had to host them for nearly an hour of being shouted at, berated, and threatened with the loss of his inheritance. Luckily this is an empty threat; Raoul has told me that both Clémence and Martine willingly signed over all of their inheritance to Philippe when their father died. With Philippe gone as well, Raoul is the one in charge of the family fortunes.

They shouted dreadful things about me, though, and about Raoul for marrying me. I could hear them all the way up the stairs and through my closed door. Raoul says they are going home tomorrow, and I am glad. I don't want them around long enough for him to really pay attention to what they tell him about me; he might start to believe them.

I am sorry, my dear, for coming to cry to you about my marital woes. Raoul really does treat me like a queen most of the time. When he's with me at all, I mean. He does love me, and I am grateful that he does allow me to sing on Sundays at least (even though he does get short-tempered about it). He is so sweet to me by mid-week that I can certainly forgive him being a bit snappish on Sunday afternoons, and when he catches me acting in a way that isn't befitting my rank.

Heaven knows you were certainly irritated with me much more often than that, my friend! But I am so empty without you that I even miss that. Not to mention that your irritation was usually because I'd done something silly that might damage my voice.

I must go and try to placate my dear husband. I feel better for having written; I think you do me good, Erik, even from the grave.

Oh dear, what a morbid thought. That must have come from you, with all your morbidity--sleeping in coffins and such. You must be a bad influence on me, even when you're doing me good!

Your loving friend,

Christine

Christine locked the letter up and stood, straightening out her skirts. It was almost time for dinner, and this time she was determined to talk to Raoul about his Sunday afternoon behavior. It was time for this coldness to stop. He had been that way ever since the first Sunday she had sung, when people had complimented her voice and condoled with her over the death of her teacher. She had had enough.

Unfortunately, her discussion did not go as planned, and she and Raoul retired to their respective rooms that evening in a state of cold reserve.