The Persian had been a part of the Opera Garnier for too long to count. The truth was that it was merely a few years, not long at all, but it seemed like nothing was complete now he was gone. There was no small dark man to ask strange questions. No little black notebook that he was constantly scribbling in. None of his endearingly polite bowing and scraping in a painstakingly Western fashion. Because, with that small man's shy silence and respect, he had gained his own respect.

Mlle. Cecile Jammes had been terrified of him until one evening, when she was terribly late, and he had offered in his quiet way to pay for her cab. She never thought he had the evil eye again. La Sorreli had never abhorred him - after all, she was in theatre, and had known stranger types. And besides, he would always offer one a hand if you fell, or bend to pick up your toe shoes should you drop them. Even Gabriel, who had always been polite but absolutely horrified of the Persian, was somewhat impressed by him after the small dark man had approached him, saying in his softly accented French, "I am terribly sorry about our earlier encounter. I trust you are all right after falling down the stairs?"

Yes, eventually he had charmed them all. Because in the end, the soft spoken, unassuming Monsieur le Persian was very hard not to like. And if he had the evil eye, well, they were theater folk, and having an evil eye was M. le Persian's affair, and no one else's.

Now he was gone. And no one would ever guess the kind of existence their funny little foreigner was living now.

"Today is Tuesday."

"Is it really?" Asked a faint voice with a trace of sardonic humor.

"Yes, Tuesday all day," the daroga said loudly, shutting the door to Erik's mortuary of a room. "And all of tomorrow too," he added, not terribly quietly, to the empty room. "And the day after that." For two weeks he had simply told Erik that today was Tuesday, and never elaborated on the situation. Erik was too delirious and disoriented to realize anything, and Tuesday was becoming a nirvana zone.

Today is Tuesday. On Tuesday Erik is weak so he cannot kill, but he is strong enough not to die. On Tuesday Nadir is powerful enough to suit himself, and weak enough to know that he is still only Nadir, not needing to take too much responsibility. Today is Tuesday, and yesterday was Tuesday, and tomorrow will be Tuesday, and it will carry on being Tuesday until Tuesday is over, and Erik is dead.

Nadir was tired, unspeakably tired. He had been sleeping not terribly comfortably on the sofa in the sitting room, but he would never have dared sleep in the Louis-Phillip room, much less Erik's coffin, which Erik had, much to Nadir's great shock, offered.

"Come on, daroga, you'll fit fine. . .And I'll do perfectly well on the sofa."

"It's far too narrow."

"Oh, don't give me that. And I already know that I'm miles taller than you, so…"

"You're not. Yes you are. Never mind. But I'm not sleeping in there."

And that had been the end of that. They had had that conversation last Monday, and since had forgotten about it, because today was Tuesday.

As things currently stood, Nadir's mind was in a sleepless haze, willing to accept any bizarre turn of reality. He was staring disconsolantly at Ayesha's basket and letting the Siamese glare at him. The daroga simply didn't have the energy to glare back. Tuesday could take a lot out of one. He stretched out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling was adorned, like any space in this house with two inches to spare, with the Dies Irae notes over and over. They looked unusually menacing in among Madeleine's fine old ugly furniture and ostrich egg knick-knack.

Nadir woke up at about four o'clock, and went into the dining room to find the remains of Tuesday's lunch. He ate an egg and two pieces of breaded veal, and then walked back into the drawing room, where a man in a bright green suit was waiting for him.

The man in the bright green suit had strange, bright mint eyes and beautiful white hair the consistency of thistledown. He was sharp looking and strong, but his eyes and fingers darted about in a most disquieting fashion that simply made one mad.

"Hello, Monsieur," Nadir said quietly.

"I am Wednesday. I've come for one of you."

"I'm sorry, but you can't have either of us," Nadir said sharply, and started into Erik's funereal room to tell him about their visitor.

"Erik, there's a man outside who says his name is Wednesday and that he has come to take one of us."

"Tell him he can't."

"I already did."

"Help me up."

And the Persian helped Erik out of his bed. Erik did not look well, if he ever had. His forehead, what one could see of it, was paler than pale, and the veins on his thin, fantastical hands were blue and purple and bursting out. The bone of one knee was almost on the same level as the skin, seperated by neither kneecap nor flesh.

"Are you all right?"

"I always am, daroga. Are you?"

"You're in no position to ask."

"Take me out there."

Erik, leaning heavily on Nadir's shoulder, managed to struggle to the sofa and sit down, gasping. Master Wednesday moved over for him. Nadir marveled at how light his friend was. Like a bird with hollow bones.

"I am Master Wednesday. I have come for one of you."

"You can't have us."

"I don't want any us. You don't understand." A tiny pink tongue came out of Master Wednesday's mouth and flicked his thin mealy lips. "I want a him. Betrayal between friends intrigues me. And it is more poignant as souls go. I want a soul throbbing in resentment. And you two always fascinated me. Constant hatred. Constant loyalty. Constant kindness. Constant torture."

"Thank you," Erik managed to cough out wryly.

"Now. Who will it be?"

More sudden than a London shower, both men snapped to their feet and declared, "Myself."

They shot each other disbelieving glances, and then Erik fell to the floor, nearly done in from the exertion. Nadir shot over the sofa, mussing Master Wednesday's suit and knocking off his bowler hat, and caught the skeletal creature before he fell. He cradled Erik's head in one stubby, weathered, tea-colored hand. It reminded him of Reza's head as a baby, so soft and so primitive, with skin so membrane thin that you could see in to the skull and brain. Only this brain was extraordinary.

Erik barely looked up, but a glance from the Persian's sharp, reviving blue eyes shot through his eyes, and he was alive.

Master Wednesday rose and said, "Gentlemen, it seems I am no longer needed here."

"Were you ever?" Erik managed to croak.

"Go to Hell," the daroga said absently, in a rare fit of assertiveness, to Master Wednesday. He was staring at Erik's eyes and worrying about him.

"Good morning, Erik. Today is -"

Silence.

"What, daroga? What? What day is it?"

"You sound better. You sound much much better."

"To hell with that. I feel like I've just been to the eighth level of the inferno and back, speaking of which. What day is it?"

"Today is Saturday."