Authors Note: First of all I want to thank Sue for saving my sorry grammatically incorrect tail. She is so very patient and works hard to push my chapters into something better. The chapters that you will be seeing now are revised and revamped. Thank you for your patience and your continued support. Please review, I see you reading so I know you exist. Don't even try to hide.

Thanks and Love,

Wake Up and Smell the Irony

Chapter One: Better Left to the Dark

Paris, February 12, 1872

"Concentrate," she told herself. She knew what she had to do, it was really quite simple and at the same time so infinitely complex.

The whole ordeal had started with a week old newspaper article she had happened to come across while packing away her mother's wedding china. It wasn't long, a paragraph or two, stating the recent happenings at the Opera Garnier in Paris. But it wasn't the article itself that had caught her eye, It was the ink sketch next to it that had captured her attention. The building was exquisite, a modern marvel to grace the skyline of the already magnificent city. But something in the facade reminded her of another building from another place entirely and she knew it's architect instantly.

And so she had come to Paris, she hated what she was about to do, barging into an unpleasant memory all for the sake of someone she never wanted to see again, yet secretly prayed she would. Aimee knew that it was going to be hard locating Erik, but she had done so before and was determined to do it again.

She glanced up at the towering shadow stalking beside her like a protective gloom. He hadn't wanted to come to Paris; he was sick of the filthy cities and had sulked the whole way. Aimee didn't blame him; she too wanted nothing better than to stay forever in the countryside in solitude. But, her past was made up of many doors, and she had closed them all, save for one.

She sighed, and laced her arm through his, for reassurance, as well as an apology. He smiled down at her in response. Well, she knew he was smiling. No one else could tell through the mask he wore. But she knew because she was his mother and mothers knew these things. She breathed a sigh of relief, he had forgiven her. She patted the arm that she leaned on, and gazed up at him adoringly. The slight wrinkles that adorned her visage folded around her mouth as she did so, giving her a homely look that would have instantly endeared her to anyone.

It was dark out, and the lamp lighters had not come to this district yet. Aimee had planned it that way; things of this nature were better done in the dark. She pointed ahead to a small flat on the corner so he could see their destination; he nodded and led her on. Silence only seemed to add to the dramatic display that surrounded them. But neither could think of what to say to break it.

With every step that they took, her heart began to quicken with anticipation. What she was about to do was necessary, she had to close off any link to her past if she planned on staying sane. At least, that is what she told herself.

And now it came down to it, they stood before the door and her hand was poised above the knocker. She was panting slightly to try and contain her fear. He sighed deeply, and moved past her to gently take the knocker from her hand. She nodded gratefully as she took a step back and tried to compose herself.

The slight tapping noise of metal against wood made Aimee's heart threaten to leap out of her chest and dash away. More than slightly disgusted with herself, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply though her nose.

She had long considered herself courageous; but opening the doors to her past made her as timid as a lone child in the dark. Now the door in front of her, the physical door to her past, opened. Light streamed out, a slight dark man stood in the doorway peering out at them with blatant suspicion. When he saw who was standing on the stoop, he nearly fainted on the spot.

"Hello Darius," she whispered. "It has been quite a while." Darius had to swallow several times before he found his voice.

"You had better come in," he answered, in a hoarse whisper. A thick accent coated his voice, making his French difficult to understand. "He will want to see you." He shuffled aside to give them passage, but made no attempt to hide the glare directed at the man, as they moved past him.

"If you would be so kind as to wait in the drawing room, the master will attend you shortly," Darius said, letting formality hide his shock..

A Persian rug greeted their shoes, and richly colored chairs welcomed them to sit. Exotic lamps were placed artfully throughout the room, and books in strange languages perched on every surface imaginable. Aimee breathed in the incense smoke that wafted through the small space with sweet relish; it had been a very long time. She spotted a hookah stashed precariously in the corner, a small pile of tobacco sitting beside it. She knew it was for show, a gentle reminder of his overseas home. The master of the flat had never cared much for tobaco. She wished she could smile at the memories that surrounded her, but the business at hand ruined any chance of that.

While they waited, Aimee observed her son as he sat in the chair beside her. He was obviously ill-at-ease. He had both hands in his lap and fingers laced, giving the appearance of peace. But he was pinching the skin on his palm nervously. She was sure if she even so much as sneezed, he would jump clear out of his hide. He had always been that way, to some extent. It manifested itself more when he was caught in uncomfortable situations such as this one ('this' cannot be used as a pronoun), when Erik would be mentioned in the conversation.

He was tall, much taller than any of the Frenchmen Aimee had seen wandering the streets since their arrival; at least two full heads above Aimee.

He had been gangly as a child but had filled out into a more mature frame, although he was still much too thin. Aimee was so proud that she had coaxed his weight up five pounds before they came. Still, she had spent the whole morning cursing vehemently in every language she could think of as she took his suit back in again.

Suddenly, the master of the house burst into the drawing room. He looked ready for bed in an elegant dressing robe and richly colored slippers. Aimee blushed at his informal appearance; she should have sent a card ahead of her.

"Allah preserve us," Nadir breathed. "So it is you."

"Good evening Nadir." Aimee nodded with a tight lipped smile. "I don't believe you have met my son, Stefan."