He watched them leave through the doors, disappearing into the cold, dark night. He paid little attention to the crowd of people shaking his hand, making small talk with him. The only thing he saw was her.

The only thing he wanted once was her…

"Monsieur Lerik!" A man said, raising his glass. "By tomorrow, you will be the talk of London! Will you ever think of traveling to the States?" There was a murmur of agreement.

This caused him to return to those standing before him. Victor paused for a moment, shaking his head. "My place is here," he said, "and I will continue to play here."

The man nodded, taking a sip from his glass. "Well, then," he said, "we are quite glad that you're here to bring charm back to theatre."

"What do you mean by that, Louis?" A woman's voice asked coming from his right.

"Well," Louis said, "I was a columnist for the Eploque, and I reviewed the Opera's at the Garnier…" He looked around at all the stunned faces. "Yes, during the days of the Opera Ghost."

Everyone laughed. "Was he real?" A man asked.

"No one really knows," Louis replied, "it's still a mystery. But, I nearly fell out of my box at who was seated next to me tonight."

Victor was attentive and said nothing.

"The Viscount and his wife: Christine Daaé!" He guffawed. "Can you believe it? They have been out of the spotlight of the press and the theatre for five years, and tonight they show up." Louis focused his gaze on Victor. "To bring the Viscount and his wife here is a feat indeed. I wouldn't be surprised if her name pops up in the papers again."

Everyone laughed, and Victor smiled. "Is that so, Monsieur?" This had caused all the conversation to be dropped instantly. They were surprised by the level of doubt in his voice.

"I would not doubt it," Louis replied, eyeing Victor with intensity, "any gossip about them and I'd get my job back."

Victor did not reply but continued to stare at Louis. He was as commoner, someone who posed as elite only to win off the favours of the upper class. If he only knew what stood across from him at this exact moment, he would not only have a story, but one that he would take to his grave as well.

Victor did not waste time pushing through this crowd, finding no other reason to chat with the ill minded. He strode from the lobby, and disappeared into the shadows of the halls of the Palais.

Yet, his thoughts still dwelled on the conversation he had heard.

Five years… That is how long it has been. That is how long Christine has been in hiding…

He made his way to his dressing room and as soon as he approached it, he unlocked it and slid through it as though he was never outside the door to begin with. He leaned up against the door, staring at his reflection in the mirror directly across from him.

If the Phantom was to perform any feat, any at all, this was the greatest one. Death and Resurrection! To die a criminal and to be reborn a new man! It was so easy, so simple, and he had not regretted it since.

Five years ago, he spent his days, creating something for Christine. He knew how much she feared him. And since she was the only one who he wanted to end his days with, to teach her with song…. What better way to keep her happy than to create a mask – identical to human flesh – to give him a face she would not fear?

That was to be her wedding gift. If she had only stayed, if she only had chosen him! Studying his horrible deformity in a mirror, he had learned to construct a mapping of his skeletal structure and labeled it with what he needed among his tools to create this humanlike face. He had made sure that in the end, the face she would see would be him. No monster, no Angel, no Phantom, but Erik.

But after that night, there was no hope for him. She had done something, twisted his world upside down. She showed him he did not need the mask, she had showed him that she could love him exactly how he was. And when her sweet lips touched his rotten ones, he wanted to tear them away. But the feeling was too exquisite, too blissful.

He could not have her, no matter what he did. She was no longer in his thrall. He had to let her go. She was perfect for her Viscount. He deserved to make him happy as she once did for him. Christine's splendor allowed any person to be charmed by her…and to long to be a part of her company.

It was not a surprise that she had distanced herself so long from the gossip of the public. For, as he had witnessed, they were not very kind to her. They were never kind to her.

His hand formed into a fist against the door, and he bowed his head in thought thinking upon the fools that wandered around, wondering where he had gone to. He did not need them, for as he told Christine, he could care little now what they said.

Christine…

He gazed at his reflection in the mirror.

It was impossible that this man, masking fame and fortune, could be the man they both recalled after so many years. The Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera…

He had murder to account for, lies to repent for, and how did he do it? By playing for Paris every night? It was wicked, but it was the only thing he could offer. He wanted companionship, he cared little for fame. How he became rooted in this predicament was quite an amusing one. Something he was sure would never happen as an Opera Ghost.

It was earlier in the year, after he had established a name, did he make a trip to the store to purchase ink and paper. He would never forget the looks he received when walking down the street. Women blushed; gentlemen tipped their hats in regard. As far as they knew, he was just another one of them. But he was far from it.

Upon entering the store, the store owner greeted him humbly. "Good afternoon, Monsieur, I have your order."

Erik enjoyed this man greeting him quite humbly, and he moved to the counter to inspect the package that the man had brought out from behind the desk. He watched the store owner unwrap the bundle. And the parchment fell gently into the store owner's hands.

"Like always, our best parchment paper Monsieur," he handed it out to Erik, who was removing his gloves from his hands to touch the paper. He touched it ever so gently, almost intimately. The store owner watched him.

"As always, dear sir, I feel ever so humbled to receive such excellent service from you…" He murmured, transfixed by the paper.

"You are a composer?" The store owner asked.

Erik thought this quite a funny question to be asked. "Yes," he replied, not wanting to anger this humbled man, "one could say that, sir."

"If I were you," he said, tapping the paper, "I would submit your pieces."

"Why?" Erik fumed instantly. "Why should anyone hear my pieces?" He nearly snapped right there. But he watched the face on the store owner jerk in surprise. Erik relaxed, upset that he let this man (who had always been kind to him in the past) be frightened.

"I am sorry, sir," he said instantly, "If I offended, it was not intentional. You are one of my honored customers, and you seem different from those who come in here to buy my stock."

Erik nodded. "Different indeed, sir," he said, "and I am grateful."

"I as well," the shop owner said, "so please, take my word. Submit your work, I know someone who is looking for a new pianist. The Palais is looking for a new performance. Who knows? You could be the one."

And Erik's lips lifted into a smile, pressing a few notes onto the table. "Then, perhaps I might…"

And that's how it started. It was all too quick, the store owner taking one of the small, minimal pieces to his friend. Who apparently, read it, loved every bit of it. He reported he had never seen anything like this. And within a matter of hours, Erik was guaranteed a spot in Paris' entertainment district.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. He approached the mirror now, touching the reflection of the well groomed, well distinguished man standing before him. For years, he thought of being this man, this very man who looked back into his eyes. He turned his head, admiring the work of the mask.

Gently, he lifted the neatly combed wig from his head, allowing the sparse hair to be seen. He placed that down upon the vanity carefully. And he then lifted his fingers to a thin string hidden behind his ears, and plucked away the flexible like mask. The face that stared back at him was no longer the handsome man from this evening, but the same man who stared at him every night.

Disgusted with himself, he turned his face to stare the mask that had given him so much. So much he did not care for. But it had not given him the very thing he wanted to achieve with it – Christine.

Though tonight, he saw there was indeed some hidden chemistry between them. Though she did not recognize him, she did not leave his presence to find her husband, her lover. She remained stationary, gazing at him intently. Could she believe that the man that stood before her was her Angel?

The Viscount did say she had taken ill during the performance, and she was moved to tears. Obviously, like others, it had affected her. But, it struck her emotions because his music was about her. It was always about her…

She was his music, and would always be his music. Why was it difficult for him not to let that go? Because he had created her, that was why. He could not deny that the person she was today was because he turned her from a child into a woman. A woman he had thought of turning into a wife, into a lover.

He was strong to admit that he had thought of her often, that his member would stiffen. When he had first brought her to his lair, the fact she was resting in his arms, brushing her body past him… it was too intoxicating. She was sure she had felt his erection cradled against her womanly frame. It had frightened her, and she ran from him. But soon enough, she learned to relax, and through the temptation of music, he took control of her body.

He had thought of his wedding night, if she had chosen him, all too often. It was not so frequent, but when he began wearing the mask, he would slip into idle day dreams. Having Christine stretched on the bed, him cradling over her, brushing a hand down her torso and to the one place that his hands had longed to quest. To touch, and to play like the strings on a violin! Her gazing across to the face of her lover, smiling, stroking his cheek with desire while he rid her of her wedding gown, learning together how love one another only music and body could be done.

He started panting, gripping his chest tightly, and his other hand falling against the mirror for balance. He cast a side glance at his face, knowing all too well that eventually she would know that the face beneath that mask was still a monster. Still a demon she feared.

So, in the end, the mask was only to his benefit. And to the public, he thought bitterly. It would always be for the people, never for him. When would there be something for him?

Christine followed Raoul slowly inside the house, the door opening as they reached the doorstep.

"How was it, Christine?"

Raoul helped Christine past the threshold of the door, eying her with absolute care. "Christine has taken ill, Annaliese. Could you please see to it that she is changed?"

"Of course, Monsieur," Annaliese said, taking Christine's arm, her face falling. "Come Christine," she murmured, helping Christine up the stairs. Raoul followed them, noticing the gentleness that the young, blond haired girl had over Christine. He was grateful that they got along so closely. It reminded him of Christine's friend long ago, Meg Giry. He had often wondered how she had been over the years, for he was sure that Christine missed her terribly.

As Raoul parted one way towards their daughter's room, he heard Annaliese whisper to Christine: "Was the performance not thrilling?"

He did not hear Christine's answer. But he was sure Christine would tell her it was, besides everything that happened. He strode to the door that held their five year old daughter, picking up the candelabrum outside. Opening the door, he peered in.

There was their pride and joy: Cecilia. The young child was asleep in the darkness of the room, a tiny doll curled in her arms. Raoul moved deeper into the room, placing the candelabrum on the table next to the door with gentle care. He did not wake her, for it was quite late – half past twelve!

Coming to Cecilia's bed, he sat near her, studying their daughter as she slept. Could God not bless them with anything more beautiful? He reached out, pushing a strand of her long brown hair from her sleeping face.

Her eyes flickered open, turning over lazily. She smiled, and then fell back to sleep. Raoul smiled at this, and kissed her forehead. He loved Cecilia as much as he loved his wife.

And so he sat in silence, until he heard the soft footsteps coming closer to them. Turning his head, he saw Christine standing before him in a blue dress robe. She looked so elegant, even when retiring for the night. He rose gently from the bed and held out his hand. Christine immediately took it and he pulled her softly into his embrace.

"How is she," he heard Christine's light airy whisper float through the silence.

"Safe, protected, and loved," he replied, turning her gently to look at their daughter. A smile came over Christine's lips as she inched towards the bed, reaching down and pulling the duvet cover warmly over her. When done, she looked back up to Raoul and they both exited the room hand in hand. Once the door was closed behind them, they walked silently to their room.

"Raoul," she murmured, "tell me. Are you absolutely sure that it wasn't him?"

Raoul was not caught off guard, for he was waiting for Christine to question him once more about the peculiar evening. He opened the door to their bedroom, allowing Christine in first. The lamps were already burning, thanks to Annaliese. He removed his evening coat, placing it over the divan.

"Christine," he said, trying to think of the best possible way to put his thoughts into perspective. "I do not know this man as much as you did, and even so, you did not know who he was. He pretended to be so many things, to both of us. For me to say that he wasn't, it would still cause you some alarm. But for me to say he is our Phantom," he paused, "you would still be alarmed."

She turned and strode to the bed, sitting down on the edge.

"I am going mad," she murmured, "I hear him so often, I can never forget his voice." She brought her hands to her face.

Raoul looked upon his wife, sensing her pain. There was a level sometimes that he could not ever reach, and it all was thanks to Him. He moved to her, and got down on his knees.

"Do not say that," he said, clasping her hands within his own. "Never say that, Christine." He pulled a hand away from her face, looking at her worried expression. "…He let us go, Christine. If he still wanted you, why would he let you go? Why have we not seen him for five years? Perhaps he is wants you to live a life, forget him…"

She was silent, thinking this over quite well.

"But I am here," he said, raising a hand to her cheek, "I'm always here when you need me, my love. Never think that I will desert you."

She smiled, and then her hands grasped his slowly. "I will try to be more honest with you, Raoul."

"Whatever do you mean, Christine?" He asked, quite shocked at her statement. "You have nothing to apologize to me about. For I know, from the moment that I said I loved you, that I would follow you through whatever hardships you face. For I am for you, as you are for me."

She reached a hand out and caressed his face, smiling at her beloved. "Raoul, you always know what words to say."

The morning came soon enough, the sun casting rays on the sheets of the large bed that accommodated both Raoul and Christine. A small knock came on the door, hardly waking the sleeping couple. Raoul had rolled over onto his side, pulling Christine closer against his frame.

The door of the bedroom opened, and Cecilia poked her head in to look at her parents. Those who had seen the child said that she was the spitting image of her mother. Brown hair, brown eyes, beautiful, and most of all…curious, which is why she had snuck into the room so early in the morning.

Cecilia made her way over to her parents' bed, pausing at the end. She hurried over to her father, climbing up onto the bed. There was some effort, since the bed was taller than hers. But soon enough, she had poised herself at her father's side, poking him in the back.

"Papa," she whispered. "Papa you awake?"

Raoul had heard Cecilia, and waited for her response when he did not reply. He felt her shift over, crawling closer to look at his face (which was currently nestled in Christine's curls).

"Papa?" She asked again, reaching out a hand to touch his face. But before she could, Raoul released his arms from Christine and grabbed Cecilia, dragging her beneath the covers between the both of them.

"Good morning," he said, kissing her on the forehead. Cecilia giggled, and then turned to Christine who was just waking up. She turned over, seeing Cecilia and smiled.

"Mama!" Cecilia cried, and Christine reached over and tapped her on the nose lazily.

"Hello my darling," she said. Christine looked over to Raoul, arching an eyebrow. "Are we hiding from someone?" She asked, which made Cecilia giggle.

"Yes," Raoul answered back, "we are hiding from the morning. It likes to sneak up on us, so I thought that we'd beat it at its game. Let us hide from the morning, and perhaps, it will think it is still night."

Cecilia giggled again, and Raoul pulled her into his arms, laughing. Christine looked upon them fondly, loving how much of a father Raoul was to their daughter. She could not ask for anything more…

Raoul and Christine exited their bedroom, Cecilia between them. Christine dressed in her blue silk robe, and Raoul dressed in a pair of slacks and a long black robe. Raoul then scooped his daughter up in his arms, carrying her down the curvy staircase.

"Sir," a man said, entering from the side parlor, "I have the mail, when would you like it?"

"Breakfast," Raoul answered back, "thank you Marciel." Marciel bowed, and went to fetch the mail.

"Oh, there you are!" Annaliese said, seeing Cecilia in Raoul's arms. Annaliese was wearing a nice floral striped gown, and her hair was tied back in a neat bun. "I wasn't sure if you wanted your sleep," she said, looking upon Christine and Raoul.

"It is quite all right," Raoul answered back. "Has the cook prepared breakfast?"

"Yes," Annaliese said, "it is almost ready." She then looked to Christine, smiling. "Have you recovered? It seems that you have!"

Christine nodded. "Yes, I just needed some sleep that's all."

"I thought so," she said, nodding too. Annaliese looked to Cecilia, holding out her arms. "I shall Miss Cecilia to the table, and make sure that the cook brings your meal first. I hear she is making something special for you."

"Really?" Cecilia cried, and Raoul placed her on the floor. "Please!"

"Of course, mistress, of course," Annaliese said, laughing, taking Cecilia by the hand and leading her into the dining room.

Christine smiled at Annaliese and how sweet she was. "Honestly, Raoul, what could we do without her?"

"I've thought the same thing," he answered back fondly; "she is truly a gift to us."

They entered the dining room, Raoul taking his seat at the head of the table. Christine was seated on his right, and Annaliese was on his left. He smiled at the two of them.

"Monsieur," Marciel said, entering the room with a quick grace. Raoul looked up, and frowned. Louis usually arrived with the mail, but in his hands was nothing. He looked worried.

"Is there something the matter, Marciel?" Raoul asked.

"There are two gentlemen outside wishing to speak to you," Marciel asked, "may I send them in?"

Raoul looked to Christine, frowning slightly. He gazed back at Marciel. "Who, may I ask, are they?"

"Monsieur Debaunchet and Monsieur Ames," Marciel replied, striding to Raoul and handing the name cards of both gentlemen. Raoul took the two cards and then passed them over to his wife.

Christine looked over the cards and then handed them back to Raoul so that she could attend to Cecilia.

Raoul stood from the table, nodding to Louis. "Have them wait in the study," he said, "I will go get changed. Dearest," Raoul said gently, turning his eyes to Christine, "I am sorry."

"No," Christine said instantly, "Cecelia and I shall finish breakfast and then go and play in the garden."

Raoul smiled, and pushing his chair in, he exited the dining room with Marciel. His eyes went down to look at the two names on the cards. Strange, as soon as we make our way back into public, I'm being called upon.

Raoul stepped through the doors of the study, closing them behind him. "I am sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting," he announced. "But, my wife and I have just attended to breakfast."

The two men on the couches stood, turning to look at Raoul. They were elite men, sophisticated from head to toe – not just by clothing, but by posture too. They approached Raoul, and fell into tight bows.

"Monsieur," one said, "it is a pleasure that we are finally meeting you at last." He reached out his hand, waiting for Raoul's. "I am Monsieur Debaunchet, and this is my associate Monsieur Ames."

"Pleasure to meet you," Raoul said, taking Monsieur Ames hand and shaking it as well. "Please, sit gentlemen. Would you like something to drink? I could have some wine brought in?"

"Ah, Monsieur, you are quite kind indeed," Monsieur Ames said, "but I am afraid we must decline. For you see, we have much to talk about and wine will only deter the conversation!"

Raoul laughed. "Of course," Raoul said, taking his spot in his high backed rose chair. The two gentlemen sat on either side of him on the couches. "Now, what is that brings you to my chateau?"

"What can you tell us about Erik?" Monsieur Debaunchet asked, his eyes steady on Raoul.

"Erik?" Raoul asked, arching a slender brow. "Who is Erik?"

"Erik," Monsieur Ames said, "ah, you know him by his other name. The Phantom of the Opera?"

Raoul stood instantly from his seat, his fists curling. "Get out," he said sharply.

"Please, sir," Monsieur Ames said, holding up his hands in defense. "We only want answers…"

"No," Raoul said, easing towards the sofa, "I think I want answers. What gives you the opportunity to show up at my home? And the day after my wife show up in the city? I find that rather questionable."

"Monsieur de Chagny," Monsieur Debaunchet said, "I think you are mistaking us. We came to track down the murderer of three men, and the kidnapper of your wife. We want justice."

"I want justice as well, Monsieur. Did you not think of how long my wife and I tried to put things behind us?" Raoul locked his hands behind his back. "It is men like you who keep bringing up the past. No more pain, no more talk." Raoul then strode away from the two men, opening the doors to the study. He turned to the men, gesturing to the exit. "Please, the door is open and I would like you to leave my house."

Monsieur Ames and Debaunchet looked to one another and then stood slowly. They walked to the door, Monsieur Debaunchet exiting first. Monsieur Ames stood there, reaching into his jacket pocket. He withdrew an elegant card, presenting it to Raoul.

"If you need to reach us, this is how you can Monsieur."

Raoul took it without a word and watched Debaunchet exit through the doors and following Ames out of the house. Raoul leaned against the door frame, resting his head against the wall. He looked down at the card in his hand.

Joseph Saruge

Puzzled, he only wondered why he was presented with the calling card of a man who was not one of the men who arrived at his house.

When Raoul had purchased their château, he made sure to give Christine a garden. Besides their daughter, it was Christine's other pride and joy. Raoul had ordered every flower available to France. And, the look on Christine's face when seeing the exquisite garden had delighted her.

Christine, currently attending to the flowers, watched Cecilia scamper through the hedges. Annaliese approached alongside of her, delicately taking a flower in her fingers and lowering her nose to it.

"I love the smell of these, Christine," she said, letting go of it and tending to the flowers. "They look like roses, but are they?"

"They are, these are diamond roses," Christine replied. She picked a flower, twirling it between her fingers. "They are unique, aren't they?" She then looked up to see where Cecilia was. Christine spied her running among the hedges. She smiled fondly.

"It appears the gentlemen are done speaking to Raoul," Annaliese said, nodding to the walk. And that was so, for Christine saw them leaving and entering the carriage. Her brow furrowed. The carriage was certainly not a town carriage, it was a private carriage. There were initials on the outer door, but she could not make them out.

"Annaliese," she said softly, "I will be honest with you. I am quite frightened."

"Christine?" Annaliese turned her eyes away from the gentlemen. "Why?"

"Ever since last night, I have been uneasy…." She moved to another part of the bush, snipping off a few more flowers. She gave them to Annaliese, who put them in her basket around her arm. "You are a good friend," she said warmly, "I think of you as a sister that I never had. And, I feel that I should be honest with you."

"Christine," Annaliese said quietly, "it's all right… Please."

Christine turned to Annaliese. "How much do you know of my past before working here?"

"Very little," Annaliese said, guarded, "I was told rumors. I didn't believe them, for I was to experience things first hand. I knew that you wished for privacy, and that you were once and Opera singer. And Raoul was a patron."

Christine listened, and nodded when she finished. "Yes, that is all true." She hesitated, looking to Cecilia. "But, not entirely. You see, I was a chorus girl. I was a dancer. Nothing more… Until…" Christine fell silent, wetting her lips.

"Until what, Christine?" Annaliese asked, placing a timid hand on her arm. "You've gone awfully pale!"

She shook her hand free, gently. "I am all right, I'm just always like this, I'm afraid. When I was a little girl, my father told me stories. Before I went to bed, while saying my prayers, he told me of an Angel of Music. He told me that the Angels had bore me to my mother with the promise that an Angel of Music would come to me. And in return of my prayers, he would teach me to sing."

Annaliese was silent, watching Christine with wide eyes. Christine looked to her, becoming uneasy of her glance. "I know," she said, taking the flowers she had collected in her hand, and giving them to Annaliese. "It sounds silly. But, I was young, naïve. But I believed my father. And, when he died, his words were all I had."

"I waited," she continued on, "I waited for years. I came to Paris; I enrolled in the Opera Garnier. I was at the end, I believed. I thought it was the end, that my Angel would never come. But he did."

Annaliese shook her head. "Christine, no, you had to have been dreaming!"

"That's what my friend said," she murmured, "she said I was dreaming when I had finally told her the night of my first performance. But, he came to me in my small little dressing room. He said that he had been testing me, to see if I was ready to believe in him, to follow him. And, when I said yes, he told me that my soul was his. And, in return, he would give me a voice."

"It went on for months, I think. I lost track of time. I believed he knew everything about me. He was indeed an Angel. Sometimes he would tell me stories, sometimes about heaven and the different angels. The stories he told seemed almost like things that you would experience on earth. But, even as he told me these stories, he seemed sad."

"I remember the night of my first performance. I was so frightened. But, I felt as if he was near me. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there. And when the night ended, he told me that the angels wept – I had fully given him my soul."

Annaliese could hardly believe the story she was hearing. She was stunned to hear her speak so truthfully and so passionately about something so odd. An Angel of Music? No, there had to be more to this story.

"Annaliese," she whispered, "I -

"Christine?"

Before Christine could finish her story, Raoul had exited the veranda. Spying them, he hurried down the stairs. He had become quizzical at the sight of Christine.

"What seems to be the matter, love?" He asked, glancing over to Annaliese. Christine smiled warmly and shook her head.

"Nothing," she responded, "we were just talking."

Raoul nodded once, but said nothing in response. Christine looked to Annaliese, who continued to stare at the both of them. She wanted to know more from Christine, her expression spoke this.

"Where is Cecilia?"

"She's picking flowers," Annaliese said, "I'll find her." Annaliese excused herself from Christine and Raoul, striding across the garden in search of their child. Christine looked to Raoul. She could not stand the odd silence.

"Raoul," she whispered gently, "who were those men? What did they want?"

"I don't know who they are, but they're gone now," he said firmly. Christine was not happy with the answer.

"Raoul," she pressed, "please."

He looked to Christine, crossing his arms. He was unsure of to tell her or not. A part of him did not want to after everything that had happened last night. He was sure she was still on edge and the appearance of the gentlemen did nothing but increase her fears.

"Christine," he said finally, "they wanted to know about your past and mine. I did not like it, so I told them to leave."

Christine's eyes widened, she clutched her arms around her waist. Raoul sought to comfort her quickly, moving his arms to her shoulders.

"Christine," he said, pressing a tender kiss to her hair, "I'm sorry. I know how you're feeling now, for when –

"Raoul," she choked out, turning around. "Five years! Five years without a single word. And after we finally breach public…" She fell into sobs, pressing her cheek against his coat. "I'm frightened."

He nodded, seeing Annaliese return with Cecilia's hand within hers. When he married Christine, he swore that he would protect her. And now, with Cecilia, he had to make it his priority that he continued to do so.

"We could have implored the Viscount…" Monsieur Ames said slowly, watching his partner through the slits of his eyes. "Now he probably suspects us."

"Patience," Monsieur Debaunchet said softly, reaching into the pocket within his jacket. He removed a silver case, opened it, and selected a fine cigar. He offered it to Monsieur Ames who grunted at it in disgust, falling against the seat with annoyance. He watched Debaunchet raise the cigar to his nose, smelling it, and then reach for a match.

"…A smoke? Really…"

"Yes," Debaunchet said, glaring at Ames while lighting the cigar. Flicking the match, he raised the cigar to his lips inhaling deeply. He let his hand drop. "Now, we wait."

"Wait… Wait for what? Wait for the Viscount and his wife to call the authorities?"

"No," he said, glancing out the window. "As I told you before, this is what needs to be done. Do not fret, we have done well for now. He knows what he's doing."

Ames felt compelled to speak against that comment, but he decided not to. So far, Debaunchet was right. He was always right. After working alongside him for years, he never felt the reason to disagree. But now, this was a different matter. There was something odd about this…

Debaunchet watched his friend out of the corner of his eyes, raising the cigar to his lips. He wanted to tell his friend to relax, but he was given strict instructions by their employer that the job was simply go in, ask the following questions – if the Viscount refused, then they were to leave. And if he did not (which was very unlikely, as thought), they were to simply jot down what they could about the incidents.

But all was going according to plan…