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"No."

"But the party would be for your birthday," Christine insists. Wearing her favorite blue chambray dress, even more comfortable since her abandonment of corsetry, she sorts through the stacks of books Erik has placed on the hand-carved rosewood game/chess table sitting between the pair of pale green armchairs purchased with the apartment.,

"I do not celebrate the day of my birth," Erik responds, continuing to unpack the boxes of books stacked in front of the floor to ceiling bookcases that line one wall of their new sitting room. Having abandoned his jacket and waistcoat, he attacks the job in rolled up shirtsleeves, revealing his sinewy scarred forearms.

Situated at the front of the apartment, the room will also function as the parlor – complete with a view of the Tuileries through twin windows framing the fireplace. Draped with a pale green embossed velvet with golden tassels, colors chosen to coordinate with the cream and gold brocade settee and art case baby grand piano Erik encouraged the prior owners to sell.

Picking out a few of the books, including a large black tome, she carries them to the sofa switching on one of the matching porcelain lamps, embellished with hand-painted gardenias, that sit on the carved end tables. Three Aubusson rugs in varied designs using sage, peach and tan cover the wooden floor. The entire look designed to be light and airy. "That is because for years you did not know when it was your birthday, and, as I am sad to remind you – no one was there to celebrate with you," Christine argues.

"My dear, I know the date – it is seared in my memory. However, if I somehow forget, it is inscribed in that Bible you hold on your lap – just after the date of my father's death." Stretching his back, he turns to her, taking a deep breath, and says through compressed lips, "As such, it simply does not have fond memories for me. Your birthday is two weeks later, let us celebrate that – a birth that no one grieved over." With that, he empties the box, breaks it down and carries it to the door, adding it to the stack already being accumulated there for disposal.

"That is exactly the reason why this must be a joyous occasion – to put all of that behind you."

"It would be behind me if you did not insist on bringing it up."

"What are these?" she asks, pulling several sheets of paper from the heavy, leather bound book.

Erik walks over to plop down next to her, stretching his long legs in front of him. "Packing, unpacking – I am happy that we are keeping the home under the Opera House for performance days. I remember moving my mother's furniture down there. Cannot imagine bringing all of it here. The books are bad enough."

"Besides which, everything would clash."

He grunts in response. "Let me see," he says, taking the small sheaf from her. "The first is hand-written documentation of your birth with a note I could not read. Your father had prepared an entire packet that was more official, this was folded up and seemed more personal, so I tucked it away." He hands the paper back to her. "I am sorry, I should have given it to you sooner."

"No matter." First chuckling, then finding a flood of tears flowing down her cheeks, she reads:

20 May 1862, 13:20, Simrishamn, Sweden.

My dotter,

I labored from very early morning until midday with you. I do not recall whether I was more upset over the missing of my sleep or the inability to have my dinner. After you were placed in my arms to nurse, I saw your beautiful face. When your pappa fed me biscuits and honey, all that silliness was forgotten. May you not be cursed with my love of sweets.

Your Mamma.

"I did not know this existed. Pappa just put everything he could think of into a folder for us to take when we left the farm. When you asked for my papers, I did not even bother to look to see what was there." Caressing the papers, she turns to Erik, "This is such a precious gift. I have so little of her."

Wrapping his arm around her, pulling her close, he kisses her on the forehead. "She did not get her wish about the sweets."

"No, I suppose not," she chortles. Mamma was always happy – even at the end, she would make jokes, trying to keep me and Pappa from being sad." Dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, she points at the next pages she laid side by side on the table. "What are these – they look like drawings."

Two pieces of paper, each with a circle being dissected by a number of lines and various symbols. Erik's name is written across the top of one with his birth date, place and time: 8 May 1831, 02:00, Rouen, France. The other with her name and birth information from her mother's note.

"These are our astrological charts."

"Really? How exciting." She claps her hands. "When Pappa and I were travelling we often met with astrologers, card and palm readers – all manner of fortune tellers. When did you learn this?"

"During my travels – primarily India. Ironic – I learned astrology and how to use the Punjab lasso at about the same time. Astrology has been present since ancient times - Babylonia – the mapping of the sun, the moon and the planets. A new planet, Uranus, was discovered just 100 years ago – so modern tools tell us more and more about the heavens. The moon controls the tides, so why not people? Planets have gravity."

"Do you understand what all these squiggles mean?"

"Yes – they are ancient symbols for the planets and the signs of the Zodiac. It is a language like any other – I can teach you if you would like. You are always so interested in knowing about other people and this is a tool you could use. You might even find it fun," he chuckles.

"Can you put one chart next to another and discover things about the people together?"

"Yes, that is why I constructed these."

"And do our charts look well?" She teases.

"I would say they do – in many instances."

"But not all?"

"There will always be challenges. Look at the man with whom you are dealing…" he says, waving his arm from head to foot with a flourish at the end. "You might ask particular questions and I could point where the answers lie within the charts."

"Show me, please." She pulls on his arm, bouncing in her seat.

"Not now, my darling. There is still much to do." He rises from the settee, pressing a hand against his back.

"All right," she groans. "Wait, one more thing – this Bible – is your entire family listed here?"

"Primarily my mother's family – although that would be my father's as well, would it not?" he sniggers. "I suspect some of his ancestry, as he knew it, was likely catalogued. Why?"

"Well, suppose we could find other family members for you to become acquainted with – that our baby would know."

Erik shakes his head. "We have a family. There is no need to stir up old memories. Most of these people are likely dead now. I remember no familial visits during my time with my mother."

"But the family names – those can be traced…" She insists – running her finger down the first page, then the second. "Oh, my." A gasp first escapes her lips, then a chuckle. "Erik, you must see this. Look at the date before your father's death – the date of his birth."

"What?" Erik sighs, then returns to his seat, taking the book, focusing on the name that drew her attention. "No. This is too preposterous."

"Well, it is certainly not a prank – the writing is old and you said you brought it from your mother's house."

"We would have to verify it," Erik says, eyes sparkling.

"That should be easy enough," Christine says. "This is just too amusing." Her earlier chuckles evolves into a full out laughter.

Erik joins in her jollity, falling against one another, holding their stomachs.

" . . . …but Raoul is certain to be…deeply distressed." The name of his formal rival sobers him, his reserved posture returns. "Raoul. Poor man," Erik says. "I shall take this with me tomorrow. The brothers will be coming by to discuss how much they wish us to assist in locating Raoul's child."

"So you are going to get involved?" Christine asks. She, too, leaves frivolity behind, straightening her dress and re-tying the ribbon around her ponytail.

"That Phantom Security was going to be involved was never was a question – however, I was going to stay out of the investigation – Nadir and Darius were going to take care of it. Now that it appears we are related, I feel I must be personally involved."

"Me, too?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Um."

"That is not an answer."

"You can come to the meeting. I am not certain what you might add or what you can do on a practical level, but you are definitely part of the familial connection and should be a part of the discussion. As far as the investigation, however, these things are confidential – how much you would be allowed to know is up to the client."

"Oh, good," she says, throwing her arms around him. "You are the best husband."

"Compliments will get you anywhere, my dear," he says, putting the Bible back on the table, he stands up, pulling her to her feet.

"One more thing," she says, picking up another book she extracted from the stack. "I thought this book was compelling. Something worth further study. Although it would seem that you are already familiar with the writings and…illustrations."

"What book?"

She holds up a small book with a faded fabric cover.

"Ah, yes, the Kama Sutra – a most worthy oeuvre," he clears his throat. "So long as lips shall kiss, and eyes shall see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee."*

"I admit I was a bit taken aback – wondering if this is how we look during special loving," she says, snuggling up to his chest.

"I really could not say." His face flushing.

"We shall have to install some mirrors in the bedroom."

"Christine!"

"Why not?"

"Because I do not choose to look at myself in a mirror," he says. "Please, my dear. Let us get these books onto the shelves. I should like to see us moved here next week." Pulling away from her embrace, he gathers the books on the table, carrying them to the bookshelf.

"Just one mirror? Besides the one on the vanity?" she pouts, running after him.

"No."

"I would wager that our astrological charts suggest we enjoy special loving together." Taking up some books and handing them to him to put on one of the higher shelves.

"And you would win."

"So why not watch?"

"Um."

"See, you have no good reason," she says tickling him under his raised arms, causing him to drop the books he holds.

"Stop, that Christine Daae," he groans, dodging behind one of the chairs to escape the torture of her delicate fingers.

"Saint-Rien – Christine Saint-Rien."

"Whatever – just do not do that tickling."

"Mirror?"

"Alright – one. Just one – I suppose a cheval mirror is necessary for assuring one is dressed properly."

"Oh, yes, that is perfect, they can be adjusted and moved about quite easily."

"Can we finish with the books now?" Erik risks walking back to the bookcase.

Christine feints movement toward him and he jumps, holding his arms fast at his sides. Her riotous laughter, has him flushed and peeved, until she wraps her arms around him, resting her head against his back. "No more tickling."

"And you say I am a brat," he harrumphs.


"I do not understand why we have heard nothing." Raoul paces Phillippe's study. "If this was done for money, why are they not asking for money? What if the child is dead? Do babies not need mother's milk?

Phillippe puts an arm around his brother's shoulder and walks him to the leather couch. "Please, relax, Raoul, you are wearing yourself down," he says. "It is entirely possible that the plan is for you to be so panicked that you will do something foolish."

"Inspector Marquand said the same thing," Raoul groans. "Am I such a dolt?"


"What are the papers?" Raoul asked.

Inspector Marquand continues dusting the flour off the packet of papers retrieved from the bin. "This first set appears to be documents of ownership for this apartment." He handed them to Raoul.

"Yes, I have a copy – the flat was to be a gift, but reverted back to the de Chagny estate upon her marriage or death." He laid the papers on the coffee table. The other furniture had been set right and the garments given to Meybel to put into Marie-Corrinne's room.

Marquand riffled through a larger packet of papers. "Some sort of diary – this might be of value."

"How so?"

"The dates appear to coincide with the term of her pregnancy. So, dates and times, what appear to be initials – perhaps signifying names. More letters – possibly describing the reason for each meeting." He showed one of the pages to Raoul.

1 Juliette – 9 RC – 1st yes.

2 Juliette – 1 GP – dj – yes

2 Juliette – 9 RC – s - yes

3 Juliette – 9 RC – s – yes

4 Juliette – 9 RC – s - no

5 Juliette – 8 RC – s – no

7 Juliette – 3 GP – e - yes

8 Juliette – 11 GP – pdj – yes

9 Juliette – 9 RC – s - no

10 Juliette – 1 GP – dj – yes

11 Juliette – 9 RC – s – no

13 Juliette – 9 RC – s - no

14 Juliette – 11 GP – no?

18 Juliette – RC – s – yes

"Does this mean anything to you?"

"I suspect that I am RC – the dates – perhaps we met on those dates…"

"The letters?"

"If I were to guess, I would say meals – that and the numbers could be time of day."

"The yes and no?"

"I do not know." Raoul lowered his eyes.

Marquand nodded. "Very well – you think about it. The one I found of interest is 14 Juliette – the letters GP, no additional letters, and "no" with a question mark – as if she was unsure – then RC with a "yes" after a series of "no" comments. There are more pages to review, however," he said. "Here is one more sheet of paper."

Raoul took it, rubbing the flour off his hands on to his trousers. "Addresses – just numbers and streets." He scanned them quickly. "Nothing jumps out at me – with a few exceptions, the locations are not the most desirable."

"Yes, my thought." He stood. "We should get Meybel home to her father. A trunk filled with costumes was discovered in the storeroom. One looks much like a police uniform for her to wear as a disguise."

"A disguise?"

"Her life is very much at risk if she is seen leaving with the police – I feel certain the building is being watched. They did not think she was present – I prefer that belief continue."

"Of course," Raoul agrees. "The costumes?"

"With your permission, we will remove it as well to examine the contents."

"Whatever you need."

"I shall take the papers with me and have the information copied so that you might have it, particularly the diary," Marquand said. "Tomorrow is Sunday – unless they are a brave sort, I doubt you will be contacted. I suspect they will use the public post – even a messenger would be dangerous."

"So I must wait?"

"We have these." Marquand waved the papers. "There may be another attempt to find them. I will leave Officer Piaget here."

Raoul bent his head, closing his eyes – nodded.

"I am sorry, but I doubt any harm will come to the child," the Inspector assured him. "I will be meeting with M. Khan – le Comte felt that he and his service could help and seeing this list of addresses, I must agree. You have the full support of the police, but every extra pair of legs and experience eyes will be welcome."


"So – the diary – assignations – another suitor?" Phillippe asks, choosing a cigar and preparing it to smoke, sitting in his chair facing the fire – not looking at Raoul.

"Yes, I imagine that is so."

"You did not always have…relations."

"After the first few times – no…intercourse – other things."

"Later?"

"Occasionally…she never refused other…"

"Yes, I understand," Phillippe says. "Marquand will have the complete diary for you tomorrow?"

Raoul shrugs. "We are to meet him at the Security office tomorrow. If that suits your schedule."

Phillippe turns to look at his brother. "It does." Rising from his chair, he stubs out the cigar and walks to the couch. Holding out his hand to Raoul, he says, "Come, try to eat something."

"I feel such a fool – Marquand understood the notes, just as you did."

"Raoul, you are a young man – you are a very sincere young man. I fear I sheltered you too much – you should have begun your naval commission last year."

"Before all this and the situation with Christine."

"Yes." Phillippe sighs. "If it gives you any consolation – Mlle. Arnault fooled me as well."

"The child might be mine."

"Precisely – and we shall treat him as such," Phillippe sniffs, patting him on the back. "A light dinner would be best – and perhaps some brandy."


Nadir sits with his back resting against the tufted headboard, Adele nestles in his arms toying with the graying hairs that curl on his chest. "It is so quiet – I cannot recall when this home was so still."

"Meg insisted Monique attend Mass this morning – neither of them seemed truly awake, but she felt praying was in order."

"Darius?"

"He is meeting them there. Said he wants to view the location where the body was found and speak to the Monsigneur. He arranged it all yesterday."

"Indeed? He said nothing to me," he grumbles.

"Did you not put him in charge?"

"Yes," he admits.

"So he is behaving as if he is in charge," Adele retorts. "Meg said he would not enter the church, but for examining the Virgin's altar, and would wait for them outside until after Mass. He would conduct his interview – after which they would take luncheon."

"I wondered about the religious issue," he says, shifting his position to sit up even straighter.

"Is something wrong?"

"I just think about – your faith – my faith – which I admit has faltered," he says. "Were it not for me, you would be at church with the children."

"Yes, I am committing not one mortal sin, but two, at the moment – missing Mass and committing adultery."

"Adultery? Neither of us is married."

"Well, I do not know about technical adultery – but we are not married to one another – that is likely enough to damn me to hell in the eyes of the Church."

"Adele, you must not joke about such things."

"We shall never be married in the eyes of the Church – I would not ask you. So I shall be a sinner as long as I am with you – the rest of my life, God willing."

"I am serious."

"As am I. I have followed the Catholic faith my entire life," she says. "My prayers for a partner – for joy in my life – brought me you. So how can God be angry with me? Hell was where I lived before you loved me."

Tears fill his eyes. "You are most beautiful, Adele. The entire world is terrified of you, but with me, you are a gentle soul – if they only knew."

"They had best not find out – or you shall rue the day…" she laughs, gathering him back to her, encouraging him return to his reclining position.

Resisting, he folds his arms. "We must plan our wedding. If we are not blessed by Allah or your God, at least we will be proper in the eyes of society."

"As if I care. We can do that later," she says, kissing the soft skin of his throat. Snuggling her head into the crook of his neck, she sneaks a hand beneath the arms to rub his chest.

"Erik wants to be moved into the new apartment by next week."

"That is not our problem," she sighs, "at least not now."

"And sort out our own living arrangements…" His head turns away as she tries to kiss him.

"All in good time," Adele strokes his cheek. "What is the matter with you? Why are you so agitated?"

"I am meeting with the de Chagnys and Inspector Marquand tomorrow. Women being murdered, babies taken from the womb. An infant in jeopardy…" His chest rising and falling with the intensity of his recitation. "I feel ill-prepared for the responsibility."

"And how do you suppose grinding your teeth and clenching your jaws…and not kissing me will help?" She asks. "I will answer. It will not – it will only make you less alert – less prepared. Your skills are remarkable – you are the most astute, balanced, brilliant and kind man I know. You cannot be emotional about this." His earlobe is then bitten soundly, perhaps harder than is usual.

"Ouch!" Rolling on his side, he pulls her to him. "Was that necessary?"

"It would seem so."

He rewards her with a snicker. "I must thank Meg for being so thoughtful as to leave us this solitude."

"Put it on your list of things to do," Adele grunts. "She is learning. Being in love herself seems to have given her insights not present before." Wrapping her thighs around his hips, she says, "But I really do not care to talk about my daughter right now – or Erik – or Raoul or the Monsigneur."

"Agreed. You are correct, as always."

"Nadir, you will be fine. Stop talking or I shall bite more than your ear lobe."


"Thank you, Francois." Phillippe takes the envelope from the butler's hand. "How is Meybel faring?"

Their luncheon finished, the brothers sit in the nook looking onto the garden, savoring a snifter of brandy. Raoul's face softer, lids less heavy – the grimace gone.

"She is still frightened, but happy to be with her mother and in her own room." The butler's own stance is formal as always, but his manner relaxed. Reddened eyes reflect recent tears, but the smile on his face suggests they formed from joy rather than pain.

"Was she able to remember anything more about Mlle. Arnault?" Raoul asks.

"Inspector Marquand advised me that he would be having someone come to talk to her – not an officer, but a woman who works with M. Khan – a Mlle. Beauchamp. Once you have your meeting tomorrow – an interview will be set up for her." Francois' demeanor brightens even more, when speaking of his daughter and her importance in the investigation. "I am most grateful for your kindness to Meybel – allowing her these days to recuperate."

"We are pleased to be of support to her," Raoul answers. "Your family is important to us."

"Mlle. Beauchamp, he said?" asks Phillippe, quirking an eyebrow – tapping the edge of the lilac-scented stationary against the back of his hand.

"Yes, I believe that was the name – Giselle Beauchamp. He was hoping that Tuesday would be convenient for the household."

"Yes, that will be fine, if it is agreeable with you."

"It is, M. le Comte. I will advise Meybel."

"Then I will confirm that with him tomorrow at our meeting," Phillippe says. "Thank you, Francois."

The butler bows and takes his leave.

"Is Giselle not the stagehand at the Opera House?"

"Yes. She also works for Mms. Khan and Saint-Rien – or so I understand." Phillipe says, rising from the table.

"Indeed," Raoul chuckles, eying the unopened envelope. "Are you not going to read that?"

"Yes, I suppose I should."

"But do not want to see what the missive says," Raoul smirks.

"You are being rather cheeky."

"I just find it refreshing to see you uncomfortable for a change." He leans back in his chair, finishing off his brandy.

Picking up a bread knife from the table, Phillippe slits open the envelope and removes a single folded sheet of paper. With a soft grunt, he pockets the letter. "I must go out for a short while," he says. "Will you be staying at home?"

"Yes, I think so," Raoul says. "Monique is spending the day with Meg and Darius. I am attempting to give her time to herself, although I am not much good at it. I think I shall make some notes about Marie-Corrinne – what I can remember – for the meeting tomorrow."

"Very well." Phillippe turns to leave.

"Brother?"

"Yes?"

"La Sorelli?"

"Yes."

"Bon chance."

"Hmmm." Phillippe turns on his heel and leaves.


"I am no longer happy with our…situation, Phillippe."

"How so? We sup, we speak, we read, we make love."

"Once you wished to marry me – damn the social implications – damn what people would say."

"That was years ago. You refused my proposal. Have you changed your mind? Now?"

"I shall be honest – I cannot see myself dancing for too many more years – at least not in the same way I have done."

"You want a family?"

"No. No. Not that – although it might be worth discussing."

"I do not think so. You are financially secure, even after you leave the ballet – that was taken care of long ago. I am not certain marriage now would cure whatever malaise it is we are suffering."

"So you are not happy either?"

"I am…settled – which carries its own sort of happiness."

"That is not a life – I want more. I am used to more."

"Now I am certain marriage is not the answer – I have no interest in the drama I know you love and crave. I am also certain I am not the answer for you."

"No, you are not."

"You have met someone?"

"Yes – it is but a flirtation, nothing more – at the moment – but I feel young again."

"That is a consideration, certainly, although you are far from being old. As I said, you are financially secure – that shall not change. Take your freedom, my dearest Sorelli, with my best wishes."

"Oh, Phillippe,"

"We shall always be friends."


The graceful ballerina opens the heavy door to her flat – black hair pulled into a chignon secured with carved ivory combs. A cobalt blue satin dressing gown – the hem lined with feathers – hugs her dancer's body. She steps back allowing Phillippe entre. Closing the door behind him, she brushes a kiss against each cheek and leads him to the sitting room.

"Thank you for coming," she says. "I wondered that you would still wish to speak with me."

"Why on earth would you think I would not?" Phillippe says, sitting on the cerise brocade settee, removing his top hat, setting it down next to him.

"Our last meeting…" Situating herself on a pale blue velvet chaise, arranging her gown around her, she rests an arm along the arm.

"Relationships end." He shrugs. "May I ask why you wrote?"

"There is talk circulating through the Opera House – I thought you might like to know about." She purses her scarlet lips.

"And what might that be?" Relaxing into the settee, he crosses his legs and folds his arms across his chest.

"The female stagehand has set her sights on you."

Phillippe throws back his head and laughs. "This is what you felt required my urgent presence at your home?"

"Well, she is a commoner – not even an artiste – although I do understand that she once danced. Nevertheless…"

"And you are concerned about my good name," he says, unfolding his arms and legs, resting his hands on his thighs. "You always had the ability to make me laugh with your intensity. I do miss that."

"Are you laughing at my concern for you?"

"No, I am laughing at my own superciliousness. I must be, have been, an incredible prig for you to feel the need to inform me of such gossip. It is no wonder you became bored with me."

"So you do not care?" The heavily lashed eyes widen.

"Not a whit."

"Ah, you are interested in her as well…"

"I am – she is most delightful."

"Oh."

"And you – how is your…flirtation progressing?"

Her natural color brighter than the rouge and powder. "Quite well, I must say," she says. "He actually has a brain – a gift I was not expecting."

Their eyes meet and both break out in laughter.

"Youth is a wonderful thing," Sorelli says.

"Friends are a wonderful thing," Phillippe says, rising to his feet. "I suspect that you did not dress so seductively for my benefit, so I shall take my leave, if that is what you wished to tell me."

"You know me too well."

"Alas, that was the problem for us, I fear. Walk me to the door?" He extends his arm.

"Of course." Taking his elbow, she stops him from moving forward. "Phillippe? That is not all."

"Yes, what is it?" He asks, brow furrowing.

"There is also talk of a murder – murders of young women – young women with child." Her voice a whisper.

"You know something of this?" His grey eyes search her face.

"Not really, but I overheard some of the girls talking about a doctor – one who arranges adoptions for women who wish to give up babies born out of wedlock… but that some of them died."

"Yes?"

"It is said one of these girls was seeing Raoul – one of the murdered women."

"Tragically, that is so," Phillippe says. "Is there any girl or girls to whom we might speak? Someone who might have more information?"

She nods. "Nicole – the tall one. She dances brilliantly, but cannot be partnered because of her height. That is also a tragedy."

Phillippe pats her hand and smiles. "Thank you." He bends to kiss her cheek.

Resuming their walk to the door, she says, "I still love you, you know."

"And I, you, my lovely ballerina."


Erik lays the Bible on the kitchen table and helps Christine with her cloak, hanging it up, then removing his outer wear putting the cloak and hat in their place. "Tea?"

"I shall do it," she says, filling the kettle, then bringing the tea things from the cupboard, setting them on the table. "You sit – you must be exhausted putting all those books away."

"Some bread and cheese?" he asks, ignoring her suggestion by removing both from the larder, along with a pot of mustard and a jar of pickles. "Herring? Or there is some beef?"

"Herring, please."

The food stuffs join the tea set on the linen cloth. Christine take her chair, while Erik sets out plates, linen and silver. Taking his own seat they wait for the water to boil, both staring in front of them.

"I brought this book home," she says, pulling the Kama Sutra from her reticule.

"You are most stubborn, my dear," Erik chuckles, shaking his head. "Do you like the apartment?"

"I do, but I am glad we decided to continue to live here as well – at least during performances." She reaches over to remove his mask.

"Oh, I forgot," he forces a smile, smoothing his sparse hair.

"What is wrong? You are being far too quiet and formal for my taste."

His long fingers tap the Bible. "Who would have suspected I would be related to nobility?"

She rests her hand on his. "Does that not make you a noble as well?"

"I truly do not know – but I think not – the connection is through my father's mother – the woman my mother's father seduced." His hand flits the idea away. "In any event – it is not significant," he says. "What I found remarkable was the feeling in my chest…" He pounds his fist lightly against his heart. "Once I connected that piece of information to the missing baby."

She tilts her head. "You did not care about the child before?"

"I did, but not in such a way – he is my flesh – Raoul and Phillippe are my flesh. I must do for them what I would do for you or Nadir or Adele."

Christine rises from her chair – wrapping her arms around him from behind the chair – resting her cheek against his head. The water is ready – she retrieves the kettle from the stove and fills the teapot. They prepare their meal and nibble at the food.

"We will find him," Christine says, breaking the silence, reaching for his hand.

"We must."


* Mallanaga Vātsyāyana