Pope Pius XII proclaims, "Out of Spain has come the salvation of the world...Spain is the nation chosen by God, an impenetrable bulwark of the Catholic faith."

– Juan Eslava Galán, Los años del miedo

Father Efrén had never felt so old. As he entered the sacristy and prepared for early Mass, he thought of Rocio. He had sent her away as soon as Captain Oscuro had threatened to expose their marriage. Fortunately, it was a marriage that had been officiated in Portugal, and his superiors would not think to look in the parish registries in that country, but he missed Rocio and felt that he was losing another battle in a long war against loneliness. His was a loneliness born of having suffered the horrors of war without the ability to truly help anyone. His was a loneliness born of observing the hunger and poverty in homes all around him and being unable to intervene. He gave away what rations of his he could, but they would never be enough. The food that the women of the fascist Auxilio Social distributed to the needy was a sad little drop in the bucket of dire need people faced. In the prisons, he heard the confessions of mothers whose babies were dying in the crowded cells with them; many no longer believed in God, for what loving father would let their innocent children suffer and die while the daughters of the rich got Mariquita Perez dolls that were worth a month's wages? Many of the prisoners had never believed in the Almighty at all and awaited their fate with stolid, faithless resignation.

Rocio had been the only person who had made his loneliness bearable, and now she was no longer near him. Oscuro had begun to pull strings: The bishop had sent people to inquire about Rocio and the nature of their relationship, but the inquiry had been half-hearted. Many priests had much worse to hide than a wife, and Don Efrén was popular with his parishioners, some of whom were highly placed in the Regime. The priest enjoyed the support of unexpected allies.

But there was the fate of those three prisoners to consider. Father Efrén had put Captain Oscuro off so far, but the man was showing signs of impatience. He had checked the three prisoners on the list Oscuro had given him. They were all real men, all in prison for purely political reasons, all with families, all condemned to death. How to save them?

The priest understood why Oscuro wanted him to be the one to accuse Christine Daaé of crimes against the Regime. There were too many obscure forces surrounding the woman, some of them dangerous. There was Erik Deschamps, for one thing. If Oscuro were to accuse her alone, without the Gestapo or the secret police to accompany him like the rest of the bricks in an unbreakable wall, then he would be exposed to Deschamps' wrath. Yet Christine Daaé was popular in society now, and nobody wanted to see her as anything but a harmless widow with an enormous talent for singing opera. It was easy to see why Oscuro had not drummed up any support for an institutional accusation against her.

So it was to be he, Father Efrén, who would become the object of Deschamps' fury when Christine faced the firing squad. Perhaps. Did Deschamps care enough about Christine to defend her? The priest did not believe that the man was capable of loving a woman, but he might be proud enough to avenge her death. On balance, then, he and Christine would die so that three men would live. The numbers still favored his betraying Christine.

Father Efrén had finished putting on most of his vestments and was just picking up his stole when he felt a familiar prickling sensation. Then came a whisper.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Yet you have as well..."

He had materialized near the door like a shadow, and he seemed to lengthen as he approached, gaining in proximity and height until he towered over the priest like a glowering demon. Something was terribly wrong. During the war, the priest had become accustomed to Deschamps' black moods and his sarcasm, but this was the darkest he had ever seen him.

"What has happened, Erik?" The priest's voice cracked. But perhaps death would be welcome.

"Tell me about that violin you sold me."

Everything came crashing into place.

"First of all, I did not tell Christine that her father's violin ended up with you. I was hoping to avoid trouble. You never wanted to know the provenance of the items you bought, and you demanded the utmost secrecy. Now, then – what do you wish to know about Gustave Daaé's violin?" Father Efrén turned and pulled a couple of rush chairs towards the center of the room so that they faced each other and gestured for Erik to sit down.

Erik remained standing, but he had lost his intimidating mien. His hands fisted and unfisted at his sides, and when he finally spoke, his voice was oddly bereft of expression. "It is – was - her father's violin, then. I never suspected that you, of all people, would sell off the possessions of poor executed prisoners!"

"During the brief time I knew him, Gustave became a friend of mine. He was a gentle man, and he should never have gotten mixed up in the war. I tried to appeal to the National officers to save his life, but they wouldn't consider it. He was lucky to have lived as long as he did – the foreigners he was with were shot on the spot. The Nationals didn't take foreigners prisoner, as you know. But there was something about the man that inspired the deepest regret. Do you know that sort of otherworldly quality Christine seems to have?"

"Angelic," supplied Deschamps in a hoarse whisper.

The priest directed an inquisitive glance at his guest. "All right. Angelic, if you wish. She gets it from her father. All he wanted to do was give music to the Republican troops. He saw them as poor children who were caught up in the maw of something evil. I happened to agree with him.

"I told Gustave I would give Christine the few sad possessions he had left, whenever I had the chance, but I knew she would not be receiving the violin. I had to do something about his burial. Gustave remained a Protestant, you know, even though he had permitted his daughter to be raised a Catholic. I could not bear the thought of them burying him off by himself in some roadside ditch, away from the shriven Catholic souls. The logical place to inter him was in the Protestant cemetery in Barcelona, where he would rest with dignity. I needed money for the enterprise, though. You had mentioned that you needed a violin. You know the rest of the story," Father Efrén finished with a sigh.

"She refuses to come to me now. She thinks...she thinks I had something to do with the death of her father!" Erik's tone was one of stifled agony.

He loves her, the priest thought, fighting to hide his shock. It took him a second to respond. "Have you told her the truth? That you had nothing to do with his death?"

"I shall tell her, but...in truth, I could easily have been the one who killed her father. Oh, no, Father, I'm not saying that I did in fact, but I dispatched so many souls to their Maker! Many were just as innocent as Gustave Daaé." He wrung his long fingers with regret. "I've lulled her suspicions to sleep, Father. I thought that she would never awaken to what I really am."

Father Efrén knew that he would have to tread carefully. For whatever reason, Erik, the wartime companion who had bedeviled him with questions of theology and outright challenges to his faith, had learned regret. And against all odds, the man was in love. The priest had never wished more fervently than now that he could break the secret of confession, that he could use Christine's own words to stanch the man's wound, but he could not. He wracked his brains for what words he could use. "Erik, I don't believe you have been killing innocent people lately, have you?"

Erik closed his eyes. "Killing...the hunt...used to please me, Father. Now I cannot stomach it! She took that from me, you know. Oh, but what she gave me in exchange!" His voice had risen to a howl, and the priest looked towards the door leading to the nave nervously, worried lest any parishioners should hear.

This was new territory for Father Efrén. Erik had always been in control of himself to the point of seeming devoid of all feelings. He had often baited the priest with theological quandaries and frank allusions to evil, watching for the priest's faith in God to show some visible sign of flagging. Yet Erik had not succeeded in weakening the man. Perhaps it was because the priest did not embrace dogma, preferring to believe that no man could decipher the mystery of God's nature. When Erik pointed out that Father Efrén was a heretic, the priest had merely shrugged. None of Herr Deschamps' barbs had ever hit home. The way the man extracted information from prisoners, though, had troubled the Franciscan greatly. Father Efrén was an intuitive man with long experience dealing with the human race, and he knew that Erik's rage and hostility were born of deep pain. The stories Erik told him of his past bore this conviction out. He also knew that there was something much deeper within the mercenary than his cruelty, though he could not define it. Now, as he witnessed the depth of Erik's agony, the priest also recognized the breadth of the man's capacity to love.

"How can I help you, Erik?" the priest finally asked.

Erik seemed to remember his pride, and he drew himself up. His eyes recovered some of their customary fire, and his voice was smooth once more. "I would like to request that you render some small service to me at a future time...without questions."

"What are you asking me to agree to?"

"Nothing illegal, illicit, or immoral, I assure you," Erik replied lightly. "And you would have my deep gratitude, Father, of course. I see you hesitate. No doubt there is something that I can do for you in exchange."

Father Efrén had tried to hide his sudden inspiration, but Deschamps' expert eye had noticed his change of expression. Now it was time to bargain, and those who haggled with the mercenary inevitably received the short end of the deal. Nonetheless, there were the lives of three men to think of, and the priest had spent many a sleepless night trying to figure out how he could avoid testifying against Christine as Oscuro wished him to do. He had even gone to visit the judge and the police on behalf of the three prisoners, hoping to sway them. They had been surprised that the men were to be executed rather than receiving life sentences, as was usual in such cases as theirs. Yet the priest had no money for bribes, and his status as a man of the cloth failed to impress them. The prisoners would meet their fate, sooner or later. It was only a question of time, and Oscuro had visited him on more than one occasion to let Father Efrén know that time was running out.

Many times, Father Efrén had been tempted by the thought that Erik Deschamps wielded the power and influence necessary to help with the problem. Christine was his concern, after all, and it was her relationship with Deschamps that had attracted Oscuro's unwelcome attention to her. Yet there was only one, inevitable outcome the priest could envision if he were to break silence and enlist Deschamps' help: Oscuro's certain death – without any guarantee that the men scheduled for execution would be saved. Deschamps, he knew, would be indifferent to the fate of such hostages.

Now, however, he was in a position to bargain with Deschamps. Whatever the man wanted could weigh nothing when balanced against the lives of three souls. Besides, he knew Deschamps to be a man of his word above all things, and if he secured a promise...he would finally know peace. And much as he disliked Oscuro, he could omit any mention of him and thus avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.

"Very well, Erik. If you help me with a very noble cause, I will do whatever morally correct thing you have in mind."

The intake of breath and satisfaction in Deschamps' eyes alarmed Father Efrén, but not enough to cause him to reconsider.

"I'm late for Mass now, Erik. Could we talk further afterwards, please?" Father Efrén was very late now, and he had always been noted for his punctuality.

Deschamps' next words astonished the priest. "I will attend Mass, Father. Oh, you need not worry, I've no intention of trying to take communion! I shall pray for a moment of peace."

Erik Deschamps, praying?

"That pup de Chagny is in town, and I must pray to whatever gods exist for the fortitude to refrain from killing him, Father. It would upset Christine, you see. Yet he would do well to leave quickly..." Deschamps' fingers twitched.

"He's her husband, Erik," Father Efrén said quietly.

To the priest's surprise, Deschamps smiled. "No, Father. He is not."

"Why on earth don't you just fire Paqui?" Raoul asked Christine, his hands gripping his knees hard in frustration.

They were in the neighbors' flat upstairs, seated at the tiny kitchen table. The sounds of the children playing in the next room nearly drowned out their conversation if they spoke too softly. If they spoke more loudly, there was not even the illusion of privacy.

"I've tried to fire Paqui several times, Raoul. I don't even pay her anymore! But she has a key and lets herself in," Christine replied.

Christine now considered Paqui to be a blessing in disguise. Invasive as the woman was, her dour presence kept Raoul in hiding upstairs. He could not dream of installing himself in her flat or even visiting her there while Paqui patrolled the area. A feeling of shame invaded Christine. What kind of a wife was she? She could barely tolerate the chaste kisses she shared with Raoul without a visceral feeling of disgust. What had Erik done to her?

Six weeks had passed since Raoul's arrival, and their frustration with each other was near boiling point. He was clearly eager to resume a physical relationship with his wife, but each stolen kiss was a source of revulsion to Christine. It did not help that he reeked of tobacco these days, and she let him know it. They fought over small things and never managed to speak of the deeper matters that affected them both.

Now, though, Raoul made an effort. "Christine, I've told you that we need to leave this country together. I've just received a letter from my brother – yes, dear, we both used false names! – and he's willing to let you use one of the flats we have in Paris. He's willing to accept you now..."

"Is he? Well, that's most kind of him. Especially after all the things he called me," said Christine. Her younger self would have been delighted without reservations at her acceptance by the comte de Chagny. Yet she now realized with both pride and dismay how far she had come since those meek young days. "And I suppose I could sing at the Palais Garnier," she added, knowing that it would goad him. She had triumphed in "Die Fledermaus," thanks to what she had learned from Erik; now rehearsals were underway for "Turandot," and she would have the principal role. The ice princess, the destroyer of men.

Raoul did not respond immediately, but he took out a cigarette and stared at it longingly, then at Christine. "You have nothing to keep you here now. I'm sorry that Mamá died, but she's gone now and you have no responsibility to anyone. This place is bad for you now, Christine. You're nervous as a cat! I don't know why you won't be seen in public with me, people won't even remember me – and if they do remember me, they won't know me now, with my beard..."

"There are spies everywhere, Raoul!" Christine cut in, repeating the truth to him for the thousandth time. She closed her eyes, took a steadying breath, and rose abruptly to check the pressure cooker. Thanks to Raoul's continued presence at the upstairs flat, Christine often cooked for the entire family. It was an odd situation – Maria Luisa, her three children, Raoul, and Christine passed entire afternoons together, forming an ersatz family. Photographs of Felipe, Maria's absent husband, hung on the walls. He was fighting with the Blue Division at the Russian front, and Christine would deliver La Vanguardia to the family so they could follow events there. The newspapers were filled with romanticized reports of the division's successes at Novgorod.

Raoul approached her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, and Christine did her best to keep her muscles from stiffening in protest. I love him, I do...it's just that...

She had said nothing about her activity as a spy to Raoul. She had certainly said nothing about Erik to him. She went to shows, rehearsals, and weekly recitals as she always had, though she was careful never to be alone. It helped to be kept busy; it was easier for her to ignore her pain. The snatches of poetry Erik sent demanding her presence still arrived regularly, but Paqui overlooked them, falling into the intended trap of thinking they were more fan mail for Christine.

Continuing his hold on her, Raoul pressed his lips to Christine's neck. This time, she stiffened. The smell of nicotine nearly made her retch. A childish giggle from the doorway gave her the excuse she needed to move away from her husband. Manuelito pointed gleefully at her and hooted as Raoul shooed him back into the living room.

Raoul turned back to Christine, his patience clearly frayed. "I need to get back to my organization, Christine. I've permitted us to remain in Barcelona for much too long. I've been as patient with you as I can be, my love, believe me. But as soon as 'Turandot' ends, it's time for us to travel back to France. I have it all planned out."

Christine heard what Raoul was saying, but only vaguely. She was staring at the envelope that Raoul had left on the kitchen table. "Is that the letter that Philippe sent you, Raoul?"

"Of course...I was telling you..." he began, but lapsed into silence, watching as Christine turned the envelope over, examining every inch of it.

"What's wrong?" he finally asked.

Christine offered him a wobbly smile and put the envelope down. "I'm just a silly fussbudget, Raoul. I was just checking to make sure that the censors didn't see it."

"Oh, don't worry, love. There was no sign of tampering at all, and we were very careful. Though I think Philippe could have been a bit more sparing with the fleurs-de-lis! Imagine stamping so many of them all over the back of the envelope. Good old Gallic pride! Well, he's always been that way," Raoul reminisced, now fidgeting with the unlit cigarette once more.

Christine nodded, still staring at the red fleurs-de-lis decorating the envelope, and the encoded message that only she could perceive: I know.