It was nearing late October, when many of the treetops in the Tuileries and along the Seine looked as though they had been hand-dipped in molten gold, before Clara was finally able to get together with both Erik and Nadir again. The nights had begun to cool considerably, and she took to wearing her favorite cloak, a soft mantle of camel-colored wool and gold silk embroidery.

She could not stay out as late these days, not without the threat of drowsiness the following day, and so Erik often came to her room or took her for brief strolls along the river. Even then, she became increasingly more nervous about the prospect of being caught. Her worry seemed directly proportional to the depth of her feelings for him.

But she missed Erik's home, and she missed Nadir, and so she finally arranged for the three of them to meet one night. They did not start as late as they had in the past, and she considered herself lucky to escape the house without being accosted.

They ran through their usual routine of conversation and wine (or tea, for Nadir) and cards. At some point late in the night, she and Nadir retired to the loveseat while Erik played his violin in the corner: not for their entertainment, but because he must, because the music that flowed through vein and muscle needed a release. The bow became an extension of his arm, and the violin—was it possible to be jealous of an instrument?—was lovingly nestled under his chin, flanking his bony shoulder, creating a breathtaking showcase of sharp elbows and wiry arms. With his hand clutching the neck and working furiously at the strings, a taut pull of skin revealed four distinct tendons, splayed from wrist to knuckle like a web.

It was all she could do not to throw herself at him—in theory, at least. In practice, she was far too tired and not entirely certain that she could peel herself from the sofa. She had been working longer and more frequent shifts lately: nothing so demanding as full-time employment, but much more than her body and mind were accustomed to. It was enough that Céleste had begun fretting over her, expressing concerns about the possibility of cosmetic issues like worry lines and puffiness. But Clara would not—could not—stop, not now, not when there was so much need. And, she had to admit, there was a sort of natural high that came with feeling useful and accomplished, second only to being in love.

"How are the piano lessons going?" Nadir asked quietly.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," she told him. "Erik has managed to travel to and from our house a handful of times now without incident, though I found out that he takes a cab to do so."

He nodded and rubbed his dark beard, as was his habit. "Yes, the carriage keeps his face in shadow. And your family? They are not averse to his presence?"

"I dare say that my aunt is infatuated with him," she replied. "She has not missed a lesson, and when we are through, she peppers him with questions in an attempt to draw out his stay."

Nadir's resulting chuckle was soft and deep. "I can only imagine how uncomfortable that must make him."

Her gaze flicked back to where Erik still cradled the violin, and she smiled warmly. "Yet still he indulges her," she said.

"He does it for you."

She nodded sleepily. "And it makes me love him all the more."

"What of your father, then?" he inquired.

"He is seldom there for lessons. The one time that he did drop in, he spent much of the time staring at Erik coldly. I do not understand his hostility in the slightest, Nadir; Erik has done nothing to provoke him."

"He has captured your interest," the Persian replied. "Perhaps your father knows."

Clara frowned. He couldn't, could he? Not when they had been so careful. No, she would have to think about it more, some other time when she was not so, so tired. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she gave in and closed them. A few seconds of rest would not hurt.

A warm hand came to rest on her arm, shaking it gently. She opened her eyes to find that it was Nadir's, and that she was now angled toward him with her head lying on his shoulder.

Erik's golden eyes peered down at her. In response to her drowsy and evident confusion, he reported, "You fell asleep on the daroga, my dear." He offered a hand to help her up. "Come, let us get you home."

"So sorry, Nadir," she mumbled as she was hoisted from the gentleman's side.

"No worries," he said, and he stood to leave as well. "I am happy to be of service, even if it is as a pillow."

"Regardless," Erik interjected, wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, "I would prefer that you delegate that responsibility to me, Clara, should the need arise again."

"But you are so bony," she said in mock complaint, and when his sober expression did not change, she grinned and stretched up to kiss him. "Bony and perfect," she whispered into his ear. He said nothing, but he curled an arm around her waist.

"Ah, young love!" said Nadir wistfully.

"I hardly qualify as young," Erik grumbled. "Why are you still here?"

The Persian ignored his grousing. "I assumed that I was to escort Clara home."

"Ah. Thank you for the offer, then, but I think I should prefer to do so tonight."

"As you wish." Nadir donned his hat, Erik his hat and cloak, and the three of them walked down to the two boats moored outside the house.

"Shall I row?" Erik asked Clara, nodding toward the blue one.

She shook her head. "My boat."

He put his palms up in teasing deference and then helped her aboard, seating himself in the bow while she took up the oars. Nadir stepped into the other vessel and cast off beside them.

"Daroga!" Erik called out jovially as they made their way across the lake. "Does this not remind you of our first journey together, when you put me on an overcrowded barge down the Volga River like a crate of tea?"

"There were no steamer passages to be had on short notice, you great snob," Nadir called back.

"And to think," said Erik to Clara, "that this was part of his campaign to get me to Persia."

"It was successful, was it not?" the daroga pointed out.

"Only because I was tired of Russia and I pitied you."

The daroga slowed his strokes so that Clara could catch up and row alongside him. "I know you say that in jest, my friend," he said, "but we both know that I did, in fact, make for a sorry chief of police."

"Come now," said Erik. "You fulfilled your post without dying, and you netted the best architect-cum-assassin your shah had ever seen. Surely that counts for something?"

Nadir smiled and shook his head as he leaned back to pull the oars. "I would have been just as content, if not more so, to sit around pushing paper all day. I was quite good with numbers, you know."

They were coming up on the opposite shore, and as Clara worked to beach her boat, an idea coalesced in her mind.

"Daroga," she said on their walk to ground-level, "have you ever considered donating some of your time to a cause?" She held her skirts in one hand and gripped Erik's hand with the other, as her penchant for tripping in the dark passages had somehow only increased as of late.

Nadir had been leading the way with a lantern in hand, and here he briefly turned to glance at her with open curiosity. "I suppose I have considered it more broadly," he said, turning his back to them once more, "but the opportunity never quite presented itself. I will admit, I ought to have been more proactive in seeking it out."

"And if I told you that an opportunity had perhaps presented itself, would you grant me an audience?"

"Of course, Clara. Anything."

"Can you meet me at the asylum tomorrow afternoon?" she entreated. "Say, one o'clock?"

"Consider it done."

Erik said nothing, but he squeezed her hand as they continued walking.

At the Rue Scribe exit, she and Erik bid their friend farewell before they circled to the front of the Palais at the Avenue de l'Opéra, the area still abuzz with lingering activity from the night's performance. Erik swiftly hired a cab to bear them southeast to her home in Le Marais.

He watched her from the opposite seat of the carriage, his eyes burning bright in the pockets of shadow between street lamps. When he finally spoke, his voice of quiet spun silk was close and clear despite the clamor of horse hooves and cab wheels just outside. "Tell me, my dear, do you plan to attend the charity ball at the Palais?"

Her eyes widened, and she looked down at her hands. "Ah. So you found out about that."

"I am aware of everything that transpires within my opera house."

"I know," she said, "and I had intended to bring it up. I just...got sidetracked." She toyed with her fingernails. "And yes, it is generally expected that I will attend."

"Good."

She looked up at him in mild alarm. "You know that you cannot go, right?" she implored. "It is by invitation only."

He smiled his unsettling smile of mischief and cunning. "Ah, Clara, it is as though you barely know me at all."

"I was trying to appeal to your sense of morality," she said, "and don't you give me that smug look as if you have none, Erik Giovanni, because we both know that to be patently false."

Erik's soft, low chuckle set her insides aflame. "As much as it amuses me to be chastised with a fake surname, you may rest assured that no one shall see me at the ball."

She relaxed against her seat, exhaling quietly, and then replied, "Good. Thank you."

"That does not mean I won't be there."

She glared. "You are incorrigible."

"Why, thank you."

They settled into a comfortable silence, and Clara gazed out the carriage window, trying to identify buildings and landmarks in the gaslight. When the cab rolled past the Place de la République, she could make out the new monument at the center of the square, with its central figure of Marianne, lady of the republic, raising an olive branch to the sky. The white gypsum statue was slated to be replaced by a final bronze cast, but she rather liked the way the yellow October moon illuminated this one, with Marianne glowing like a ghost of peace.

A moment later, Erik crossed the cab to sit beside her. "What are you thinking of, my love?" he asked.

"The Egyptian god of the moon," she replied, and she was pleased to see, out of the corner of her eye, that he had cocked his head with renewed interest.

"Khonsu," he said, "if I recall correctly. Have you been studying, little fawn?"

She nodded. "His name means 'traveller,' for he travels across the night sky. But he was also believed to watch over those who travel at night." Here she turned to look at him, quite pointedly.

"Is that so?" came his dulcet murmur.

"He was once violent and dangerous, an assassin for a pharaoh in the underworld. But he gradually transformed and came to be revered as gentle and compassionate, and as a healer. They called him 'Embracer' and 'Defender.' And do you know why the moon does not shine every day of the month?"

"I do not."

"It is said that Khonsu gave away a portion of his moonlight. To Nut, at a time when she had great need of assistance." She paused and then admitted, "Of course, he only did so because he lost a bet."

There was that sonorous chuckle again. "Just say what it is that you are getting at, my dear."

Here, she stared unabashedly into his eyes. "He was a moon-god fit for a sky-goddess."

Erik registered surprised for only a split second before he gave her a sad smile, reaching out to smooth the hair at her brow. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, my fawn, but Nut had a husband. The god of the earth."

"Ah, but they were separated for eternity," she said. "And that was presumably before she came to know Khonsu, before he changed. Why should she not throw in her lot with the man who is actually there for her, every single night?"

"You cannot change a narrative simply to suit your interests."

"I disagree," she said. "I am already doing it in real life. Perhaps I was intended for a man of earth, but I chose moonlight."

His bright irises flared, and she stared back defiantly. "You are incorrigible," he stated, and then he bent down to kiss her, his hand anchoring itself where it had been stroking her hair. There was urgency in the pressure of his mouth, in the way he forced her lips to part for him, but it seemed born only of desire and appreciation and none of the self-deprecating emotions that he could be prone to. Soon she was kissing back with equal fervor, accepting that this was just how every night of theirs would wrap up until further notice. To fight it was akin to fighting gravity.

He pulled away as the cab rolled to a stop, and she was left breathless and wanting as usual. Once the driver came around to open the carriage, Erik helped her out and instructed the man to wait while he walked her to her door.

"I will see you for your lesson in a few days," he said, "if not sooner." She wrapped her arms around him in an embrace, and he pressed his lips to her forehead.

Clara watched him duck back into the carriage, and then she straightened the cloak around her shoulders and reached for the door handle.

She had barely touched the cold metal when she was yanked backward by the throat, a strong arm having locked itself around her neck. A black-gloved hand rose in front of her face, brandishing a six-inch blade that glinted in the moonlight.

"Your jewelry and your purse," demanded a gruff voice at her ear.

Terrified, she rasped, "I—I have neither." It was the truth; perhaps it was foolish not to carry a purse, but she had not seen any need given the circumstances. She had never considered it safe to wear jewelry on her nighttime escapades regardless, and the irony that its absence might now endanger her more was not lost on her.

"Well, you had best find something," her attacker hissed, moving the blade to her throat. She felt a sharp, burning pain and knew that he had grazed skin. "I'm not leaving without a reward."

To their astonishment, the knife suddenly flew forward of his hand, where it bounced off the building's stone facade and hit the pavement with a clatter. Then he was jerked backward, his arm releasing her as he did so, but not before his momentum pulled her back with him. She braced herself for a hard landing.

It did not come. She fell into a pair of arms instead, and they quickly lifted her to a standing position. By the time she whirled around to face her rescuer, Erik was standing over her fallen assailant, boot planted firmly on the man's chest, the dislodged knife in one hand and one end of the Punjab lasso in the other. The opposite end of the lasso was looped around the man's neck. It was tight, enough to keep him coughing and gagging, but she could see that he was still breathing. He looked to be about forty, his tan skin leathery and flecked with dark stubble.

She did not need to glimpse Erik's face to know that he was seething; it was evident in his rigid posture alone, and in the ferocity with which he gripped his weaponry. It frightened her. He was so angry, and all it would take to bring about an execution was a swift tug of his hand.

"Ah, my friend," he intoned, "you have crossed the wrong man tonight." How utterly unnerving it was that a voice should be so beautiful and yet so, so cold.

"Do you see that goddess over there?" he continued, nodding his head in her direction. "The one whose skin you have pierced with your blade? Her health and safety mean more to me than anything on this wretched earth." With a flick of his wrist, the catgut tightened just a hair.

The man's eyes widened. "Please, monsieur," he wheezed.

Erik withdrew his foot and crouched next to the man, his knees jutting out sharply. "I ought to flay you alive," he said quietly, touching the tip of the knife to the man's chin, "for daring to touch her."

"Erik," Clara whimpered.

Several tense and quiet seconds elapsed before her phantom rose to tower over the unlucky miscreant. "Consider yourself fortunate," he growled, "that I have retired from the business of inflicting unmitigated pain." There was another flick of his wrist, and the catgut loosed itself from the man's neck and receded into Erik's grasp, at which point it promptly disappeared into his cloak. The knife he tucked into the lining of his tailcoat.

He crossed over to Clara to wrap a protective arm around her shoulders, his eyes never once leaving the man who still lay, terrified, on the cold ground. "Get up," he commanded, "and pray that I never see your face again."

Uncertain, the man glanced from Erik to Clara and back again before stumbling to his feet. Then he was off like a shot, retreating into the shadows as she stared, dumbfounded, her brain still trying to catch up to the present circumstances.

"Hold still," Erik said, and he pressed a handkerchief gently to the front of her neck. Was she bleeding? She must be. With the adrenaline in her system receding, a warm throb of pain at her throat started taking its place in the foreground.

"Are—are you all right, mademoiselle?" came a weak and unfamiliar voice.

They looked up to find the coachman standing in front of his cab, its carriage door still flung open, and he was gaping at them. She nodded.

"Go back to the coach and await my return," Erik instructed him. "You shall be generously compensated for the delay." He turned his attention back to Clara. "Are you truly all right, my dear? You are far too pale for my liking."

"Yes," she said shakily. "I think so." A light came on in a second-floor room above them—a room in her house. Quickly, she lifted her hand to press the handkerchief to her throat, simultaneously pulling his fingers off of it. "Thank you, my love, but you have to go before you are seen."

His mouth fell open. "No, Clara. I cannot—"

"You must," she pleaded. "There is no good that could come of your presence in this particular situation. Please." She squeezed his hand and, without even waiting for an answer, dashed for the door. The least she could do was to get inside before anyone came out and saw Erik. She did not even dare to glance back at him as she shut herself in.

She had been right to worry.

It was as she hurried past the drawing-room that she ran into her father, wearing his dressing gown and the expression of one who has been unwillingly roused from his bed. "Clara?" he asked, squinting at her even with his spectacles on. "What is going on?"

"I—I was…" In her addled state, she found herself fresh out of excuses. "I was out, father. I am sorry; it will not happen again."

He opened his mouth but did not speak. She winced; she had actually stunned him out of a reply. Then his gaze fell to her throat. "Good God, are you bleeding?"

She pulled the handkerchief away and saw that it was soaked through with a small spot of crimson. "Y—yes, but I am fine, honestly. I ought to get to bed." It was foolish hope, really, that began to carry her feet in the direction of her room.

"Clara Marie Toussaint," her father ground out sharply, and she halted on the spot. The last time she had heard him use that voice was when he had caught Margot cussing, just shy of their fourteenth birthday. "You will come back here this instant and tell me why you took it upon yourself to sneak out in the middle of the night and why you are bleeding."

Heart pounding, she backed up to where he stood. "I was robbed at knifepoint," she confessed. "My neck brushed against the knife."

Henri looked practically apoplectic. "Tell me everything," he demanded.

And, God forgive her, she lied.

This time, though, she lied to protect Erik and not her own reputation. She gave an adjusted account of events; in this version, she still took a cab, but only as a mindless diversion from her insomnia. She rode to the Palais, wandered around the lobby with the rest of the opera crowd, and then, overcome with guilt, returned home. It was a passing stranger who saved her from her assailant.

Henri was furious, but she could tell that his anger came from a place of good intent, like the frantic shouting of a mother reunited with a child who has run away in a crowd. Still, it was difficult to bear, especially when her good sense was called into question. "Did you forget that the LaFleurs were robbed at knifepoint only just last month?" he roared at one point, and indeed, she had forgotten.

She withstood his interrogation and his rebukes for a good fifteen minutes, receiving sympathetic glances from the handful of household servants who turned up in nightclothes at odd intervals to investigate the commotion.

When she was finally permitted to retire to her room, she could not rest easy, even with the knowledge that her secret remained safe. She knew that she would not be able to sneak out again.

The following day, Clara was in the recreation room of the asylum when the clock chimed one. At that particular moment, she was stocking the supply baskets with yarn, having entirely forgotten Nadir's impending arrival. With the weather cooling down, the new mothers were keen to crochet hats and booties and blankets for their little ones. One of the women was plunking away at the old piano, and its discordant notes were an assault on Clara's ears. She wished she had known of its condition earlier, when it would have been easier to recruit Erik to tune it.

At the sound of the chime, she threw the remaining skeins into a basket and practically ran to the entrance, where Nadir was already chatting amiably with Adele. "Ah, Clara," said the directress upon her arrival, while Nadir offered a warm smile. "I have just had the pleasure of meeting your acquaintance here. He says that you requested his presence?"

"Yes," said Clara, trying to catch her breath. "Madame, I believe that I may have found you a replacement bookkeeper." They both regarded her with mild surprise, and she added, "If that is agreeable to the two of you, of course."

Her instinct, thankfully, proved correct. It was hardly ten minutes before a chair was set up for Nadir on the opposite side of her large writing desk. Adele was practically euphoric while she gave him a rundown of what needed to be done, and as she left him with a stack of ledgers, she flashed Clara a smile so grateful that the latter could not help but grin.

"You are Adele's new hero," Clara said once she and Nadir were left alone in the office.

He rooted around for a pencil. "I will admit, it is nice to be revered for once instead of derided. I nearly forgot that humans are not generally abrasive by default."

She was once again compelled to apologize on Erik's behalf, but then the daroga winked at her, and she smiled.

The merriment was short-lived, however.

"Nadir," she said quietly, and he looked up from his work. "I need you to get a message to Erik for me. Please tell him that my father caught me sneaking in last night and that he should steer clear of the house, except for lessons, until he hears from me again. I fear that I will be under surveillance for a while."

"Of course," the Persian replied, but he was frowning. "Though I wonder, Clara, how much longer you can keep up this pretense."

She sighed and let her head fall into her hands, where she rubbed at her temples. "I know, daroga, I truly do. I just need to get through this charity ball, and then I will figure something out. And on that note…" She pulled out the list of names and addresses that had been occupying her for days as she slaved over the invitations. "I am so close to the end of this invitee list that I can smell it. I left off somewhere in the V's."

"Best get on with it, then," said Nadir, and he turned his attention to the ledgers.

The room went quiet, save for the scratching of pen and pencil against paper, until Clara suddenly let out a small roar of frustration. "You have got to be kidding me!" she cried.

Nadir peered over at her curiously. "What is it?"

She held up the list and looked at him with weary resignation. "Verne."

Special thanks to LaLadyCavalier, who tipped me off to Khonsu.