Despite his earlier mood, it was Erik who helped me get ready that evening.

I stuck a hand out from behind my changing screen as the clothes I'd thrown over the top disappeared. A new set of petticoats pressed themselves into my ungloved hand, and as I took them, my fingers brushed against the cold, dead skin of Erik's hand.

"When you've finished," he said, rustling with something in the armoire, "I have a gift for you."

"You may need to wait a while," I replied, pulling my clothes into place and making sure they were just tight enough that I could still breathe and move. I yanked my bloomers on and reached for the small, cheap bustle he now handed me.

Finally, after half an hour behind the screen, I did the final lacings on my dress and stepped out. Erik sat in the armchair by the armoire, thoroughly engrossed in the newspaper I'd brought him. I reached for some hairpins and piled the waves of unruly and mostly tangled chestnut hair on top of my head. It was only when I at last went to put my mask and gloves on that I noticed he was, in fact, watching me.

"Yes, Erik?"

"Your present is over there," he said, nodding at the ottoman. I frowned at it and tied the mask lace into an untidy yet secure knot. "Consider it a wedding gift. I do believe it is a current tradition in Britain to give something of the sort."

I didn't point out my opposition to British customs now, after experiencing the thick smog of London that had ruined one of my violin bows as I played beneath Blackfriar's one evening, but knelt by the ottoman and carefully lifted the lid.

"It isn't much," Erik continued, folding the newspaper and leaving it on the armchair as I pulled out the first thing I saw. He stood and paced across the room to me. "Please. Allow me."

His cold hand slipped around my glove and he pulled me up next to him, taking the thick woollen garment from my hands. He shook it out and turned me around, draping and arranging it over my shoulders.

"It should keep you warm for a few years," he explained, popping my bonnet on and turning me once more to tie it at my chin. "You can be fashionable and alive at the same time."

"I suppose you'd like the updates."

"There is a certain scarcity of such factors in my life, I'll admit. Now, do you like your present?"

"It's a Paisley shawl," I noted, twirling one of the tassels. I looked up again to see Erik smiling down at me, his lips barely lifted in a classical Erik smile. I watched him for a long minute, loving how uncomfortable it made him. He cleared his throat, folding his hands before himself.

I stood up and threw my arms around his chest, huffing hard, and he froze.

"Thank you," I whispered into his waistcoat, the hard porcelain pressing against some of my more serious burns. He managed to pat my back curtly and pushed me away.

"Anytime. Now, scat, Kitty Cat."

"Ah! There you are!"

One of Jeremy's typical, broad smiles met me as I hurried out of the doors and into the busy square. He'd stopped a cab in the middle of the flow of riders, other carriages and pedestrians, and the footman holding the door open for him seemed impatient, his foot tapping constantly.

"I thought I might have to go without you."

I moved past him and made to climb into the carriage. He lifted his hand and I stared back down at it. He only smiled on, emerald eyes twinkling in the early evening light.

My glove slipped into his, snug and safe, and he helped me up into the carriage, tucking my dress in and climbing up after me.

With Jeremy aboard, his weathered little picnic basket on the seat beside him, the carriage jolted and the steady, familiar clip-clopping of horseshoes rang clear once more.

He didn't stay quiet for very long.

"I thought I might paint you," he said as we left the city. I looked up from my poetry book as he sorted through the basket and pulled out a little sketchbook, flicking through it to a blank page. "But then I thought, 'Mmm, no'. How could one explain hauling a canvas and easel into a carriage?"

"There are lots of painters in Paris," I said, vaguely noticing the trees that passed as the cab rattled along. "Besides, it would take far too long! It's getting dark enough as it is!"

"That's why I brought this instead." He tucked it into his jacket and pulled his felt hat from his curls, shaking it free of dust and horsehair. "Nikki, I must confess that a picnic is not all I invited you for."

I rolled my eyes. "You cannot propose a third time, dear."

He flushed and looked out of the window instead.

"Ah, yes, well, I assure you I do not have another scrap of jewellery left in my possession. You wear one of only two pieces my unfortunate parents left me; I doubt you'd very much be interested in a single pair of cufflinks."

Unless one could sell them for a moderate sum. I bit my lip and tried to look interested. Beneath my mask, my skin itched and burned. It took all the strength I had not to pull a putrid face.

"But we must discuss the wedding." He sat forward in his seat and twirled his hat through his hands, fidgeting. "I had rather hoped we might be married in Rosiers. I sent a letter to my cousin some days ago requesting the local church—"

I snapped my gaze away from the trees outside. "We can't!"

He looked up in horror, eyes and mouth wide and agape. "I beg your pardon?"

"Be married in Rosiers!" I swallowed. "Forgive me, Jeremy. Do you remember what I told you about Father Mansart?"

He sat back in his seat, a knowing look spreading over his eyes. "I see. Is this what you would prefer? A wedding in Rouen?"

I nodded meekly, aware that I'd crossed several boundaries. My tongue would have to be tamed, and soon. No wife should speak out of turn.

How I loathed the idea.

"Well, I suppose I'm a registered man in Rouen." He looked up from the jolting floor and caught my eyes, smiling after a moment or two. "I shall send word to Uncle Jean."

A flurry of butterflies unleashed themselves in my stomach. "Thank you, Jeremy! It means the world!"

"I make no promises," he said, raising his hand to me, yet smiling all the same. "Now, as you have chosen the venue, I shall decide the time. I'm aware my brother left a wedding dress for you — ask no questions, my dear, rumours spread like wildfire — and so with that little detail taken care of, shall we say... three weeks?"

My jaw hung.

I shut it almost as quickly, but not quickly enough that he didn't notice and shift about in his seat.

"That's the week of the premiere of Don Juan."

A nod. "It is. And I would be working that night, unless..."

"Unless?"

He sat back again, the flecks of amber streaked amongst his eyes glinting in the sunset. "This leads me back to what I wished to ask in the first place. Nikki, will you accompany me to Rosiers-sur-Garonne next week? I assure you, you will be in no better... hands than... Nikki, are you quite alright?"

I looked down at where I'd bunched my dress into bundles so tight, my gloves were beginning to stain with crimson.

I gave a small yelp and drew my nails out of my skin, ripping the gloves off and examining the wounds. Jeremy leapt across the carriage and seized my hand, pressing his handkerchief firmly on my palm.

"Good heavens, woman! What are you thinking?"

It was quite simple. The thought of being surrounded by well-to-do members of Jeremy's extended family in the magnificent house he'd often described, in the hopes of winning their favour - me, a poorly-paid opera employee with a face barely worth speaking of and a family so scandalous and, well, murdered in some cases - was not the most comforting idea.

I shrugged.

Jeremy lifted my hands to his lips and kissed them softly. I glanced at my gloves; they went back on in moments. Jeremy looked at me, confused and possibly hurt that I'd snatch myself away from him so sharply.

"We don't have to go," he whispered, moving back along the seat cautiously as if he were worried I might spook like a frightened animal. "I simply thought- well, I have no real wish to remain in Paris. I had rather hoped..."

But he shook his head and straightened his posture, replacing the timid shine in his eyes with something stronger, more powerful, something that reminded me so much of Erik, or of Madame, that I nearly shrank back. "No, no we shall go to Rosiers. I will book a week off for the both of us. It won't particularly matter if we lose our jobs; I have more than enough confidence in my cousin to know he and Uncle Jean will offer me work at home, either in the stables or the vineyards. And you mustn't worry; it is not as if a married woman can seek employment, unless she is quite poor, which we will not be anymore."

I returned to looking out of the window, gritting my teeth. Being surrounded by the people he held dear, the expectations they would have of me, the looks they would shoot at my mask... It was the former Count of Rosiers that had disowned Jeremy's father. I had every right to expect they could do the same to him, and then where would we be? I refused to be reduced to the scum of the streets, seeking her next meal from unseemly employments!

"We are going," Jeremy said, taking my hand gently. "You have nothing to fear, Kitty. I will be with you. Is it Erik? Is he the problem? You won't worry about him much longer, I vow it! Come our wedding day, I promise you will never have to see him again!"

His comforts fell on deaf ears and I stared hard out of the window. Jeremy was steady, a rock, a constant in an ever-changing world. But his brother was the polar opposite. What would become of Christine, of the entire Opera House, if I was not there to keep an eye on things? My friend had already been locked up for two days. I would not be responsible for that again.

Jeremy sighed. "I will offer you a deal," he said, turning in the seat. His hand caught my chin with a feathery touch. I found myself leaning into his hand and moving back to face him again. "I know you like to work in those. If you come to Rosiers with me and find you do not like it there, I will never bring you there again and you can remain working in the Opera House. If you find you do in fact like it, I will ask you to consider moving there with me once we are married. Agreed?"

I mulled it over for a moment. It seemed a fair plan, a good one perhaps. And yet—

"Will Erik be joining us?"

Jeremy hesitated. "Ah, so it was he who gave you that shawl."

"A wedding present."

"I'm sure. If Erik- Pierre- whoever he is, can prove that he is more than a rage-filled, frenzied and violent murderer and stalker, whom we may trust in society, I promise I will not oppose his presence, provided he lives in a separate house."

"Then it is a deal." And I shook his hand.

"Rosiers-sur-Garonne..." Erik managed to say. His voice was so low in his throat that it was almost impossible to hear. He watched me over the rim of his teacup as I emphasised my smile and clapped my hands together, awaiting some further reaction. The fire in the library grate crackled away, sending dancing amber glows onto his hair and shirt. My skin tickled with the heat and I pulled several subtle faces. My hands twitched, and I found them at my face in mere moments.

"Don't scratch," Erik said, drawing a handkerchief from his tailcoat and tossing it to me. I pressed the stone-cold material against the perpetrator, the inflamed burn that ran across my forehead, relishing in the relief.

"Are you sure about this?" he went on. "You wouldn't even go to that dinner reception at Orléans that time."

"I think I can trust that you won't be giving anyone in Toulouse food poisoning, Erik."

He smirked to himself and took another sip. "Yes, but that was a clever little joke, you must admit."

"The Comte de Bourges didn't seem to think so," I replied, sitting in my chair some feet away from his and looking into the flames. "You are not coming with us just yet, Erik. Jeremy has invited me to meet his family on the condition that if I like the place, I will consider moving there with him."

Erik swallowed audibly. "Nikki—"

"I accepted, but only if you could come with us after the wedding. And there's another thing! The premiere of Don Juan is in the same week as Jeremy has planned the ceremony. It will be—"

"Nikki."

I turned to him. "Erik."

He set his cup down with a clink against the saucer and rested back into his chair, flexing his hands. "I have no desire to up and leave this abode of mine in favour of trailing after you all the way down to Toulouse, and you know that. I do believe I've seen enough of this world as it is."

"But I—"

He held up his hand. "Is this another attempt to convince me to relent my word? You know I will not be fit to travel after the premiere if everything goes to plan."

My hands curled in on themselves. I unfurled them just as quickly – anger wouldn't convince him of anything, and would only make him more stubborn – and cleared my throat.

"What about Christine? Aren't you planning to marry her? You cannot make her a young widow, I won't allow it."

"Ah," he smiled, closing his eyes and tapping out a rhythm on the armrest. The glow of the fire illuminated years of scars and I winced. "The one exception to everything. Yes, my Christine..."

"So, you won't do it?" I leaned over my armrest towards him, eagerly awaiting his 'no'.

"If I am afforded the bliss of keeping a happy wife for just one week, I would be content to live for a thousand years in this accursed world." He opened his eyes then and simply gazed at the ceiling, where the light of the chandelier above seemed dim compared to the roaring fire before us. "And if Fate should condemn me once more, I shall spit its minuscule and rare pities bestowed upon me back in its face."

"You will not," I said, only noticing the threads of anger laced through my voice when it was too late. He watched me from the corner of his eye. "If she should leave you, you will simply come to Rosiers with us."

"Ah, but you have not yet seen it. How can you be so sure you will be content to live out the rest of your days there?"

"Jeremy can make even the depths of hell into the brightest of afternoons and he does not rely on mirror tricks to do so. He is a rose without thorns."

Erik turned back in his seat and returned to gazing at the ceiling. "Of course he can. Forgive me my inadequacies upon contrast to my dear brother. I shall retreat to my quiet solitude of gloom and despair."

I ignored him.

"So, you will come with us? Surely you don't wish to stay down here for the rest of your life!"

"Nikki..."

"Christine would like it in the south. I still can't get used to Paris's awful winters. If you're so intent on marrying her, at least give her some sunlight. Women need a lot of—"

"Nikki," he growled, laying a hand over his unmasked face and dragging at the already sagged skin. "Do be quiet! Unlike you, who has been dusting a few paintings and columns to pass the time and going for carriage rides, I have been running back and forth all day long like a messenger boy, and between rehearsals going drastically pear-shaped and Christine's voice being a difficult instrument to work with, I am quite frankly exhausted."

"You're exhausted because you haven't slept for a week. I suggest you retire to bed."

"Maybe I'll do just that," he muttered, heaving himself from his chair, causing several bones to crack as he straightened his skeletal figure.

"Maybe you should!" I retorted, and he cast a dry stare over his shoulder at me, before walking past and heading for the door behind me. It creaked open and, as he shuffled over the threshold, I drew breath. "You will consider it, won't you? With or without Christine?"

Silence.

The door closed.