A/N: Many thanks to madamefaust, inujisan, and Hot4Gerry—my first reviewers! Three cheers for feedback! This chapter might be a bit on the wordy side, as I spent far too much time thinking and re-thinking it.

Nora Farley awoke at her writing desk. She pushed her fingers through her hair, dislodging the decorative combs she wore.

"Per—" Nora cleared her throat and tried again. "Perrine?" She was met with silence and looked at the clock. A quarter to three. She had asked not to be disturbed and her staff had taken her seriously. She could wake up her maid, but she didn't feel like being fussed over. If there was one thing Perrine did exceptionally well, it was fuss. Not to mention that it was now Sunday, and therefore, technically, the maid's day off.

Nora tried to look at the papers spread before her one last time. She remembered thinking at some point last night that everything would look better 'tomorrow.' Well, tomorrow had come, and she had been proved terrifically wrong.

Closing out her great-uncle's estate would have been a job best left to his lawyers—if he had bothered to retain any. Alternatively, Nora's cousin, as the only male heir, should have attended to it. Alas, Daniel's attachment to the Canadian High Commissioner's office did not afford him sufficient time to do so. He had fairly begged Nora to, if not take over the whole mess, than at least get a start on it.

I'll be in Paris by Michaelmas, he has promised. Well, Michaelmas was already a month gone and the last communiqué she had received from Daniel had not been promising. It begun by referring to Nora as 'Dear Girl, ' which was never a good sign, and ended with 'so much trouble with the rail companies—cannot be spared!' His revised arrival date was 'near Christmastime, ' but Nora knew better than to put her faith in that.

She straightened out the folios on her desk. They mostly concerned the cryptic French tax system, but also including notes on a clipper ship no one in the family knew Uncle Christian had possessed. Nothing good came from working so late at night—or so early in the morning, as the case might be— and Nora tried to stand up. There wasn't much point to going to bed, she supposed. She had barely an hour left before she would need to leave for mass.

She turned up the flame on her kerosene lamp, causing long shadows to appear throughout her room. After three months, the room had lost some of its pre-furnished apartment anonymity. Nora's books were lined up on previously bare shelves, different bedding had been acquired, and, of course, the armoire was filled to capacity. After all, what lady of means went to Paris and did not indulge in some little shopping?

Her Sunday attire existed quite separately from the rest of her wardrobe. Fashionable dress, with its tight lacing and myriad underpinnings, demanded help to be put on. (Help to remove was also supremely useful, Nora determined as she tried to unbutton the back of yesterday's dress.) Six days out of the week there was help to be had, but on Sundays Nora made do with a modest, front-buttoned dress. It probably appeared rather reverential of her to come into grand Notre Dame so attired, but godly devotion had precious little to do with it…

She brushed out her hair after dressing, pinning it up a little too haphazardly. Therein was the benefit of the chapel veil. Not as a sign of womanly submission, but as a disguise for Nora's poor hair dressing skills. No matter. Dressing in such a subdued fashion kept her from notice and comment on her early morning walks.

Nora retrieved her amber bead rosary from the table next to the front door and started out.

The morning was nearly frigid, though snow had yet to make its appearance in the city. The streetlamps were burning low. Nora wished she could say her early morning pilgrimage was the result of piety. In reality, she liked her day to start early—and for mass to end early.

That was perhaps not the correct way to phrase how she felt. Mass she did not mind. Confession she minded profoundly. She did not like to lay her sins bare, and the thought of doing so filled her with a discomfort akin to rage.

The priest at her home parish had even mildly insinuated that, perhaps, she did not need to come so often. Especially when one considered that the main sin she would confess, week in and week out, was wrath at the prospect of Confession.

Canon Law, she reminded herself, only required the Sacrament of Penance once a year. Her mother's law had required weekly Confession. Now the old woman was dead, and Nora's relief at that fact prompted a guilt that compelled her to follow the traditions of her youth. It made for an altogether unpleasant bit of worship, and left her with a feeling of agitation that stayed with her until the services were over and she was well out of the cathedral.

She found that seeing the masked man by the bridge helped her tremendously. She had first seen him, oh, four or so weeks previous. The mask had escaped her notice the first time: she had merely seen an overly-tall man who disappeared in his clothes and seemed ill at ease, as if the early morning sunrays would burn him.

It was that nervous posture that had first caught her eye and inspired her to offer a pleasantry. That had startled him even more, and he barely stammered out a reply. But what a reply! So few words, spoken so quietly, so haltingly, but in the most sensational voice.

The echo of that voice had prompted her to say 'good morning' again on the following Sunday as they passed on the bridge. That time, he managed to string the phrase together properly and even touch the brim of his hat.

He served as a symbol of sorts now—her obligations were over for the week, and she was free. She was calm. At first, she had thought it was simply his voice that inspired that feeling of almost-comfort, and that was certainly part of it. More than that, however, was the fact that he radiated unhappiness. Surely, here was a man worse off than she was—and she found solace in that.

(She wondered idly if this constituted rejoicing in another's misfortune; if so, did it warrant confession?)

He was there at the bridge again today, and Nora hoped her greeting didn't betray quite how tired she was. If it did, it did not affect the man. He replied with something Nora could almost call good humor. That thought made her smile, even more than his previous melancholy.

Yes, Nora considered Sunday mornings in Paris to be a confirmed habit. Pray for her immortal soul, say hello to the masked man, and walk until she forgot where she was going.

Since the occasion of turning half a century, Erik had started cataloging things he was too old for. Dying of love and midnight walks had been at the top of the list—he now added 'scrubbing floors.'

He could not remember the last time he had been obliged to put such effort into cleaning the house by the lake. For years, he had maintained it through light, constant attention, never letting it fall into disrepair. That habit had predictably died after Christine had left. The dead didn't particularly care about the state of their crypts, now did they?

Alas, Erik was not dead, but the dirt that had accumulated in the corners of virtually every room was threatening to do him in. He had succeeded in cleaning his own room, paying particular attention to the not-entirely-neglected pipe organ. The hallway was next. He paused at the door to the Louis-Philippe room. … perhaps he would hold off on that particular area for the time being. It was an absolute wreck, if memory served.

It was in the drawing room that Erik gave up on the floors. He sat on the cold wood, shirt sleeves rolled up on his thin, sallow arms, with a sore back and a cramp in his hand. He figured that most other men with an annual income of nearly a quarter of a million francs hired people to wash their floors for them. The idea had a certain appeal. He could put an advertisement in the Epoque—

WANTED. Maid of all work to maintain small lakefront house. Must be comfortable around reclusive genius of a musical persuasion. Must not fear the dark or damp underground passages or rats or rat catchers. References optional. Please address response to Monsieur O. G. (private), care of the Opera Garnier.

Well, that would be patently absurd. Erik certainly couldn't refer to himself as a genius. It simply wasn't done, even if it was true.

Erik snickered and then rolled his eyes. Laughing at his own jokes now, was he? How sad. It took rather too much effort to arise from the floor, though the kink did come out of his back. That lent him some hope. He felt it imperative to have the house in order by the end of the week.

Come Saturday evening, he would be attending the opera.

Rigoletto was being performed for the third week in a row. The reviews had been excellent. Erik was not especially fond of the story, but he had it on good authority that the house was booked solid. Only Box Five remained empty—'in deference to the traditions of the Opera house' was the reason cited. Given young Didier Moncharmin's current obsession with the Opera Ghost, Erik foresaw a long life ahead for the tradition.

Yes, a night at the opera, the chance to perhaps make his presence known, and the opportunity to drop off a missive on Moncharmin's desk… Saturday would prove to be a wonderful diversion. Erik found himself looking forward to Saturday with an enthusiasm he had not thought he still possessed. Perhaps he was too old for that, as well, but Erik did not care.

But first, the house had to be cleaned.

Nora, my dear girl,

As thanks for your many and varied services, I would like to present you with 'a night on the town.' A friend at the Embassy in Paris was good enough to procure a ticket for you to the Opera Garnier, the showing on November the first. I made sure to request a private box, as you prefer—my friend has assured me he will be able to reserve one.

Enjoy yourself, and stay out of mischief.

Affectionately,
Daniel Tremblay