The flu and technical difficulties conspired against me—but here I am again! I will offer a word of warning, however. This chapter was a terror to write... I can only hope it isn't a terror to read!

Erik had always been surprised by how little Charles Garnier had involved himself with the actual construction of the Opera House.

"I can't possibly oversee everything," Garnier had protested.

"You could try to oversee something," Erik had countered. Of course, he couldn't complain much when Garnier handed off oversight of a hundred 'minor' details to his contractors—chiefly Erik.

The installation of the mirrors in the Grand Foyer had been under Erik's direct supervision. Most were unspectacular; some were made allowed for observation from inside of the wall. Two of these could be discreetly opened.

Erik made his way down to the foyer, through the walls and the unused service corridors, before the finale. The ending would have been predictable, even if Erik had not read the libretto—her grand romance thwarted, Lakmé would commit suicide rather than be torn from her unacceptable lover.

For a moment, Erik thought of the absurdity of such a situation, and then he remembered Christine's silver scissors…

Thunderous and not wholly undeserved applause rang throughout the theater. Erik positioned himself behind the two-way mirror closest to the room's entrance and watched as the theatergoers began to file in. She did not waste much time in appearing, looking remarkably occupied for a solitary woman. She stayed close to the windowed side of the foyer, much to Erik's annoyance. He kept pace with her as she walked to the end of the room. She appeared to be looking at the most prominent lyre ornament on the far wall.

"Mademoiselle Farley!"

Erik froze as the woman turned around to face Didier Moncharmin. She smiled pleasantly and offered her gloved hand. "Monsieur Moncharmin."

The woman—Mademoiselle Farley—was acquainted was the manager. How? For what purpose? Was this a trap? Erik remained silent and fixed on her.

"How did you find Lakmé?" Moncharmin asked.

"Quite lovely," she said, "it's always a pleasure to see something new." Her smile took on a brilliancy that Erik found unsettling. "And my seat was excellent."

Moncharmin gave a brittle laugh. "No ghosts?"

"Ah—you are obsessed with that, Monsieur Moncharmin," she replied. "And, no."

Erik released a breath he did not know he had been holding, but instantly became suspicious again. Moncharmin had obviously spoken with Mademoiselle Farley before on the subject of 'the ghost.' Mademoiselle met the idea with a look of benign condescension, though Erik had specifically identified himself as such. What was the likelihood she meant well?

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Moncharmin asked. "A drink, a tour?"

"You are very kind," Mademoiselle Farley demurred, "but I am meeting a friend shortly. And I am sure you have much to attend to."

Moncharmin broke into a nauseating grin. "I loathe to leave a lady unattended."

Mademoiselle Farley replied with her own smile and an elegant flick of her fan. "I am sure he will be here shortly. Thank you again for the ticket, Monsieur."

Moncharmin was wise enough to recognize a dismissal, and Erik was amused to see the woman roll her eyes once left alone. She wandered a little closer to the mirrors and Erik made use of the opportunity.

"Mademoiselle, you flatter me!" Erik threw his voice to the midpoint between the mirror and the woman. She turned in the correct direct, face bland. "I did not know we were friends."

She quirked a smile, a tiny thing, very much unlike the dazzling grins she had been giving Moncharmin. "I should have known you were listening."

"I am always listening."

She moved closer to the mirror, but turned around to face the room. "You have the manager in a fit."

"I am pleased to hear it."

They both fell silent for some time.

"Monsieur Ghost," she began, her tone vaguely ironic, "I assume you had a reason for… summoning me."

Did he? Ah, yes. I fear, Mademoiselle, that your continued presence in my life will bring me great harm, or, at least, moderate discomfort. I intend to determine just how much of an inconvenience you will be. He could hardly state that as his purpose—it seemed to go against two or three social mandates. "I should like to speak with you. Do you like port?"

She turned to face the mirror slowly. Her gaze was fixed on Erik's shoulder, though he knew she was simply looking into the reflection of her own eyes. "I prefer Madeira, as far as Portuguese wines are concerned."

"What luck!" Erik reached for the mirror's counterweight. "I have an excellent bottle—a Solera 1792. Won't you join me?"

She rolled her eyes again, just as she had at Moncharmin. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I have a glass of wine with a ghost?..."

He let the mirror slide open part way and locked onto her wrist. An instant was all it took for him to drag her into the wall and return the counterweight to its proper place.

Her first reaction had been to try to strike at the mask, which was foolish given their height difference. Erik caught her hand and stared down at her. She returned the eye contact, shock melting into anger and finally settling into a razor-edged wariness. She looked Erik up and down, as if calculating what sort of threat he posed to her. A grave one, Erik almost said.

"What happens if I scream?" she asked. They were fighting words, but the whisper she spoke in belied them.

Erik turned her to face out of the mirror, both hands locked on her tense shoulders. It was crowded now and no one had noticed the sudden vanishing of one of their number. "Given how sound travels in that room, a few will startle and look about. But upon failing to see the lady in distress, they will return to their business. Perhaps you will attempt to scream again, but I fear you will not be given the opportunity."

She laid one hand on the glass. "I see."

"You could also try to break the mirror," Erik offered. "But without proper tools, it is nearly impossible. And really, my dear Mademoiselle, all I propose is that we indulge in a fine vintage and a little conversation."

"You don't entertain much, do you?" After an agonizing pause, she turned and took Erik's arm, as if he was any other escort. "That's quite all right, really. Neither do I."

Mademoiselle Farley was utterly silent as Erik led her through a maze of hidden corridors. She did not complain about the dark or the length of the trek, though Erik did hear her sigh on more than one occasion.

It was when they arrived at the subterranean lake that she was finally moved to speak.

"A lake? " she exclaimed.

"As you can see," Erik grumbled, leading her to the little dock he had built. Soft, bluish light caused more gloom than illumination. "I live on the other shore."

"I can't even see the other side," she commented.

"I assure you, it is there. Come."

She stepped onto the dock and looked at the rowboat waiting. "I don't think that boat is designed to accommodate two passengers."

It was not, Erik admitted to himself. "You will be fine." He stepped into the boat, waited for it to stabilize, and then held out his hand.

"I'm not concerned about myself," she said, gathering her skirts and allowing Erik to help her down. "But I've already ruined one evening dress thanks to the Garnier."

"And I am sure that competent seamstresses are difficult to find in Paris," Erik replied. It was somewhat comical to watch her struggle with the train and bustle of her black dress, but she seemed to settle in well enough. He sat and took the oars. Skeletons of the old pumping equipment still peaked out of the water at intervals—how foolish a man would have to be to sail these waters uninformed!

"What shall I call you?" she asked, even as she looked around the caverns.

"You know who I am," Erik replied. The blue light reflected weirdly, casting mutilating shadows over her face. Perhaps it was living so far below the world that caused beauty to distort, the isolation that made one grotesque… She turned to face him and the light diffused—and she was back to her aquiline beauty. Erik shook himself free of his previous fancy. Living underground did not smite your nose, you silly old man.

"I can't bring myself to call you 'the Ghost,'" she said, "when I plainly see that you are quite alive."

Erik rowed in silence. They were nearly to the other side of the lake. "Call me Erik."

"Erik? " she sounded incredulous.

"What? Do you have an objection to my name?"

"No, of course not, it's just— ah, as they say, first names are for family and footmen. "

Erik glowered across the boat at her, though she did not seem to notice. "Perhaps then, Mademoiselle Farley, you oughtn't speak to Erik at all." Ah, bad habits returned so quickly.

Her eyebrows lifted. "Or… I suppose you could call me Nora. That would put us on equal footing. Erik."

Nora. Why had he expected her to have a French name, given the obvious Anglo nature of 'Farley?' "Very well."

They returned to silence as he navigated the boat up stream and across. A heavy mist obscured the shoreline, but Erik was well acquainted with the route. He docked the rowboat and disembarked, holding out a hand to aid Nora. What was it that Christine had said about his hands? That they smelled of death? He wondered if the odor seeped through the leather of his gloves, and, if so, did Nora notice? If she did, it was a secondary concern to maneuvering her dress out of the rowboat.

A few steps and his home came into view. It looked like an utterly ordinary house from that vantage point. A white paneled façade, a porch sconce he had not bothered to light, empty window boxes. He had designed the dwelling to look cheery—at the moment, it seemed more desolate than anything else.

Still, the parlor was warm and Nora took a seat without any obvious discomfort.

"So," she said, her tone a little teasing, "will you finally dispense with the masks?"

The question sent a shock of physical pain through Erik's body. He froze, afraid that, were he to move, Nora Farley might die. She seemed to realize that she had committed a grave mistake. Her face remained impassive, but there was genuine fear in her eyes. Erik felt himself soften slightly.

"No," he said, daring her to question him further on the subject.

She did not. "Well, then. 1792. I'm given to understand that was a very fine year. For Madeira, at least."

"It was. If you will wait a moment…" Erik nearly offered a warning not to go anywhere or touch anything, but refrained. Nora did not seem inclined to move. She simply stared at Erik, expression inscrutable save for that underlying spark of hostility that seemed to follow her.

An unfortunate dampness had settled in Erik's cellar after he had flooded out the gunpowder. It had led to many rotten potatoes, but he made sure to keep his wines safe.

He found the 1792 Madeira in its correct spot. It was a mild disappointment to open it—he thought it should be saved for a truly special occasion. Still, how likely was it that he would happen upon many more special occasions? And wasn't his very first house guest in oh so many years something of a special occasion? Heartened, he poured the Madeira into a decanter and returned to the parlor.

Nora had not moved. Erik decided that she looked rather quaint in her black silks and white gloves, sitting so primly on the cherry wood settee. Erik smiled at her—oh, he knew she wouldn't see the smile, and for that they could both be thankful. But a smile on the lips carried through the voice, and he imagined that she would be more compliant if she felt at ease.

"What brought you to Rigoletto last week?" he asked.

"What brings anyone to the opera?" she asked.

"It varies." Erik replied mildly. "Some come to see the patrons, others to see the dancing girls. A few come to hear the music."

"I come for the story," she said, a bite in her voice.

"That explains the affection for Pari siamo. It defines the character effectively, though it is otherwise a sub par piece of music." He set out two crystal snifters, though he did not intend to drink anything in her company. He was wearing his white mask, which left his relatively normal lower lip and chin uncovered. In theory he could drink while wearing it, but he had no desire to test out the ability in practice. The mask impaired his sense of smell, as well, which would have been a criminal way to indulge in the rare vintage he was serving.

"I suppose," she replied, accepting the glass Erik held out to her. "I'm not what you would call a connoisseur, unfortunately, though I do thoroughly enjoy the theater. To be honest, I had not even thought to come to the opera while I was in Paris— the ticket for Box Five was a gift."

…While I was in Paris… Erik's smile slipped away.

"Do you not live in Paris?"

"Not as a permanent address. I'm simply here on business."

What a novel idea! Oh, he had heard her foreign inflections, but Paris was full of transplants. For weeks, Erik had an image in his mind of the woman with the rosary, making the same Sunday trek to Notre Dame year in and year out. That was the woman that could have caused trouble for him, putting together the ghost and the walking man, and perhaps revealing the connection in true operatic fashion. But a transient? A visitor who had not even thought to come to the opera in the first place?

"Are you all right, Erik?" she asked. "You haven't even tried the Madeira, and it really is excellent."

"I was sure you lived in Paris," he murmured.

"Does it matter?" she asked. When Erik did not reply, she took a sip of her wine and continued. "I come from Canada. Ottawa, to be precise."

"And you will return there… shortly?"

"By January, I hope."

Erik cursed himself, first silently and then aloud. By her expression, Erik concluded that Nora did not speak Mazandarani, which was probably for the best. Now what? He had had a vague idea of what to do with Nora if he determined that she was a threat. Unpleasant business, of course, but necessary.

He saw little threat in her now, and that left him without a clear plan of action. He turned away from her for a moment, and sipped at the Madeira. No, drinking with a mask was awkward, regardless of the covering's construction.

She was speaking to him now, vague comments about the hour and how hard in was to hire a carriage late at night.

"It is rather too late, isn't it?" he commented, though he could not say if he was really speaking of the midnight hour. "Why don't you use the guest room?" He said. She protested, of course, as any well-bred lady would. I wouldn't want to be an imposition… Oh, I don't want to cause you any trouble…. If you could even just tell me how to get to the surface?... I would really prefer to leave…

Thank goodness he had managed to get the Louis-Philippe room in good order.