It will be tragic when your arrogance ruins you.

How many times had Nora's mother said those words to her? Countless, and each time Nora had dismissed the notion. She was perhaps high-handed and a little vain, but arrogant? No, certainly not arrogant.

But what had led to Nora being locked in a door-less bedroom in a house built under the Garnier, if not arrogance? The voice—Erik!— had issued a truly laughable invitation, which she had accepted, foolishly believing that there would be no harm in doing so.

Being pulled through the mirror should have been the first sign that Nora was in well over her head. Instead, she had met that particular occurrence with the mantra of stranger things have happened, stranger things have happened, stranger things have even happened to me.

Now, for the life of her, Nora could not recall what those stranger things had been.

The following trek through the Opera's cellars had been strange to say the least, but it was not until her foolish comment about Erik's mask that Nora considered 'danger' to be a real possibility. He had stayed silent and still, but his entire being tensed. A small part of Nora's mind—the part that was too arrogant to feel fear—commented wryly: I have seen my own death, and it is in Erik's voice.

The moment passed, he brought out the Madeira, and Nora believed they were now beyond the point of danger.

Then came the innocuous talk of where Nora lived, prompting Erik to change manners again. She tried to extract herself from the situation. The effort proved to be in vain and Nora was soon locked away as 'his guest!' He left her with a candle, all the while lamenting God knew what in an undertone. Still, his voice! Nora could not stand to be mad at him as long as he had that voice, tragic but hypnotic all the same.

She had searched the room as best she could. She located a bedside lamp that was out of fuel and then a set of gas powered sconces. These lit the room well enough for her to clearly make out the layout and furniture. It was much the same as Erik's parlor. The pieces were all in early the Louis-Philippe style, perhaps fifty years old but wonderfully maintained. A bed—a side table—a loveseat—an overstuffed chair— and no door leading out!

She sat down on the couch and worked off her white opera gloves. They had become quite soiled during their descent to the underworld. Nora grumbled, irritated by her own musings.

You make for a poor Persephone. She managed to confine herself to a few pomegranate seeds. You drank the entire glass of wine!

Exasperated, she stood and examined the room again. There were banal knickknacks on most every surface, a multitude of empty flower vases, and an unwound clock on the bedside. Nora found herself drawn to the ostrich egg displayed above the fireplace. It appeared to have hit a sharp corner, knocking in a sizable hole.

A perfectly normal door led to a surprisingly modern bathroom, which included a fully stocked vanity.

As for the other door, it seemed to have all but disappeared. She had a fair idea of where it was, but there was no seam on the wall. At last she found a groove on the baseboard. Sadly, no amount of pulling, scratching, or pounding seemed to have an effect.

Good God, but this was not how Nora had envisioned her Saturday evening—or, rather, her Sunday morning.

Would Erik still be going on his Sunday morning walk? Nora laughed darkly. If he did and decided to bring Nora along with him, she would push him into the Seine.

With that all together pleasing image in mind, Nora settled down onto the loveseat. It seemed that her only course of action was to wait for morning.

Nora awoke to a warm fire, an open door, and astonishingly beautiful music. Given her stiff neck and heavy eyes, it could not have been later than three or four in the morning. She stood, a little shaky, and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to restore some semblance of neatness. She was getting tired of abusing her best dresses and trimmings. Perhaps next Saturday—should she see next Saturday—she would refuse to go out at all. She would put on a proper nightgown at a decent hour and while her evening away with a glass of sherry and the newspaper. Or maybe needlework. Decent women stayed in on Saturdays and did needlework, didn't they?

She stepped towards the open door. It did not swing open on hinges, she realized. It slid into the wall on tracks. Were any of the walls in the Opera House normal? She suspected not.

She found Erik sitting at the piano in the parlor. For once, he was gloveless. His hands appeared to be little more than bone and tendons covered by too-pale, too-thin skin. There was something in his posture that reminded Nora of their first encounter. He was hunched and miserable-looking. He stopped playing and turned to face her with great reluctance.

It turned out that his eyes really were the most astounding shade of golden amber. She had not noticed them last night, but they now glittered in the half light. They were bloodshot.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Nora simply stood at the doorway and stared at him, arms folded. Sorry. Well, that was a start…

"I should have lit the fire for you last night," he continued, before turning to pick out a few doleful notes on the piano.

Nora processed this. "The fire? "

"It can get dreadfully cold down here," he said, "but I am accustomed to it. It only occurred to me a little while ago that you might be in need of some warmth." God, but how could one man's voice sound so powerfully mournful?

Nora felt her fingernails digging into her skin and forced her hands to relax. "I wouldn't have needed the fire if you had let me go home."

His reply to this was to heave a dramatic sigh. He continued tinkering with the piano, the seemingly random notes shaping into what might have been a dirge. "It is my lot in life. In the end, Erik is always left alone."

"I was under the impression that you were Erik," Nora grumbled, which earned her a malevolent glare. You are at the mercy of a man who pretends to be a ghost and occasionally refers to himself in the third person. And you think that antagonizing him is the most appropriate course of action? She forced her irritation away. She was sure that she would have ample future opportunities for wrath and subsequent confession—now was not the time.

"You're mocking… me," he replied.

"Yes, I am," she sighed and came to sit on the far end of the piano bench. "But I don't mean much by it. I'm afraid I really don't know how to behave around a ghost."

"You know as well as I do that I am not a ghost," he said," nor an angel nor a demon — I am simply Erik. But we have been over this before."

"So we have," she said, keeping her tone light and inoffensive. "So where do we go from here?"

"It's Sunday morning," he said, as if that explained everything.

"I thought it might be."

He chuckled at some unfathomable joke. "When I heard your voice in Box Five, all I could see was the woman from Sunday morning, looking prim and devoted and furious at some unknown enemy. And I laughed! I thought, here now is Sunday bleeding over into the rest of my life. How lovely! Because I was very fond of seeing you on Sundays, and I thought that perhaps it would not be a terrible thing to see you at other times. But then I saw you the next morning, attired as if it was Saturday even though it was Sunday, and I realized that there was nothing amusing in the situation."

Nora remained still, eyes fixed on Erik's profile. She imagined that the beautifully sculpted mask followed the basic lines of his face—high, strong cheekbones and a straight, patrician nose. But if that were the case, why wear the mask in the first place? "If it helps, I never expected to see you any place other than on the Pont au Double." She rested her fingers lightly on his cuff. He drew away. "I was always glad to see you there, too. I even felt that way last week, after I realized that you had been the irritating poltergeist that had me evicted from my seat."

He paused for a moment, and then laughed. It was not his earlier little chuckle, but a deep, heartfelt rumble.

It was terrifying, but Nora found that she smiled in response. Soon, she laughed as well, fueled as much by anger and apprehension as merriment and relief. It begged the question—what was making Erik laugh? What was on his mind, what was he feeling? Nora hadn't the faintest idea, but she laughed anyway.

"I think we have gotten off to a bad start," Nora said after the moment had passed. If only she could get Erik on her side, perhaps this would all end well.

"A start, Mademoiselle?" he asked, turning to face her more directly.

"We shared a bottle of wine. I am your… guest. We have leave to call one another by our Christian names. We both admitted that we liked to see one another on Sunday mornings. It appears to me that we're starting a friendship."

"A friendship, indeed?" he murmured.

"I think so."

Erik was quiet for a moment. "There once was a woman… and she told me the most beautiful lies."

Ah, perceptive, wasn't he? Prevarication was the hallmark of many a gentlewoman and it was a skill Nora excelled in. But Erik did not seem to be inclined to lend credence to her idea of 'friendship.'

"Many people lie, for myriad reasons," Nora replied.

"And what have you lied about?" he asked.

"Nothing I've ever been proud of." This conversation was slipping from her control—if she had ever been in control of it in the first place.

Erik's voice was amused the next time he spoke, "and perhaps that is the most honest answer I could hope for." He stood up, rolling his thin shoulders. "It's already after four. Shall we leave?" Nora's puzzlement must have been obvious, for Erik continued. "I do intend on taking my morning stroll. Won't you join me?" His voice was slick and controlled again, just as it had been when he had masqueraded as the opera ghost.

Nora nodded and arose. "Let me get my gloves." They would be a terror to wrestle on by herself, but it would undoubtedly be chilly.

Erik nodded and let Nora pass him with a sweepingly theatrical gesture. She would have laughed if not for his evident sincerity. Was he mad? She couldn't be sure. She didn't think so, at least not as one usually considered madness. Her mocking words from the previous evening—you don't entertain much—were coming back to haunt her. It was obvious that it was more than that. He danced through subjects and tones, from the stiffly formal to the uncomfortably intimate. It had perplexed Nora, until she finally identified the cause. Not only do you not entertain, I believe you simply don't speak with other people at all.

He was waiting for her by the front door, wearing a heavy greatcoat that concealed his formal wear. He held out a shawl patterned in pale yellow and blue paisley. It would have been lovely on some fair blonde, Nora thought, but undoubtedly looked quite absurd on her. Vanity took a secondary place to practicality, and she was thankful he had thought to provide the shawl for her.

She decided not think about why he possessed a very fine article of ladies' wear.