The boat ride was little different from the last one, that odd, ethereal blue light shimmering over the black waters of the lake. Erik stared at Nora as he rowed and from time to time she could catch a glimpse of his yellow eyes. They unnerved her more than his artisan mask or skeletal fingers ever could.

Eventually they were on shore again. Their exit was not made by zigzagging up and down through the Opera's walls again, thank God. Rather, he led her through a maze of perfectly normal service corridors and out of a perfectly ordinary gate.

"Rue Scribe," he murmured and pointed to a close-by street sign. His tone was nearly panicked, as though he had just confessed some mortal sin. Nora patted his arm reassuringly; though she hadn't a clue what it was he was so alarmed over. What were the things he had been harping on? Her residency in Paris, her presence at the opera, the fact that they saw each other on Sunday—and that he was upset by the idea that his Sundays were bleeding over into the rest of his week.

He led her through Le Marais, distracting her from her train of thought. They walked past several of the old mansions, and he seemed to have commentary on the style and engineering of each. She could barely see them in the predawn gloom, but he continually pointed out minute details that she would then strain to make out. He spoke with such ease and authority on the subject, Nora might have believed that he had built each one. It occurred to her that the seamless door in his guest room and perhaps even the opening mirror in the Grand Foyer were of Erik's own construction.

She thought then of his effortless musicality, how he had touched the piano keys with careless fingers and brought forth the most exquisite melodies.

The more she thought on it, the more she was convinced that Erik had to be a genius.

…and what did a genius in a mask fear?

No, not a genius in a mask, simply a man in a mask. What did a masked man fear?

Revelation.

"Erik?" she whispered.

"Yes?"

"Are you afraid that I'm going to tell someone about you?" Said aloud, it sounded so foolish, but he did stop mid stride.

"Why would you say something like that?" His voice was low, dangerously so.

"I'm not going to," she replied. He actually tensed more at that statement. "I have no reason to do so, and every reason not to."

"Oh?"

"I told you I thought we might be becoming friends."

"You did," he replied. He started walking again, though he was still stiff.

"I'll tell you right now that I am not a very good friend," she continued. "In fact, I'm a notoriously bad friend. But…"

"Thank you," he said. The phrase was strangled but soft, and Nora took it as her cue to stop speaking.

She wondered for a moment if she could break away from him now, walk home as if the previous evening had not occurred. Perhaps she should erase more than that—perhaps her entire stay in Paris should simply cease to be remembered.

No. She could not help feeling that, by doing so, she would be committing some grave wrong.

They came to Notre Dame.

"I'd like to go in," Nora said.

"Why?" he asked, cavalier.

I'm afraid I'm bound for Hell, and I'd rather not go did not seem to be the appropriate response. "As I'm sure you've noticed, I am in the habit of attending."

"The mass is nearly half over," he replied. He appeared quite intent to continue walking with Nora. She had kept her hand linked through his arm for the duration of their stroll. He now covered her hand quite firmly with his own.

Perhaps she had been foolish in thinking that Erik would let her walk away.

"Then I will return rather quickly, won't I?"

"If you return at all," Erik replied primly.

"Don't be silly." She smiled at him, hoping to get some sort of positive reaction. "You know exactly where I'll be when Mass ends."

"Perhaps," he conceded.

"If you're so scared that I'll get lost on my way out—" better that phrase than anything to set him on edge, like escape—"you could come in with me. I sit in the back."

He paused and stared into Nora's eyes. Strange, how his own eyes practically disappeared. "I will see you… at the bridge." With that, he left her in front of the cathedral and walked away.

Nora watched him leave, not quite believing what was happening. He faded out of sight and Nora absently crossed herself. She drew the unbecoming shawl over her hair and walked in.

The Bell Song from last night's opera was haunting Erik. Annoying might have been the more appropriate word. It flittered at the edge of his consciousness, reminding him that all of last night's events were true.

Damning and true.

He had forced himself to examine the events continually from the time he had locked Nora in the Louis-Philippe room until she had reappeared in the parlor. He had consumed half the bottle of Madeira in that time, which was no doubt the root of his current headache. That and Lakmé.

…Il marche encore au hasard, et perdu!...

He walked a little faster, trying to stay ahead of the song.

It unnerved him how Nora had acted both last night and this morning. She shifted continually from careless bravado to desperate anxiety. Oh, the latter sentiment was always well concealed, but he saw it in her eyes. It was a familiar paradox—Erik had seen the same drama of emotions play out in the eyes of many a dying man.

Here was a woman who would not accept the courtesy blindfold, Erik was sure. Not that he was in the habit of offering them to those who fell to the tender mercies of his lasso. Still, there were men who seemed to be equipped with a mental blindfold, privately shying from the last moment of terror while giving all appearances of steady nerves and untarnished honor. It was a rare condemned person who truly faced the end with equanimity. He did not know which category Nora would fall into, but he knew she would at least put up the show.

Christine would have preferred the blindfold. Could he blame her?

They had one commonality between them, sweet Christine and sour Nora—they both knew one of Erik's secrets. Christine knew Erik's face; Nora his profession. He wondered which was worse off.

Christine, no doubt. Christine had not only the burden of his face, but the burden of his love. It must have been a terrible thing to be loved by a monster, though Erik thought it might be preferable to being unloved altogether.

And Nora—well, Nora might be free at this very moment! Surely she would flee, or seek sanctuary in the house of her god.

The dawn ascended, vibrant pinks and purples over the still-shaded buildings of Paris. Erik took up his post at the bridge as the cathedral bells tolled.

To his shock, she appeared. She was wrapped tightly in the shawl Erik had provided. He had purchased it for Christine, but she had never used it. It was almost sacrilegious that Nora wore it. Almost.

She looked up and stared directly at Erik. The slightest smile played at her lips.

…L'etranger la regarde, Elle reste eblouie...

Ah, but what was the end of that particular part of the song? Oh, yes. He is more beautiful than all the Rajas! How typical.

She came to a halt a few paces in front of him. "Good morning, Monsieur."

Erik touched the brim of his hat. "Good morning, Mademoiselle."

They stayed at an impasse for some time, before Nora finally came to stand next to Erik and took his arm.
"It seems that we usually travel in opposite directions," she commented. If Erik was not mistaken, this could well be small talk.

"I usually return to the Opera at this point," Erik said. They stood still on the bridge, facing out into the water rather than in any particular direction.

"I usually head towards home, as well," she replied, "which is in rather the opposite direction from the Garnier."

Erik did not reply. Let her go—she as well as promised to keep your confidence. Then again, had not Christine as well as promised to love him? Show me your face without fear, she had said.

Let us burn the mask, she had said. Your face will never bother me again. More than a broken promise—an outright lie.

Perhaps Nora lied as well.

Whether she was true or false, she was apparently aware of Erik's indecision. "Let's simply walk."

"No, I think not," Erik said.

"Why not? You clearly like to walk."

"The hour is late for me," Erik said. "There are too many people out now."

She glanced around. "Perhaps. But we needn't let them bother us."

Erik shook his head. There certainly was a carelessness that came with a normal face. It never seemed to occur to the average individual that it might be best for one to stay hidden. He tapped his mask. "They will bother me."

She looked up at him intently. "Will you ever let me—"

"No. " That was it—she was certainly coming back with him to the Opera House. She was too curious, too candid, too—

"All I am saying is that they will not bother me, ergo they will not bother you. If we walk together, that is." She took the smallest step to cross the bridge, daring Erik to either follow or drag her back.

He followed, though he did not believe her.

They spoke of everything and nothing.

She asked about his interest in architecture, which he was delighted to expound on. He steered the conversation carefully away from how he acquired his knowledge, instead drawing her attention to the structures surrounding them. She pointed out the building she was staying in, though she made no attempt to direct their walk closer to it. Erik assured her that it was an excellent specimen in a historic neighborhood, but would she like to know about the former occupants of the street from, oh, 1755?...

The conversation eventually shifted. He learned about the business that bought her to Paris, and more about inheritance law than he would ever be occasioned to use.

She tried to draw him onto the topic of travel, but Erik did not allow himself to be prevailed on. He touched on some of his more conventional destinations, bypassing the Middle East all together. She chatted on rather passionately on the subject, having been more places than Erik might have first supposed.

Travel soon turned to opera, and Erik was thankful. They were wandering the Luxembourg Garden, arm in arm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. It would have been a shame if she had attempted to force unpleasant subjects.

"The first opera I saw was Don Giovanni," Nora said. "I was in Prague with my aunt, and they were performing it at the Theatre of the Estates. I was sixteen, and at the time the main attraction in Ottawa was the construction site for the Parliament buildings. The overture began and I knew I was lost forever."

Erik smirked to himself. "Tell me, did your sixteen-year-old self come for the story?"

"Admittedly, my sixteen-year-old self was more excited over my first real evening gown with a full-length skirt," she shrugged. "I also did not speak Italian, which led to a lot of erroneous speculation on my part as to what was occurring on stage. My aunt, of course, did not see fit to reveal the particulars of the story to me. But I can assure you, when I returned to Canada, I became a very dedicated student of the language, and the next time I saw Don Giovanni, I was watching for the story."

"And what did you think of it?"

"I still loved the overture," she said. "Now you."

"What about me?" Erik inquired. He made no secret that he disliked the subject immensely.

"What was the first opera you saw?"

Ah, perhaps not so terrible a question. "I attended the premiere of Rusalka at the Bolshoi Kamenny Theater." He chose not to mention that he had in fact snuck into the theater and spent the entire performance concealed on the catwalks. "It was unspectacular and the acoustics were appalling."

"And yet, you live under an opera house. The experience must not have been wholly repellent." she commented wryly. Erik glared at her and she smiled serenely.

"I was… compelled by it," he admitted at last. "I was also compelled to resolve to build a better theater and compose a greater score—not that either would be difficult given the bar that had been set."

"And have you succeeded?" she asked.

"Oh, yes."

She looked at him, curious, but did not pester him with further questions.

Erik's Sunday morning stroll stretched on far longer than he would have expected. By a quarter to eleven, Nora was leaning on his arm more out of exhaustion than familiarity.

"They called me Nora because people thought I should be named after my mother, who was Honorée," she said very quietly, a wholly unprompted confession. "But my father was an Englishman and a cynic, and simply couldn't hold with that sort of nonsense. ...Why did they christen you Erik?"

Again with her infernal questions. Erik had discovered that she did not mean much by them. She would say something, and then ask him something, anything. What this or what do you think of that or has that ever happened to you? She seldom made the mistake of twice trespassing on subjects Erik had refused to speak on—but as the day ran on, she was becoming more impertinent. Perhaps it was not impertinence. Perhaps it was merely how people spoke to one another. Regardless, he found himself leading her back to her own neighborhood.

"No one christened me Erik," he replied. "It's simply a name."

"It's a nice name," she said. "Erik. It suits you."

Was he supposed to thank her for such a strange observation? Reply with a comment on her own name? He was saved by arriving at the building she had pointed out as her residence. "I believe this is where we part ways," he said.

She seemed to come out of her sleep-deprived fog. "My goodness, you've brought me home."

"What did you expect?" Erik thought his tone was perhaps a little too sharp—after all, when they had started out this morning, he hadn't known where they would end up.

"I don't know. I don't think I expected anything." she replied. She disengaged her arm from Erik and turned to face him. What a sight they must have been! Her dark hair had escaped its confines in a dozen different directions, and Erik noticed for the first time how utterly strange the paisley shawl looked with her black silk dress. "Thank you, Erik."

He looked at her intently, searching her face for any sign that fatigue had slipped over into madness. "Whatever for?"

"For the most interesting evening I have had in years," she replied. "I suppose I'll see you again next—"

"It's Don Giovanni next week," Erik found himself saying.

"Pardon?"

"The next performance. It's Don Giovanni—which I now know you to be quite fond of." Erik decided that he had clearly been out of doors too long. The sunlight was going to his head. "You are welcome to be my guest next Saturday." Oh, yes, the sun was making him mad. He found himself using his most enchanting tones, willing her to agree. "It seems only fair, considering that I cut short your previous stay in Box Five."

She was staring at him, wide-eyed. "I'd love to."

She agreed! A perfectly normal woman had agreed to be his guest, without the use of coercion or threats or…

"…but I'll be in Marseilles next week."

Erik went cold again. Ah, always women and their lies. "Marseilles?"

"It turns out that my uncle had a number of investments tied up with the local banks there," she said. "I'll be returning Saturday, but my train isn't scheduled to arrive in Paris until nearly midnight. I fear the Don will already be in Hell by that time."

"I see," Erik replied. Even her eyes lied this time, as she bemoaned the unpleasant business that awaited her in Marseilles. One could nearly believe she was not thrilled at the prospect of escaping Erik's company.

They were back to uncomfortable silence. Erik longed to walk away, as quickly as could be, and return to the safe sanctity of the Opera House…

"I'll see you on Sunday, of course," she said, lightly touching Erik's cuff as seemed to be her habit. "If you don't mind, perhaps we should go back to the Luxembourg Garden. I'd like to see it all."

How well she deceived, Erik thought. She gave such specific details, spoke with such sincerity. Did she sing? If she did, she should surely be on stage. The world would weep at her command. "Perhaps," Erik heard himself say, cautious and cold.

She smiled at him, brighter than the sun. "Well, then. Good day, Monsieur."

Erik bowed over her hand, ever so correctly. "Good day, Mademoiselle."

She went inside and Erik left for the Garnier.

It almost felt as if he had not been deceived at all.