Daniel,

You notice, of course, that I do not start out this letter by bestowing you the typical appellation of 'Dear Daniel.' Quite simply put, you are anything but 'dear' to me at the moment. I have been in France since June, first with the assurance of relief being sent in September, and then in December, and now you say February? Honestly, my dear (strike that) cousin, I find it hard to believe you are so wholly indispensable to the Ambassador.

I almost loathe to inform you that I am making decent progress. It has not been easy. I always thought the Americans were obnoxious to conduct business with, but I now look on those prudish parvenus with a bit more fondness. I swear, Frenchmen are insufferable. They simper and scrape and give all sorts of polite attentions—and do absolutely nothing. It is almost tempting to shove off these matters onto Mr. Carey. Indeed, if he was younger, I might well do so. As you know my preference for handling my own affairs, this is no doubt a proper testimony to the profound irritation I find in the mess we refer to so lightly as 'Uncle Christian's Estate.' It is Uncle Christian's Labyrinth, Uncle Christian's Den of Infamous Chaos, Uncle Christian's Personal Level of Hell—it is not an estate, by any proper definition.

To illustrate my point, I am sending you three documents pertaining to the, not one, but two clipper ships in our Uncle's possession. I would like to point out that the small bit of commerce he used these ships for employs nearly forty men. I have arranged a continuing business as best as I can. A few of the senior employees are hoping to buy us out, but it will take time for the funds to come together. We might end up at a slight loss, but I think it will be worth it to eliminate a possibly huge liability. Please reply to this point, if no other.

In other news, I am the same as always. Given that you are still in Canada rather than here, I know that the same sentiment holds true for you.

Not Affectionately, I remain your cousin,
Nora Farley

If Nora had been occasioned to come to Marseilles for any other reason than Christian Tremblay's estate, she would have enjoyed her visit immensely. The city was beautiful and Nora had an absurd fondness for the seaside. It was a pity that her time was consumed with bankers and lawyers instead of ocean breezes. Nora was silently repeating Saturday, Saturday, Saturday—I can go home on Saturday! It did not matter that Paris was hardly home, or that the frustrations of the estate would follow her there. It would still be an escape from the annoyances particular to Marseilles.

The greatest annoyance was likely the society Nora was enduring. It turned out that her otherwise reclusive uncle had been something of a local socialite. Thanks to this legacy, every night since her arrival had involved some tedious supper in the company of tedious people. Paris had never looked so good. She had managed to keep a remarkably low profile there, avoiding invitations of all sorts and relishing the anonymity. That was perhaps the main joy of travel— being allowed to lose one's identity in favor of blending in with the local color. It was a shame she would never have the chance to experience that in Marseilles.

Thursday night had been her largest engagement of the visit—a formal supper and 'little dance for the young people' held by some well-respected barrister. Nora had demurred that she was not young and did not dance. But, blast it; the man had deceived her in fine legal fashion by promising to introduce her to the best property manager in the area. The introduction was made, Nora conceded, but had the unfortunate ramification of waltzing twice with a florid man who conformed to the description of 'young' even less that Nora.

By the time Nora stumbled back into her hotel suite, her new silk shoes were ruined, her hairpins were falling out, and it was possible that she now owned several acres of prime vineyard land. She really couldn't be sure.

"Miss Farley!" Perrine was far too perky for midnight. "Did you have a nice evening?"

Nora tossed her coat onto a chair carelessly. Someone would pick it up. She really did not care who. "It was service a la russe. Sixteen courses." A vision of oysters waltzing suddenly assaulted Nora and made her feel sick. She made it to her vanity and sat down gratefully. "These hairpins are threatening to decapitate me. Get them out."

Perrine tsked at Nora, but obligingly started to take down the elaborate coiffure she had constructed a few hours previous. She chattered on about absolutely nothing, as was her wont. Perrine had been Nora's attendant since 1880, and over all provided fine service. She traveled light and dealt with Nora's toilette efficiently. A little impertinent chattiness could be forgiven. And given that the girl was fast approaching twenty-four and quite pretty, Nora doubted that she would have use of her services for much longer. Surely some Quebecois boy back home found her loquaciousness endearing.

Nora ignored her in a way that would have been unforgivably impolite if they were of equal station. She allowed the one-sided conversation to fade into the background, and mindlessly watched Perrine brush out her hair. The girl was of the hundred-strokes school of thought, and Nora couldn't find the energy to stop her. She idly wondered if she ought to do anything about the silver that was starting thread through her hair. A section near her right temple was lightening at an alarming rate. She supposed there was little point in concealing it. Her age was what it was, and her vanity could no doubt survive the blow…

"Oh, and a delivery did come while you were out."

Nora glanced up. "Where from?"

"Marnier Lapostolle," Perrine replied.

"Good, good. It's bottles—make sure they're packed properly for the train. I would really rather not have orange liqueur spilt over my shoes."

"Should I label them at all?"

"There's one for Daniel," Nora yawned suddenly and rubbed her eyes. "And one for Erik."

"Pardon?"

"Erik. E-R-I— I actually don't know how he spells it. With a 'c,' I suppose. That's how Frenchmen usually spell it, right?"

Perrine nodded and became a little demure. "I don't believe I am familiar with Monsieur Erik."

If the hour had been slightly earlier, or Nora slightly more alert, she would have brushed off the question. Instead she replied, "he's the masked man."

"Your masked man from the bridge?" Perrine asked, sounding far too excited. Nora has protested before that the masked man was not her masked man, but Perrine was a silly girl who still believed in grand romances and fairytale princes. The man in the mask captured her fancy from the first, idle mention Nora had made of him. Erik, Nora was sure, would not be amused.

"I suppose."

"And his name is Erik?"

Nora finally batted away the hair brush and started tugging at the dress buttons within her reach. "That's what he told me."

"Do you think he's handsome under the mask?"

Nora shrugged and hoped that Perrine would not press for an answer. Of course, an answer was not required—a simple that will do, Perrine would have been sufficient. But the question was valid. Nora could not deny that she had wondered about Erik's mask more than once. At length she said, "I don't believe he is."

"You don't? Such a shame."

Nora found herself dozing off, overtired from weeks of activity. Perhaps she should simply leave Marseilles on Friday. She could be home in time to send some little communiqué to Erik and see if the invitation to the opera was still available. It was Don Giovanni, after all. Surely Nora could put up with Erik for a few hours for the sake of a little Mozart. The thought brought a smile to her. She actually found Erik to be perfectly charming company as long as he wasn't attempting to lock her in a guest bedroom. Stiff, awkward, and a little pixilated, but decent company all the same.

She ignored the fact that she certainly wouldn't be able to escape the seaside early, and fell asleep to the idea of Erik singing a strange, tenor version of Méphistophélès.

Nadir had protested repeatedly that Christine did not need to pay him the attention of having her carriage, complete with the de Changy crest, come around to pick him up. He had even brought up the question of delicacy, which Christine had artlessly brushed away.

"You are a friend of the family," Christine insisted, "Raoul and I agree that we are forever in your debt. The least we can do is drive you to the opera!"

Nadir had also objected to that—attending the Garnier's production of Don Giovanni as the Countess's guest. Surely the opera held too many painful memories; surely they need not spend hours being reminded of the past. Again, Christine was firm.

"I like the opera—I love the opera," she said, "and nothing can change that. I also think it an appropriate prelude to our endeavor." How matter-of-fact she sounded! How determined! Nadir had to admire her: she had faced fire and come out as tempered steel.

"I do not think tonight will be our best opportunity to go down to the house," Nadir confided, as the carriage rolled towards the Palais Garnier. "It will be too difficult to slip away unobserved."

She had inclined her head slightly. "It is for the best. To be honest, I simply wanted to see this place again— before seeing to his burial."

"Have you decided what you wish to do with the… remains?"

After a long silence she replied, "Perros." Her tone suggested to Nadir that this location was significant for one reason or another, but he did not think it right to inquire.

"I fear there will be many questions asked," Nadir pointed out.

A smile played at the corner of her mouth. "A few, perhaps. But not many, Monsieur. Look—we are here!"

The Garnier, grand and brilliantly lit appeared before them. It was an imperious beauty, Nadir thought, uncaring about those in it or around it. The world attributed that to Charles Garnier, but Nadir knew better.

He suspected, after seeing her wide eyes, that Christine knew better, as well. The look disappeared as she descended from the carriage. She took Nadir's arm graciously. "Well, then, Monsieur Daroga—" Nadir tried not to wince at the knowledge that she surely had picked up that title from Erik— "Let us listen to Mozart. He shall only make us weep."

"Indeed, Countess."