Nora thought she had awoken because of the chill. It was past midnight, but she had been abed for only an hour or so. In that brief time, the fire had gone out in her room and she had managed to relocate all of her quilts to the floor. Her muscles were already stiff from the long train ride, and the cold was not helping.

She reached down to retrieve her covers.

"...see…Farley…"

If Nora listened very carefully, she could hear some sort of conversation coming from downstairs.

The wife of the building's owner was shrill and easy to hear. "Monsieur!... at this ungodly hour!... must insist!..."

"Friend… Nora…"

Nora rolled out of bed and stepped into her slippers. Erik? Was that Erik's voice? She put on her robe and tied it tightly. She walked out of her apartments and into the common corridor shared by the few other boarders. None of her neighbors were stirring. She went down the stairs into the foyer.

And there Erik was, looking mad and maniacal, intently telling Madame Perrignier that he needed to see Mademoiselle Farley at once.

Madame Perrignier was refusing, with increasing volume.

Nora approached the open door. There was a frigid breeze coming through it and Erik looked as if he was going to shatter. Nora waved Madame Perrignier away, earning herself a glare that was partially judgmental and partially relieved that someone else would be dealing with the situation. Nora came closer, reaching out but not quite touching him.

"Erik?"

His golden eyes immediately locked onto her. He remained unmoving for a long moment, and Nora had to wonder just what she had gotten herself into. Suddenly, the feral look in his eyes vanished and he was as calm and suave as any Parisian nobleman. "I'm glad to see you again, Nora. How was Marseilles?"

Nora could only stare at him, finding the question—his manner—the entire situation—utterly absurd. "Quite beautiful. …And how are you?"

"How am I?" he repeated, as if awestruck. "How am I?"

Nora lightly took his hand and drew him away from the door. "Come in, Erik. It's brutally cold."

"Brutal, Nora? You don't know what brutality is."

"Perhaps not," Nora said neutrally. Against her better sense, she led him up the stairs to her apartment. Thank heavens that the racket Erik had been making had not awoken Mr. Carey or Perrine, who both slept on the lower level of the house. No amount of Sunday is your day off reminders would keep them away if they saw Erik. She led him to the settee in the parlor before poking at the embers of the fire. She managed to restart a decent flame. She sat down on the extreme opposite side of the settee.

"What's the matter?" she asked. The question came out sounding rather too much like an accusation. She coughed and added, "are you all right, Erik?"

He was silent, now staring into the fire. "How silly of me—how wrong of me—to come here. I think I've opened you up to all sorts of unpleasant commentary. What an ass I am not to think of that before—"

"Erik," Nora inched closer, and dropped her voice to a low, conspiratorial tone, "I think I'll survive whatever gossip people will create for me this week. But tell me— what is the matter? Surely, you would have not come in so much distress if you had not thought that I might be of help to you."

He tilted his head curiously, as if he had not considered such a thing. "I don't believe you can help."

"Then why did you come?"

"I could not stay," he said, "I'll return, of course—but in that moment, with her so close by, I could not stay."

"You're not making any sense to me," Nora commented.

"When have I ever made sense to anyone?" Erik asked philosophically.

When confronted with that question, Nora had to pause. She did not know Erik well, but already she had had some of the most interesting conversations of her life with him. Did they make sense? At one o'clock in the morning, she honestly could not remember.

"There's a spare bedroom," Nora said, keeping her voice soft. Maternal. Most women were maternal, were they not? "Get out of that wet coat, and get some sleep, Erik."

He turned to face her, his mask impassively white. "Are you mad, Mademoiselle? Or are you brave?"

"I don't know," Nora replied. "But you need to clear your head, I think." She wouldn't admit that she was on the verge of falling asleep in the parlor, despite Erik's sudden appearance filling her with a sort of energizing anxiety. "Do I need to be either? We're friends, aren't we?" That last bit was a desperate ploy, but it seemed to blunt some of Erik's sharpness of tone and manner.

"If we are, then you are friends with a devil," he said, his shoulders drooping.

How was she supposed to take such a declaration? "I'm hardly a saint," she replied.

One of his long, thin hands lifted and his fingers hovered close to Nora's face, as if he was tracing the contours of her features. "Yet, you look like one. And I? I look like the monster I am."

"The mask?" Nora hazarded to guess.

"The mask," he whispered back.

"Just rest," Nora insisted. "And tomorrow, you can tell me… whatever you'd like to." She arose and pulled Erik to his feet.

He did not protest, and let Nora show him to the second bedroom. It was filled with the knickknacks she had acquired so far in Paris, but the bed was clean and it was the warmest room in the apartment. His eyes fairly glowed in the apparent absence of light. "I rather blame it all," he said, very prim, "on Don Giovanni." He shut the door and left Nora to wonder just what he meant by that.

Nora succeeded in sleeping rather too well. Her clock chimed six before she managed to open one eye. Early mass was definitely off the day's agenda. But wasn't she supposed to meet Erik after?...

The thought of Erik brought back the strange memories of the previous few hours. In an instant, Nora was on her feet, searching for something appropriate to wear. She glanced in the mirror—Good Lord, had she actually left her room looking like this last night? Her mother would have been ashamed of her, possibly rightly so.

You've lived by your own rules too long, dear girl. Her cousin had said that just months ago, looking as if he was commenting on some great tragedy. Maybe it was.

She was out of her room in quick order.

Erik was already in the parlor, sitting awkwardly in front of the fire. He must have laid new wood down, as there was a nice, strong blaze going. Nora resumed her seat, trying to think of what to say.

Thankfully, Erik spoke first. "I apologize again for any discomfort I may have caused you."

"Thank you," Nora replied. What else was one supposed to say? "I take it that something happen back at the Opera?"

He nodded with one, sharp movement. "You are aware of my… profession."

"I know you have everyone at the Garnier believing that they have a ghost," Nora said. She did not add, I wasn't aware that qualified as a profession.

"I have been with the Palais Garnier since the beginning—the foundation, literally, the foundation. I helped to construct it."

Ah, that did explain some things. "The house on the lake," Nora murmured, "and the moving mirrors."

Nora could see a ghost of a smile where Erik's mask ended. "You are rather too quick for my tastes."

"I've been told that before."

"I am telling you one of my secrets," Erik said. He had changed his voice, using that hypnotic quality he was so adept at. "No one knows that I am still down there." He paused dramatically. "Except you, of course. You cannot tell anyone—"

"Of course," Nora felt a vague headache coming on. "I already told you that I wouldn't. But what happened last night?"

Erik's manner changed again. Gone was his discomfited composure; he was tightly coiled spring, ready to strike out in any direction. "I saw… someone. Someone I never thought I would see again." He shook his head. "It does not matter."

It clearly did matter, but Nora thought it best not to press the subject. She liked Erik, genuinely, but he was unpredictable. "Do you still want to go out for that walk?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. I left too many things undone last night." He paused, seemingly struggling with some unknown foe. "Next week. If you're still here."

"I'll still be here," Nora replied. "Oh, just wait a moment, though—I have something for you."

He startled, as if she had hit him. "Pardon me?"

"Just one moment," Nora went into the room Erik had used and searched out one of the boxes on the table. She returned to the parlor with a bottle in hand. "Marnier Lapostolle started to sell this liqueur just a few years ago—I don't know if you've had it. They call it 'Grand Marnier,' which is really rather pretentious." She handed the bottle to Erik. "It's not a Solera '92 by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought you might like it."

He looked at the bottle, examined it, turned it over and around.

And then he cried.

There was a difference between being graceful and gracious. Gracefulness was mostly a physical thing—poise and unclumsy movement. Graciousness, however, was the art of making any and everyone comfortable, the ability to lend dignity to those who might otherwise lack it. Nora had always been graceful, easy of movement and elegant of countenance. Graciousness, however… true graciousness had always eluded her. There were many times, the moment of Erik's appearance in her home for instance, when she became bitterly convinced she had received the lesser grace.

Tears were one thing that left her at an absolute loss. Her tears only succeeded in making her angry at her own weaknesses. Others' tears left her awkward and uncomfortable. And a man's tears? Seeing Erik pressing his fingers in the eye cutouts of his mask, shoulders shaking in agony, was far beyond her abilities. How many more times could she pat his back and murmur inanities?

At length, he quieted and took one long, shuddering breath. "Forgive me," he said, grave.

Nora wordlessly handed him her handkerchief. "I take it that you don't care for orange liqueur." At the unnaturally sad look in Erik's eyes, Nora regretted her words. Just once she should stop her tongue.

"It is not that," he said, now far more composed. "No one has ever given Erik a gift before."

They sat in silence, Nora's hand still on Erik's shoulder. "Erik… it's a small gift, but I give it without reservation."

"I know," he replied.

Nora sat observed his downcast profile, his beautiful mask that he claimed concealed a devil. She was desperate to give him some sort of comfort, and equally desperate to extradite herself from the situation. Without really thinking, she leaned over and kissed that cold cheek, as one might a good friend. "I'm going to make some tea. Or do you prefer something stronger?..."

He looked at her in shock and whispered, "tea."

Nora nodded and gave his back one last, light pat before getting up. With absolute horror, Nora recognized the feeling Erik was forcing out of her.

I want to fix you. I want to fix you so badly it hurts. I want to mend your heart, even if I must shatter my own. I want to heal your scars, even if it means giving you my skin.

She stopped for an instant, took all of her discomfort and curiosity and compassion and turned it on itself. She turned it into fear and then into anger, and blasted away at that twisted desire to save him from… whatever it was that was attacking him.

God saves, she reminded herself sternly. You will merely hurt him and ruin yourself.

The ending of this chapter struck me as a bit abrupt— let me know if it's too jarring.