When Nora thought of her father, one composite image appeared in her mind's eye. Dressed in conservative dark shades, though the fashions during Nora's youth would have let him wear whatever color he pleased, sitting behind the massive desk in his library. He would always be looking down at something—a book, a piece of correspondence—silver-rimmed glasses gleaming in the firelight. He would never set aside whatever business he was attending to, but his gaze would flicker up and he would listen intently to whatever problem Nora would bring before him. He was not a man to bother unnecessarily and certainly not one to argue with.

Nora had found that she tended to mimic his behaviors from time to time, usually when she did not want to deal with the consequences of her decisions or commentary from others.

Therefore, when she met with Mr. Carey on Monday morning to discuss the week's agenda, she sat at her writing desk and kept her eyes focused on the open ledger.

"I want to prepare to go to Burgundy," she said, tallying up her recent expenses and comparing them to her resources.

"When are you intending to depart?" Mr. Carey asked.

"I don't have a set a date, but I want to be ready to leave quickly." Nora let her gaze flicker up and then immediately back down. "We will likely have a guest to arrange for, as well."

"Will Mr. Tremblay be rendezvousing with us in Côte de Beaune or traveling with us out of Paris?"

"I haven't a clue what Mr. Tremblay will be doing," Nora replied. "I am thinking of bringing a friend with me."

"A friend, Miss Farley?" Nora had been prepared for Mr. Carey to sound vaguely scandalized—it was actually rather depressing to hear him sound so surprised.

"I do have them, Mr. Carey," Nora glanced back at him.

His face was utterly bland. "I did not intend to imply otherwise, Miss Farley."

"My friend is not particularly social," Nora continued. "If we end up taking him along with us, we'll want a private train car."

Mr. Carey's pause was slightly too long for an imperturbable servant. "Indeed. Might I enquire where you met the… gentleman?"

Nora looked up at him, keeping her gaze even and hard. "Really, Mr. Carey, is that disapproval I hear?"

"Such would not be my place, Miss Farley."

Nora gave him a bare smile. "Speaking of my friend, I'm meeting him at the opera tomorrow night. Make sure Perrine airs out my green damask, please."

"Miss Farley—" Mr. Carey paused briefly. "What time would you like the carriage to come around for you?"

Nora let her smile brighten. "A little earlier than last time. Thank you, Mr. Carey."

"Of course, Miss Farley," he sounded a little faint and Nora dismissed him.

That went well, all things considered. She certainly would not be bringing Mr. Carey with her on whatever her next trip was—it was too difficult to feel obliged to live up to someone's expectations, even if he was staff and Nora had no particular duty to respect his opinions.

Still, she could be assured that Mr. Carey would make the arrangements for Erik to accompanying him if she asked him to. The soft sighs and sad eyes would not impact his results, at least.

Of course, there was still the question of whether Erik would take up her offer at all. She had been reliving every moment they had spent together yesterday since leaving him on the Rue Scribe. His haphazard tale—or had it been a confession?—of his former student had been befuddling at the least.

I kidnapped her. Nora had found that amusing, though she knew she ought not. She wondered if Erik considered locking Nora in his guest room kidnapping. Probably not.

I deceived her. Not surprising, given that the man's 'career' was playacting a ghost.

I treated her abominably. In Nora's experience, most men treated women abominably if they were afforded the opportunity to do so. Few men were actually aware of it—fewer still admitted to it.

I loved her. Nora didn't bother to deny the little spike of jealousy that had hit her when Erik had first made that declaration. She did not share well, even when it was merely a question of friends. It was another reason not to become too close to people—such relationships tended to bring out the worst in her. It was best simply to acknowledge the feeling and move forward. After all, Erik was at least ten years her senior, if not more. It was far from surprising that he had some sort of romantic history. And she could hardly imagine Erik falling into some sort of jealous huff if she bothered to mention an old affair. She moved away from that train of thought.

I loved her.

No wonder Erik had been in such a misery when he had come to see her. It was amazing what love, particularly disappointed love, could do to even the most serious-minded person. And if Nora wasn't mistaken, Erik could hardly be classified as the most stable man in France.

There was the one other part of Erik's tale that had struck a chord with Nora—she thinks I'm dead.

How many others were under that impression? He had said that Nora was now the only one who knew that he was living under the opera house. Did everyone else of his acquaintance think him to be dead?

There had been a time in Nora's life where that idea would have been very appealing to her. Even now, the idea that one could simply cut all ties with the past and move forward was one of her most dearly held beliefs. Perhaps she was not alone in that mindset.

Nora rested her head in her hands for a moment. One of these days, she would have to get a decent night's sleep. Perhaps she would go hide out in her late aunt's old house in the English countryside for a month or six after she left France.

…or, at the very least, it still took ten days to cross the Atlantic by steamer. If she locked herself in her cabin and refused to be sociable, she might be awake by the time the ship arrived in New York.

She rang for coffee and tried to put Erik out of her mind. No need to allow the man to monopolize her every waking moment. She would be seeing him soon enough as it was.

It seemed perfectly logical to Nora that she was standing in a dark little nook of the Rue Scribe near twilight, dressed for the opera. After some consideration, that thought struck her as quite amusing. She pulled her sable cape in tighter, hoping that Erik would appear shortly. She had been standing near the gate that led to the underground for over a half hour; the opera would be starting in less than a quarter of an hour.

He finally did appear, hold a lantern and… horse reins?

"I wouldn't want to see you ruin yet another evening gown on my account," he said, voice singsong. Nora decided that was her least favorite tone that Erik used. It was more unnerving than his mask could ever be. Well—perhaps not tonight's mask. Rather than his typical white sculpture, this one was matte black and covered every bit of his face, save his eyes.

"How thoughtful," Nora murmured, trying not to sound sarcastic. It wasn't as if she did not appreciate the gesture, but she had to wonder about the sentiment that would have precipitated it. She let Erik help her up onto the horse, which was a fine animal fitted with a sidesaddle. It was an uncomfortable business in her bustled gown, but there was no denying that Erik was leading the horse far faster than Nora could have walked the dank pathways. "Have you thought about taking a little vacation?"

"I have," he said.

"And?"

He was quiet for some time. "It's still Don Giovanni playing. I thought you might be pleased."

"Erik, you never seem to answer questions."

"Don't I?" Was Nora imagining things, or did he sound like he was laughing? They arrived at some sort of junction and Erik offered Nora his hand. She slipped off the horse and Erik tethered it to a makeshift fence and trough. "Come along, my dear, we still have quite a ways to go. Oh, and do be quiet. Sound travels in the most astonishing way in this opera house."

"Why does it strike me as likely that you might have something to do with that phenomenon?"

He turned to face Nora, though she could barely perceive the motion in the gloom. His eyes sparkled and smiled at her. Good God, but was this Erik in a good mood?

They were taking a notably different path from the one Erik had led her down from the Grand Foyer. He was right about sound carrying, too. As soon as they were out of the lower levels, it seemed as if Nora could hear voices coming from absolutely everywhere. She nearly asked Erik a question, but he held up a white-gloved finger to her lips.

The corridors became narrower and they finally came to a dead end. Nora could hear Leporello starting to sing of his woes as Don Giovanni's servant.

Erik stood motionless for a minute before pressing his ear to the wall. He nodded once to himself, and then noiselessly slid the wall open.

Nora found herself in Box Five. Erik saw her settled into the best chair before sitting down next to her, obscured by shadows.

"I'm starting to think you're rather clever," Nora whispered.

Again, she could have sworn that he was smiling under that mask. "I am."

"Now what about—"

"Just enjoy the opera, Nora," he said. He patted her hand in a fashion she could almost call condescending. Nonetheless, she leaned back and… enjoyed the opera.

The cough started near the middle of the third scene, and Nora knew it was going to give her trouble. By the time the intermission started, she was biting her glove to keep quiet. Erik had eyed her curiously.

"Are you sick?" He asked. He didn't seem concerned so much as a trifle repelled.

Nora shook her head. "Just tired. I'll get a beverage—it'll be just fine."

"Be discreet," Erik chided her, as he managed to fade back into the wall with Nora seeing the entrance open.

"Well, I can't promise that I'll be as discreet as an apparition," Nora coughed once more. "At least, I think I can manage to blend in with this particular crowd."

"Very funny," his voice faded as the wall closed seamlessly.

Refreshments were served downstairs in the Salon du Glacier, which was further away from the Grand Tier than Nora would have liked. She supposed it was fairly uncommon for anyone sitting in those boxes to bother getting their own drinks, though not unheard of. By the time she arrived, her cough had mostly faded away.

Regardless, she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter before starting back out of the salon.

"Mademoiselle Farley?"

She paused at Didier Moncharmin's voice. Blending in was often easier when no one knew your name. "Monsieur Manager."

Moncharmin offered a blinding smile and bowed over Nora's hand. "I did not know you were still in Paris."

"Just for a short while longer," Nora said, falling easily into the mild, flirtatious tones every debutante learned to use. "But I heard wonderful things about your Don Giovanni. I had to come and see it for myself."

"I wish you had told me," Moncharmin said, "I would have gladly had you as my guest."

"I'm already here as a guest," Nora demurred.

"As well you should be," Moncharmin bowed again. "I forget what seat you said you were in."

Nora smiled over the rim of her champagne flute. "Possibly because I did not mention it." She let the statement hang, and nearly rolled her eyes when Moncharmin's smile took on a knowing glint.

"Of course, Mademoiselle," he said. "Just so long as you aren't a guest of the ghost, eh?"

"Monsieur Moncharmin," Nora handed off her now empty glass, "you are obsessed."

He inclined his head ever-so-slightly. "We all have our foibles."

"Indeed." Nora offered an equally shallow nod. "I had best be returning to… my seat."

"Of course—" Moncharmin looked away for a moment and then turned his attention back to Nora. There was a strange, urgent look on his face. "But permit me to make an introduction first."

"Pardon me?"

"Well, it never hurts to have the right type of friends," Moncharmin said, guiding Nora with a light touch to the elbow. He deposited her in front of a young woman—twenty, twenty-one, perhaps. She was the type of beauty that was almost always in fashion, Nora thought. Slender and feminine, with honey blonde hair and unfocused blue eyes.

"Countess," Moncharmin began, "may I present Mademoiselle Nora Farley? Mademoiselle Farley, the Countess de Changy."

Possible anachronism: I couldn't find a date for when the Salon du Glacier was added to the Garnier, but I know it wasn't an original part of the opera house. But, you know, let's go with it for now.