Definitely a transition chapter. But we're in for some exciting things very soon!

The full import of Erik's decision to go with Nora to Burgundy, with all its myriad ramifications, did not really occur to him until suppertime.

The clock had chimed six and Nora had rung for her servant—the cold old man who eyed Erik with blatant disapproval.

"Mr. Carey, would you be so good as to lay out a place setting for Monsieur Erik?" She made this request with such a lackadaisical, matter of course air that Erik nearly ignored it. But then—

A place setting? Did she really expect Erik to dine with her tonight? Had she expected him to dine with her every night for the duration of their trip? He looked at her intently. Perfectly calm, perfectly guileless. It was as if she didn't even realize that she trying to move heaven and earth!

Just as old Carey was turning away, Erik spoke up. "No, no. That's not necessary."

Nora had turned to him with a strange small smile, a spark of coquetry in her eyes. "Oh, come now, Erik—" suddenly, her face changed and she eyed Erik's mask with something like understanding. "Are you sure?" That was obviously not what she had intended to say, but the transition was so faultless Erik barely caught the break in her speech.

Erik nodded.

"Very well, then," she turned again to Carey. "Tea, please, Mr. Carey."

"Nora," Erik said, using his best cajoling tones. "Go enjoy your supper. I think I'd like to retire early today."

The following moment was consumed by uncomfortable silence, Nora and Erik maintaining eye contact. Eventually, Nora looked away and nodded. "All right, then."

She offered to show Erik to his room, but he declined this as well. Again she allowed Erik to have his way without question.

It befuddled Erik how she did that. Some times, she would needle, push—extracting the story of Christine came to mind. But on other occasions, she would glance at him and drop a subject immediately. It was as if she could tell how Erik was going to respond simply by looking at him, and it unnerved him utterly. He searched through his memories, wondering if other people communicated in like manner. In a way, he could say Nadir treated him in a similar fashion—the difference being that he did not seem to care if he upset Erik or not. Nora seemed to intentionally leave off from subjects that distressed Erik, regardless of what the consequences might be to her.

It was probably coincidental.

He spent the next half hour sitting awkwardly in the guest bedroom. Guest. Guest. When had Erik ever been a guest? How ought a guest behave? Probably not in the fashion Erik was proceeding, hiding out as it were. The more he thought of it, the surer he was that he was making a terrible mistake.

Erik was almost thankful when Carey, bearing a covered tray, interrupted his unpleasant thoughts.

"Supper for you, sir." He had followed this statement up with a hard glare and stood at rigid attention.

Erik simply stared at him for a moment, until he realized the man was waiting for a formal dismissal. He tried to remember what Nora would say to Carey, but she had a habit of fading into English around her staff. At last, Erik managed to say, "Thank you, Monsieur."

The man nodded in return and left, leaving Erik to stare at the tray. After a moment he arose and turned the lock on the door. The room was windowless, and the one mirror was in the far corner.

After great hesitation, he slipped off his mask, and immediately felt naked and exposed. After a lifetime of wear, he could not help but view his mask as a second skin. Would one simply take off their skin at the slightest prompting? He thought not. He had gone on for days masked. At times he found himself sleeping in one, only to suffer the next day with sores and inflammation.

But as for eating, he was obliged to do so barefaced.

He lifted the covering off the tray. Soup and meat, three types of vegetables and some sort of sweet pudding. Nora didn't do things by halves, did she? A note card was placed next to the plate.

You can't expect me to let you go hungry, now can you?

-N.

What a strange thing to write! Quite the hostess, wasn't she? He tried to divine some hidden meaning in her words—was that a hint of mockery? Did she assume that Erik's refusal of supper had been some sort of personal slight? He was humiliated at the thought. He picked at the provided food, and tried not to let his mind run wild with the possibilities of the future.

The rest of the night proved little easier to deal with than the misfortune of supper. Erik was restless and could not sleep. The bed was comfortable, the door firmly locked, but he could not rid himself of feeling hunted. He extinguished and relit the lamps a half-dozen times during the course of the night, finally resigning himself to miserable wakefulness by the early morning hours.

He walked around the room more than once. The space was filled with an odd assortment of things—books, antiques, bottles of spirits, wrapped packages from ladies' couturiers. Nora had apologetically noted that she had been using the room as a storage space. Erik had not thought much of the statement at first, stating that he would only be her guest for the one night. But the more he thought of it, the more uncomfortable he felt. Being surrounded by her things, unable not to look at them, lent Erik a sort of voyeur's guilt.

He tried to read one of the novels she had carelessly thrown about, but failed even at that. It seemed too much like an invasion of privacy. He sat, unmoving, on the foot of the bed, waiting.

It was a strange thing to wait, he thought. Beyond the appointed days and hours for the operas, there was little to govern how Erik spent his time. His schedules were his own, never dependent on other people.

Now, he was bound to another person's plans—and a train schedule.

He decided that he would not think about the train ride.

Eventually, he set to work on putting on his mask. It seemed only logical to make use of the mask that mimicked a real face in this case.

He set to carefully laying out his tools— the mask and adhesive, brushes and stage makeup. It was the then that he noticed what was so innocently lying on the dressing table.

It was the shawl he had lent Nora, folded neatly and with care. He recalled how ill it had suited her. Now, if he were to ever come across a like garment in red, or perhaps some sort of plum…

…why would he bother buying it?

He moved the flimsy piece of fabric and set to work.

Grey was a decidedly unflattering color on Nora. It dulled her eyes, and she was convinced that it highlighted every strand of silver in her hair. For all of that, her grey traveling suit was one of her warmest outfits and would never have the distinction of standing out. Discretion seemed to be a very desirable thing when one was traveling with a ghost.

"Did you take Erik his coffee?" Nora asked, pouring her third cup of the morning. It was as much a nervous habit as it was thirst or hunger. No one had ever said something offensive with a hot beverage in their mouth.

"Yes, Miss," Mr. Carey replied. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Nora smiled at him.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, "I know you do not approve—" he motioned to contradict her, but Nora continued—"but you have done exceptionally well."

"I have done my duty," he replied solemnly, but a spark of happiness returned to his eyes.

"And you've done it well," Nora nodded. She glanced at the clock and switched subjects—neither of them would be comfortable with the previous topic for much longer, anyway. "Are you going on ahead of us?"

"Yes, Miss, shortly."

"And I'm sure you've already telegrammed the estate."

"Last night."

"Very good,' Nora sipped her coffee, "very good."

It was not too long after Mr. Carey departed for the train station that Erik came out from his hiding place.

Nora had not been paying much attention, more concerned with dashing off final letters of business than anything else, but she heard him enter the parlor.

"Good morning, Erik," she said, "are you all ready to go?"

"I believe so," he replied. There was a mischievous note in his voice that made Nora look up.

He was not wearing his mask, she realized. And where was the devil he had claimed was underneath? His features were perfectly ordinary—not handsome, perhaps, but imminently serviceable.

He looked down in something like embarrassment. "It took me many years to perfect this one," he said, tapping his cheek with one gloved finger. He came closer, and Nora could at last she the edges of the mask.

"It's another—"

He nodded solemnly. "It is a mask." His voice was a strange mixture of pride and shame.

"It's very… convincing," Nora replied, eliciting a smile from Erik. The smile pulled at the mask in odd directions and he ceased the expression.

"More or less," he said. "I thought it would be best to be inconspicuous."

Nora recalled her own thoughts in selecting her drab attire. What had inspired their mutual predilection for discretion? She laughed softly. "One would think we were eloping. "

It occurred to her that this might not have been the best metaphor she could have used, especially when Erik's mask managed to portray slack jawed shock. "What?"

"I just meant that—well—we're going through an awful lot of trouble to remain anonymous on a short little train ride."

He huffed. "I beg your pardon for the inconvenience."

"Oh, that's not what I meant," Nora replied. After a beat, she added, "and you know it."

"I do?" Erik's voice was mercifully changing to slightly playful. "I do."

Nora glanced at the clock, "the carriage should be coming around in a few minutes. Are you ready?"

Erik nodded and offered his arm to escort Nora downstairs.

The first half of their journey was both mind-numbing and soul-shattering. Erik found himself in a very private, very well appointed train car, seated across from Nora and her lady's maid.

The maid talked ceaselessly and in an odd accent that Nora told him was Quebecois. He found that she also slipped into similar tones around the other girl, though she was just as likely to throw in English words. She often times caught herself and would look at Erik with a light blush in her cheek.

"And here you thought I was Parisian," she teased.

"A mistake I will never make again," Erik replied in kind. He found that his voice terrified the chatty lady's maid into silence, which he used to his advantage. Conversation was perhaps the one art he was not adept in, and he spent much of his time petrified that he would say something to offend—or to hurt—or, at the very least, incriminate himself in some way.

He was saved when the topic turned to opera, though in true Nora fashion, she turned it into a rapid exchange of questions and answers. It had started innocently enough, when she asked, "what is your favorite song from Faust?"

Erik replied, and after a moment of silence asked her the same question. She answered, and then asked the same thing concerning another opera, and so on.

Erik found that he almost enjoyed the exchange. "Norma?" he asked.

"I feel like I ought to say Casta Diva." She replied thoughtfully, "Am I supposed to say Casta Diva, even though I really don't like it?"

Erik laughed at her. "No, you must say your actual favorite."

"In mia man alfin tu sei, then. La Juive?"

Erik hesitated, unable to separate his memory of Christine in the title role and the rest of the opera. "Eleazar's last aria. The Pearl Fishers?"

"Au Fond du Temple Saint, definitely. Carmen?"

"The Habanera," Erik replied, "in spite of itself. Fidelio?"

Nora grimaced. "No, thank you. Les Huguenots."

"Ugh. Spare me from all Meyerbeer. Wagner?"

"What, you can't be bothered to differentiate between his operas?"

Erik shrugged. "I wasn't aware that there was a difference. So, Wagner?"

"The prelude from Parsifal."

"Parsifal?"

"Yes."

"I've never heard it," Erik admitted, both slightly annoyed and quite curious.

"I'm not surprised. It's only performed at Bayreuth."

Erik winced. "Don't remind me that there's a building exclusively dedicated to performing that man's works."

"Oh, come now," Nora said, "wouldn't you like to see it?"

"Perhaps," Erik conceded. What a change that would be! He imagined for a moment what it would be like if the train they were on suddenly dropped him in Bavaria. He tried to imagine hiring out a hotel room, or a even a townhouse, sightseeing as tourists so typically did. It was too strange to even think about at this point in his life. What was not too odd a thought was escorting Nora, dressed in scandalous but flattering scarlet, into an opera house. That might even prove to be rather… enjoyable.

What was also enjoyable was that Nora's maid had fallen asleep as they spoke of music. When they ran out of a mutually familiar repertoire, there was comfortable silence. Nora pushed aside the curtains covering the compartment's window and stared out at the rapidly passing countryside, icily desolate though it was. Erik observed her for some minutes, listening to the clack of the train rushing over the rails.

"I've devoted most of my life to music," he said, instinctively lowering his voice.

She turned to him, ever so slightly, and smiled. She did not speak.

"Opera, in my mind, is the zenith of art," Erik continued, "the score, the story, the subject matter; the instruments both musical and vocal, the staging and direction, the cast, the crew—all coming together in harmony."

"I agree," she murmured. She let the curtain fall. "I think you really must love music." Her expression was inscrutable.

"It is my life."

"I rather wish…" she stopped mid-sentence and pointedly resumed her observation of the world outside the train. "I rather wish I loved something like that."

Erik did not know how to reply, and so chose not to.