Erik thought the worst of the trip was over once they disembarked from the train. He was wrong. He soon found himself in a carriage with all three of his traveling 'companions.' It was warmer and wetter in Beaune than in Paris, and his comfortable overcoat soon felt oppressively heavy.
If Nora was uncomfortable, she didn't show it. Traveling with her brought to mind those first, fleeting glimpses Erik had seen of her. She carried herself proudly, perhaps even aggressively. Hiding in shadows seemed to be an unimaginable concept to her, despite how Erik occasionally tried to pull her to the sidelines of a crowd. No, she simply walked into the middle of a mass of people, head held haughtily high, and allowed the crowd to move out of her way. I'm your better, she seemed to whispered, don't you dare step on my skirt.
Erik would have found it amusing, if it had not been so disconcerting. He had come to think of Nora as somewhat gentle: won't you come as my guest, Erik? Won't you have a cup of coffee, Erik? Won't you sell me part of your soul, Erik?
Ah, how quickly a few kind words had dulled the memory of her curt 'good mornings' or the undeniable pride that had colored their first few meetings!
More disconcerting still was how her manner amended as soon as they were away from the train station and into the carriage. Erik could not have conceived of a more uncomfortable mode of travel—both he and Nora and her two servants stuffed into a cramped, jarring box—but her countenance immediately lightened. Gone was the cold, harsh patrician who had managed to cut a wide path for herself through a forest of people. She smiled benignly at Erik and asked Carey for her folios.
She remained absorbed in these papers for some time, occasionally looking out the window. After some time she reached across and nudged Erik's hand.
"There. See the stone fence?"
The rain had dulled to a heavy mist, obscuring the what was in the distance, but Erik could see a low stone structure, undoubtedly ancient. "Of course."
"That's the boundary for Uncle Christian's holdings," she said.
"Then we are quite close to the house?" Erik asked.
She consulted one of her papers. "Not particularly." After a moment, she added, "I never met my uncle, but I am under the impression that he never bothered to do things logically. It always seems that, whenever something does make sense in his papers, it was simple happenstance."
Erik was given to understanding that family was often an appropriate topic of conversation, though the entire subject tended to sadden and irritate him. Still, it seemed like a wise idea to engage in some sort of discussion, given that the uncomfortable coach ride might be quite long. He asked Nora what she knew of her uncle.
She shrugged. "Precious little. He was the eldest of six siblings—the youngest being my mother—and the only one not to immigrate to Canada. I know that he outlived all of his siblings, which is simple math. I know that his will makes provision for all of the offspring of his siblings, which is essentially my cousin Daniel and myself. He also noted that the eldest male of these should be named executor of the estate, which again would be Daniel. But Daniel is just too blasted busy…"
"He must have confidence in you," Erik noted, "to entrust you with the task of his inheritance."
Her eyes flashed for a moment, and Erik knew he had said something wrong. "Daniel knows I'm perfectly capable of dealing with this matter."
Erik noted her indignant reaction and labeled it as probable weakness.
"Besides," she continued, "he knows that I will probably favor his interests above my own, whereas he would be compelled to be utterly fair and even."
Erik considered her statement for a moment. "If the will allows for the division to be equal, why would you not do so?"
She smiled blandly. "I don't have four daughters who will one day need decent dowries." She paused, "don't you dare tell him I said so."
Erik waved this away. "When would I ever been occasioned to even speak with the man?"
"Well, he's bound to come out to France eventually," Nora commented. After a moment she checked her watch pin, looked out the window, and then opened the carriage door ever so slightly. Erik nearly moved to pull it closed, but she shook her head. "Hey!" she called out to the coach driver, "How far?"
The reply was nearly drowned out by the rain and rush of wheels, but Erik heard it. "Two kilometers."
Mr. Carey muttered, almost too quiet to be heard, "thank God."
Erik agreed with the sentiment, though he believed it probably stemmed from a different set of concerns.
The arrival at the great house of 'Uncle Christian's' estate was not as much of a relief as Erik at first thought it would have been.
The house was a massive structure in the style popular a hundred years previous, mildly elegant Louis XVI, and its maintenance appeared to have been neglected since then. Not a single one of the windows showed a light, and many of them were broken.
Nora took Erik's arm after they descended from the carriage. "Well, this should be interesting."
Waiting for their arrival was an older man and woman, who were soon revealed to be the primary caretakers of the great house. They greeted Nora respectfully, but almost immediately fell into an argument with Carey. They had protested that they had done the best they could in making preparations. The household funds had been depleted for some time, and they did not have access to any of the late owner's accounts.
"Easily rectified," Nora cut into the conversation. "Mr. Carey, release the needed funds at your discretion, based on Monsieur Fournier's suggestions. Bring in whatever temporary staff is needed to bring the house into smooth operation."
"Soon?" Fournier asked.
Nora smiled. "Immediately." She swept past them and into the ill-lit house, dragging Erik with her. "This isn't quite what I had in mind for your little vacation," she admitted.
Erik looked around the foyer—marble and murals, beautiful furniture and hangings, all in disrepair. There was also a suspicious lack of movable ornaments. Well, the old man and woman needed to claim some sort of salary, he supposed. "Trust me when I say I have been in worse lodgings."
"So have I," Nora snorted, "but that does not mean I enjoyed myself."
As soon as Erik saw that Nora was settled in a parlor with a good fire and a bit of brandy, he excused himself to remove the flesh toned mask. The long hours of wear had caused him much irritation, and the sudden humidity of Beaune was threatening to wash away what remained of the adhesive.
He would be obliged to make all sorts of repairs to the mask before he could wear it again. At least it had served its purpose- he had not observed a single out-of-place glance in his direction for the entire duration of the journey.
He washed his face and peered into the looking-glass above the basin. Tragic, that an ugly mask was such an improvement over his genuine features. He looked away and covered himself with the white mask. He had noticed that Nora had been a bit disturbed by his black one, though perhaps that had been more to do with the story he was telling her at the time than his mode of dress.
Best not to think of that. He rejoined Nora, slightly more comfortable.
She glanced up at him, noted the mask, and smiled. "Fournier has managed to clean up two decent rooms for our use and his wife is currently fixing a good supper. I take it that you would like to have it delivered up to your room?"
Erik bristled a bit, though he made every effort to conceal it. In his years underground, he had stayed more or less in touch with the world through his reading. He read everything, even silly, inane things like ladies' fashion journals. He recalled one line from such a publications—the first duty of a hostess is to anticipate the needs of her guests, thus eliminating the uncomfortable need for making requests. It is only when a woman had perfected this art that she can be deemed a truly gracious hostess. Wasn't that what Nora had done for him? But he could not be as grateful as perhaps he ought to be, for such foresight only served to remind him of the oddity of his situation.
"Thank you," he said, deeming this the only appropriate response.
She smiled, and his anger vanished.
That night, he stumbled through a prayer for the first time in decades. He figured that, even if God did not care about his fate, perhaps he would take an interest in Nora's—Nora, with her mass and black dress and amber rosary. Surely, such devotion had to be repaid in someway.
I do not want to hurt her, and I do not want to love her. Erik mumbled. And I pray she extends me the same courtesies.
Nora was having a good day. If pressed for an answer, she would be obliged to say that every day since her arrival in Beaune—a week ago today!— had been some sort of good. Her word, feminine though it was, held more weight when it came from the ancestral seat. Paperwork and legalities seemed to be working themselves out, and the entire estate seemed poised to be restored to some sort of glory—or, at least, habitability.
And then there was Erik, who was as helpful and solicitous as one could want. More than that, however, he was amusing, far more so than Nora would have ever expected. They did not dine together, save the occasionally tea or coffee respite, but he was elsewise always at her disposal. They walked around the barren vineyards, chatting about nonsense. In the evenings, he revealed a talent for all sorts of legerdemain and improbably elaborate magic tricks. Nora would question him on them, and he would evade with often humorous results.
They did not talk about the reason he was with her, namely to avoid the rather benevolent plans of Christine de Chagny. That suited Nora just fine. No matter what she thought of Erik personally, she could not claim to be comfortable with the tale he had told her involving the Countess. The thought occurred that she might even have received a sanitized version, which disturbed her.
The other topic they religiously avoided—at least, Nora avoided it. It was impossible to say if Erik had even thought of it—was Nora's departure. Even if Daniel continued to delay, he would eventually come. And when that happened, why would Nora stay? Her purpose for being in France would soon vanish—and then what? She did not stay places. She did not keep in touch with the acquaintances she made on her travels. She left, she moved on, she did not look back—
But what a shame to leave Erik…
No, she would not think of that. For the moment she was here, and she was having a grand old time. Perhaps she would persuade Erik to come out for another afternoon walk with her. He could be such a good distraction.
Erik had unofficially claimed the tiny west parlor, which was in decent shape and far from any of the ongoing repair work around the house. Last Nora had seen, he had been working on restoring an old, damaged violin found in the attic.
Nora opened the door, expecting to see Erik at the little side desk. "Would you be willing to brave the weather and—" she fell silent. Well, there was Erik's violin, Erik's hat, Erik's shoes—where was Erik?
She caught sight of him, sound asleep, head partially under a pillow. The divan was much too short to accommodate his height, but he had managed to curl up in what appeared to be a rather uncomfortable fashion.
She chuckled softly and turned to retrieve some sort of coverlet for him. Her foot struck against something and she looked down.
His mask had slipped to the floor and Nora went to pick it up. She held it for a moment, admiring the craftsmanship. It was heavier than she had expected. The inside was lined with silk and looked as if it could be removed and replaced with ease. She turned to set it down beside Erik and stopped.
How foolish she was not to realize it—if Erik's mask had fallen off, it clearly meant that he was barefaced. Nora leaned down and returned the mask to the floor.
He moved in his sleep, and the pillow fell off as well. Nora remained frozen in place, until she was sure that he was not awakening.
Walk out, her mind whispered, he never wanted you to see him like this—walk out now.
Instead she turned, and looked at him.
Nora had believed Erik when he had attested to his 'hideous deformity,' but she had not given it much thought. Somehow, his mask and his face had blurred in her mind. Smooth, expressionless, cold, and with an austere sort of beauty. It had never occurred to her that the elegant line of the mask's nose was not contoured to his real nose or that his always concealed upper lip might have been twisted as well as thin.
If he had just one or two elements of his peculiar features, he might have been tolerable to look at. But all together!— too-prominent eye sockets, razor-sharp cheekbones, jaundiced skin that was thin enough to reveal the network of veins beneath it, the scars that laced his features, his nose, or rather lack thereof. In repose, his features were unfortunate and grotesque. She could not imagine him awake, a misshapen skull alive and expressive.
At that moment, he grimaced in his sleep, and Nora knew she had to leave. She tried to be as silent as he would have been, closing the door with barely a whisper.
She managed to walk, even and composed, until she found Mr. Carey. "Erik is resting in the west parlor. Make sure he is undisturbed."
Mr. Carey accepted these odd instructions, and Nora continued to walk on to her own rooms. The house seemed so much larger, the corridors so much more labyrinthine. At last she arrived and locked the door behind her.
She simply stood for the longest time, her breath starting to become uneven.
Then, feeling vain and vapid, furious at herself and heaven above, she cried.