It was astounding how utterly silent the house was. Oh, there was the gentle ebb and flow of the lake, the distant noise of the Garnier's daily business far above, the creaks that any house made at any given time… but silence, still. How quickly Erik had accustomed himself to the noisy operation of a regular house! And how the quiet now crawled under his skin and threatened to ruin him!

He remembered the same mad feeling plaguing him after he had released Christine, but the quiet and loneliness had been dulled by the far stronger force of despair. No, he was not despairing at the moment, which he supposed was heartening. But the seclusion—how did he ever deal with being so cut off from everything? Erik firmly reminded himself that he had been cut off from the world since he came into the world.

He distracted himself with getting his home back into working order, clearing away some of the more inconvenient obstacles he had set up, stocking his kitchen.

He was not looking forward to cooking his own meals again. Or making is own bed. Or keeping his own company.

Domestic chores satisfied, Erik sought out something to pass the time and fill the silence. Mischief did not appeal, and he was in no mood to deal with Moncharmin.

In moments of such boredom, Erik occasionally referred to Theodore Lajarte's index of the scores contain the in Opera's library. He would seek out some new title and amuse himself with it. Usually, he would simply play it through a few times on his piano, committing it to memory if the piece struck his fancy. He would sometimes transcribe it for his personal library, his notes penned in his favored red ink but neater and more precise than the formation of his letters.

He therefore acquired, on this occasion, Iradier's ubiquitous "La Paloma" to amuse himself with. Erik had played the song by ear before but had never bothered looking at the sheet music. It was a simple tune, but Erik liked the habanera rhythm. He found himself twisting the music around a dozen ways, until only the vaguest suggestion of the original material remained.

He managed to keep it light and romantic for some time, until his ever-present frustrations bled over and turned the music gloomy. He pushed aside "La Paloma" and ran a hand through his sparse hair. Only his corpse hands could take such a pretty, innocent little song and tint it so seamlessly with malice and madness. There had been a time in his life that he had been able to do exactly the opposite—conceal the indecency of his mind with smoke and mirrors and an angel's voice. His skills in this regard had been at their zenith when he had tutored Christine. Where were they now? It seemed that ever since his return from Beaune, his musical touch had turned venomous. Nora's suggestion to compose something else hung heavily above him.

Erik wanted to believe that this was merely another one of the black moods that he had dealt with for decades—nothing more than a bit of bad temper, brought on by nothing more than dark life and damp weather. That was perhaps the root of the issue, but beyond that there was one grave irritant that Erik had been trying to ignore.

He missed Nora. It had been two days since they had parted—it would be more than three days until he saw her again. (This was, to his mind, a gross injustice.) He turned every part of their time together over and over his mind, examining it from all angles.

The idea of friendship had been on his mind for some time. Perhaps this really was, as she had said, what a friend was. Erik found that he liked the idea, as much as it horrified him.

Erik knew that his concept of friendship varied greatly from the norm. A friend was a sort of possession. Someone to watch, to study, to gain from. A friend was someone one had the right to exploit with impunity, to manipulate without the fear of discovery. Like the Daroga— favors and disfavors exchanged to equal measure, with Erik always having the upper hand.

It seemed wrong—immoral—to categorize Nora as 'friend,' if that was the definition he was using.

But if she was not his friend, what was she? An apparition? Her Catholic faith allowed for the appearance of saints and deities—was that all she was? An elaborate, heaven-sent joke? From what Erik knew of God, he would not put behavior beyond him.

The monotony was finally broken late the next evening, when Erik heard the curious sound of someone knocking at his door. He met his visitor with catgut lasso in hand, though it would not have done much good. Nadir stood impassively, with his elbow crooked and his hand touching his hat.

Erik was amused. "Why, Daroga! You've never bothered knocking before!"

"I have never had an official invitation before," Nadir said. As if to verify his statement, he pulled out the note Erik had posted to him upon returning to Paris. "You addressed me as 'Nadi-joon.' I take it you're mocking me."

"Naturally."

"Am I allowed to return to mockery and call you 'Erik dear?'"

"No," Erik stood aside and let Nadir in. "Into the parlor, my good man."

Nadir froze mid-step and turned to look at Erik. "What is wrong with you?"

"I'm a bit offended that you think something needs to be wrong with me," Erik replied, directing Nadir into a chair.

The Daroga's voice became a bit softer. "Are you dying?"

"Well, I can't, now that you've refused to pray for my soul," Erik shot back.

"And where did you go?—"

"I did not ask you to come," Erik dropped his voice to a tone he knew Nadir would not ignore, "to interrogate me, Monsieur Inspector."

Nadir huffed and helped himself to the tea Erik had set out. "Which begs the question—why am I here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Erik said. "Tell me what happened with Christine."

Nadir gave up his adversarial amicability at once. "Ah, that."

"Yes, ah, that."

"As I said," Nadir began, "the Countess was… determined. We went to the Rue Scribe and found the entrance impassible, of course. What we did not find was that letter you said you would be putting there—"

"I decided against it," Erik replied.

"Of course you did. I realized that, after getting down on my hands and knees and looking at every crevice, while the Countess was ready to find some miner and clear the way with dynamite!"

What a funny image! "I would have thought she had had her fill of gun powder," Erik mused.

Nadir gave him a hard look. "Poor taste, Erik."

"Your pardon, agha."

"That was not the end of it," Nadir continued, "she was ready to take the path that would have led to the torture chamber."

"But you were able to dissuade her?" Erik could not help his gaze from wandering to the general direction of his mirrored room.

Nadir sighed. "In part, yes." He abruptly became unsettled and Erik was forced to fix him with a hard look. "She wants to see you, Erik."

The statement hung in the air.

"What do you say?"

"She knows—I swear by God and all his prophets, I do not know how—she knows that you live. She wishes to speak with you."

The parlor became a maze of ironwork trees. The piano played Don Juan of its own initiative. The bronze cricket chirped and the scorpion ran over and stung him. The river flooded the basement, but still the gunpowder exploded. And through it all, Nora whispered I charge you to do better next time.

"Erik!"

Erik shook his head free of the terrible vision to find Nadir standing very close to him. The Daroga did not touch him, of course, but his face was worried. "I beg your pardon, Daroga. Whatever do you mean?"

"She came to me some days ago, told me that she knew I was playing her false and that you lived. And then she said, if you would be so good as to host, I would like to see Erik again."

"No," Erik replied. "It can't possibly be a good idea. I can't imagine what Christine and Erik could speak of."

"Can't you?" Nadir asked. He shook his head. "I was of your opinion, but there is a caveat to refusal. If you do not come up to see her, she will come down to see you. Is that what you want?"

Erik's voice was dull as ash. "When is this supposed to take place?"

"Friday noon, if it can be managed," Nadir said.

"I will send you word," Erik murmured and arose. "Goodbye, Daroga."

Ah, Paris. The city of broken sleep. It was late Wednesday night—early Thursday morning, Nora supposed—when Perrine came to wake her.

"Monsieur Erik says he needs to speak to you," her maid whispered.

"Really?" Nora groaned and rubbed her eyes. "All right, then…" she had Perrine pull out her heavy dressing gown, which was nearly appropriate to be seen in.

Erik had taken up his usual place in the parlor, stiff and uncomfortable. The fire was dying and there were only two small lamps on, but Nora could not bring herself to light another. More light would inevitably leave her irreparably awake.

"There you are, Erik," Nora said, "I was wondering when you would show back up in my pre-dawn routine."

He stood formally. "I apologize." He was wearing that black mask again, and seemed to attract shadows to him. All bad signs, to Nora's mind.

"No matter." She waved his concerns away and took a seat. "What can I do for you, Erik dear?"

He continued to stand awkwardly. "I… have a favor to ask of you." After a moment, he added, "I need your help." He said that last phrase in the same way most people said they need to pull the tooth.

"Of course," Nora said, "of course, I'm not given to doing anything illegal or licentious, though there is a first time for everything."

Her vague joke fell on deaf ears. He took a seat close to her, uneasy still. "It is Christine."

"Ah." Nora did not know what else to say. She preferred not to think about Christine.

"Despite my best efforts—your generous provision of shelter—she has discovered that I live."

All traces of sleepiness vanished from Nora's mind. "What shall we do? Do you need to leave Paris? I can arrange—"

"Nothing, nothing like that," Erik held up a hand to stop her. "She… wants to see me."

"Could it be a trap?" Nora asked at once.

"Oh, Nora!" Erik had the audacity to laugh at her. "Your paranoia would serve you well in the court of the Persian Shah! No, no. I do not think this is a trap."

Nora tried to calm herself. "What do you need me to do?"

"I wish you to… come with me," Erik murmured. He looked up at her then, caught her in his golden eyes. "Please do come with me."

All Nora could ask was, "when?"

"Tomorrow. I'll come by eleven-thirty to collect you, if you will come."

She searched the impassive lines of his mask. How readily she could imagine his real face now—ugly and heartbreaking, framing his imploring eyes. She wanted to be disgusted by his face, as she knew most people must be. But all she could see was Erik— masked or unmasked, Erik still—and she did not know if she could refuse Erik anything. "Of course I'll come."