Her hands were shaking.

Christine de Chagny's face was composed, her posture firm, but she nearly dropped the teacup Nadir handed her. She offered a rueful smile and Nadir tried to look encouraging.

He had attempted to discourage her from this path, with far more vehemence than his protests over Erik's burial. She held fast, insisting that she required a proper ending to the entire affair.

Nadir could not help but wonder what Erik would want. To feign death for nearly two years—to appear and then disappear—to invite Nadir into his home and then agree to this meeting—

It could be said that Erik was predictable in his unpredictability. He perhaps never fit into the mold of ordinary mankind, but Nadir had seldom seen him deviate so wholly from his own norms of conduct. But recently— besides his vile sense of humor— Nadir could have nearly imagined him to be a sane man.

Time marched on, and Nadir looked away as the Countess started to mumble prayers.

"I can send him away," Nadir said as they drew closer to noon.

She shook her head. "No. I cannot come so far, only to run away at the last."

The clock chimed noon, and some minutes later, there was a knock on Nadir's door. Did Death knock as well, he wondered?

Nadir arose himself to greet Erik, giving the Countess one last smile. She returned it weakly.

Darius stood ready to open the door but Nadir waved him away. He stayed still for moment, his hand resting on the door lock, eyes closed. He could not believe he was really party to such an absurd, obscene situation.

"I can see your shadow, Daroga!" Erik's voice brought Nadir back to the present. "And it is rather cold out here!"

Nadir could not decide if that last spark of good humor was a good or ill omen; historically, it could have been either. He opened the door.

Erik was not so much taller than Nadir, and was much slighter in build, but he seemed to positively loom in the doorway. His black overcoat was snow-flecked and his white mask was impassive. He wore a blue and green plaid scarf, which was jarring to Nadir's eye. To his knowledge, neither ghosts nor lovers of trapdoors caught chills!

Jarring was not quite the word Nadir would have used when he caught sight of the woman who had been standing a step behind Erik. Astounding, perhaps? An impossibility? Utterly bizarre, at the very least. She was middle-aged but still rather pretty, dressed in an expensive blue and black walking suit and a pert cocked hat. She looked up at Nadir with eyes as green as his own.

Nadir turned back to Erik, "uh, may I ask?..."

"Hm?" Erik turned and seemed to notice the woman for the first time. "Oh, yes of course. Nora, the Daroga; Nadir, Nora Farley."

The woman nodded politely, but Nadir could only stare at her. In Persian, he asked, "Erik, who is she?"

"I already told you," Erik replied tartly, "she's Nora."

Nora! Nadir could not help that his ear perceived this name as Noora, which was a great irony. What was Erik doing in the company of a woman whose name would have meant light in Persian?

"May we come in?" Erik asked. Nadir recognized his posture—taunt as a bowstring, ready to either launch arrows or snap.

Nadir nodded, "wait for me at the end of the hall."

Erik nodded and turned. Nadir took the opportunity to detain his lady companion for a moment. He dropped his voice low, though he knew for a fact that Erik could still hear him. "Madame—who are you?"

"For lack of a better term, I am Erik's second," she replied, voice dead even.

"Erik's second?"

"Yes. You know, of course, the companion of a duelist who is present to make sure good form is observed and to witness the outcome." She seemed perfectly serious.

"And tell me, will you fight in his stead if the need arises?" Nadir asked. He did not like her tone, and could not fathom how she had ended up in such a role.

She smiled at him, a bizarrely bland expression. "Certainly not! That hasn't been de rigueur for over a century."

They spent some time regarding one another in silence and Nadir finally stood aside to let her pass. "We shall talk again, Madame."

"I look forward to it, Monsieur," she replied. "Into the fire now?"

"You have no idea," Nadir replied and made to follow. He almost stopped cold when he saw Nora walk directly up to Erik and take his arm.

Whatever his expectations for this meeting had been, he was now entirely unsure of what the outcome might be.

When they came to the entry of the parlor, Nora released Erik's arm. He looked back at her with something akin to panic. She smiled, though it was far from heartfelt. This whole idea seemed absurd to her. Why would Christine de Chagny want to see Erik again, if the story he told her was true? And why did Erik agree, when the idea filled him with such obvious dread? He had arrived at her home, not at eleven-thirty, but at a quarter to nine. He had spent the subsequent hours pacing around Nora's parlor, fending off attempts at conversation or consolation.

When it finally came time to depart for the Rue de Rivoli, he had practically refused to go. Nora had been inclined to humor him, have him stay for tea and forget the whole issue. But there was something about Erik that suggested that the situation would not be settled with a missed appointment. She had called for a carriage and practically marched Erik to the address he had provided.

Now that critical moment had arrived, she wondered is she should have let Erik stay hidden away at her house.

The man Erik referred to as the Daroga came to stand next to Nora. They exchanged nods and he opened the door for Erik. He stepped through.

Nora held her breath as she and the Daroga entered, waiting for some tragic, unknown event to occur.

Erik and Christine de Chagny stood at the two extremes of the room, both silent and serious.

Nora resisted the urge to cut through the tension with some silly hostessing phrase—oh, goodness, what terrible weather! Why doesn't everyone gather around for a nice cup of tea? She doubted that the interruption would be appreciated.

Christine broke the silence first. "Erik."

"Christine." Oh, this was a different voice than Nora had ever heard from Erik. It was soft and hypnotizing, and utterly… heavenly. No wonder—no wonder—the girl had actually believed him to be an angel.

Christine broke eye contact and surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes. "I, ah—"

"You've been neglecting your vocal exercises," Erik said.

"I—" she stopped and collected herself, "yes. Yes, I have. You… sound the same." She kept her eyes curiously adverted from his mask, Nora noticed.

Erik's breathing was becoming ever so slightly labored. "Why—why am I here?"

She looked up at last, her eyes impossibly large. "I just needed to know."

"Know what?" Erik's voice was sharp now, sending chills down Nora's spine. "Did you want to see that Erik still suffered? That I remain unchanged while you— you—" he stopped himself harshly. "Where is your husband, Madame? His presence would have made this a most complete reunion!"

Christine paled. "He is away."

"Ah," Erik replied, "of course."

The silence became distinctly unpleasant. Erik turned his back to Christine for an instant, pressing at his masked temple. Apparently, this finally allowed the Countess to see Nadir and Nora. She looked surprised.

"You're the woman from the opera," she said. "You know Erik?"

Erik snapped back to attention when Christine addressed Nora. He glanced between the two of them, but remained quiet.

Oh, Erik did have a knack for putting Nora in odd situations. "Yes, of course. How do you do, Countess?"

"I would have never thought…" Christine began.

"What?" Erik spoke up. "That there might be someone who cares to spend her time with Erik? Did you imagine me living out the rest of my days all alone?"

"I imagined you dead!" Christine exclaimed. "And to find you alive—"

"It is distasteful to you?" Erik pressed. "Believe me, it was distasteful to me as well." He looked around for a moment, as if searching for an outlet for the anger Nora could feel radiating off of him. "Let us have done with this, Christine. What good is there in reliving a painful moment in our past?"

"I thought perhaps it would help take away the sting," Christine said.

Good God, Nora realized, it was a role. The Countess was as much an actress as a singer. No doubt there was something genuine in this entire scenario, but how she was acting now—her tone, her gestures, her very words—it was some strange play for her. Perhaps the point of the play was exactly as she had just stated: to take away the sting of past pain. She had been younger then, weaker then, manipulated by Erik or who knew who else. It worked out well for her, in the end, but the entire affair had no doubt been taxing.

Was this her attempt to give an encore, this time better equipped for a very demanding role?

The very idea boggled Nora's mind. Perhaps she was wrong. At the very least, Erik appeared to take the Countess's words at face value.

He bowed slightly. "I thank you, Countess, for bringing one perfect song into this miserable life. How foolish I was to have expected more."

"No, Erik," Christine said, "thank you. You gave me a voice—and it is worth more than all of my jewels."

Erik snorted. "Ah, I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror."

Christine smiled. "Exactly. Do we part on good terms?"

Erik turned around again, his hand still at his head. He locked eyes with Nora. His were wild with a dozen unidentifiable emotions—the worst of which was hope. It ripped Nora's heart to shreds, but she gave him her bravest look. He nodded in return and took a step towards Christine.

It all changed at that moment, when the Countess took an instinctive step back and away from Erik. He froze, a hand still reaching out to her. It was slow in falling. When he spoke, his voice was ice cold.

"I release you from everything that binds you to me," he said, "in both life and death. I wish you happiness—and I take my leave."

He turned and swept out of the room, practically pushing the Daroga down in his rush to exit.

Nora stood still for a moment, as tears started tracking down Christine's cheeks. The Daroga looked torn. Nora caught his eye. "I'll take care of him."

His face was painted with amazement, and he mumbled. "I'm sure you shall."

Brave words, Nora thought as she hurried after Erik, for she did not even know where to start.

Erik had lived in a fog ever since Nadir had informed him of this meeting with Christine. A meeting! What a pretty little turn of phrase! A meeting—as if they were mild acquaintances meeting on the street, or good friends meeting for coffee, or lovers meeting for a tryst. A meeting with Christine! No, no meaningless little meeting that. It was the same sort of meeting one had with one's executioner.

How long had they been in Nadir's stuffy parlor? A minute? An hour? Eternity?

All Erik knew was that he was out of that particular hell now, walking as fast as he could towards some unknown destination.

Perhaps the Seine. People walked off the bridges and into the Seine every day, did they not?

"Erik!"

Oh, there were the devils calling to him, just like that scene in Don Giovanni when the dissolute seducer touched the Commendatore's hand and saw his damning fate come alive around him.

"Erik!"

He turned around to face his pursuer. Oh, yes, his own personal devil. The one that tormented him so kindly, reminding Erik of every pleasure heaven offered that was denied him. She was positively running to catch him. It was his time to face judgment, wasn't it? She would take his hand, and down they would go, merrily down into the fires of Hell! It did not sound so bad, really. But surely she would be snatched away from him once she delivered him to the Devil, because Hell with her would be a tolerable torment.

She finally caught up with him, releasing her skirts. She hand been holding them higher than lady ought to, so as not to impede her speed. Her hat had fallen off some time ago, and her hair curled out of its arrangement.

"God, Erik, I am much too old for this," she said, her voice strained with the exertion. "Why must you be so tall?"

Hearing her voice slowly brought Erik back to the reality of the present. "Oh, Nora, I am sorry."

She waved his apology away. "No matter—but let's hire a cab for the trip home."

Home. How casually she used the word! Home. What did the English say? Home is where the heart is? Was her heart really in some old building on the Rue de la Harpe? He did not ask, merely signaled at one of the passing carriages.

Once settled, she took his hand—his cold, dead hand. "Are you all right, Erik?"

All right? Was he all right? Erik could not reply to that absurd question. He merely laughed; loud laughter that racked his body and pained his lungs. She held fast to his hand, the madwoman!

He had calmed down mostly by the time the driver pulled up her building. Erik had tried to leave her there and go elsewhere, but she had firmly led him up to her own parlor.

He vaguely heard her dismiss her servants. So much the better. They were decent people. Why would they defile themselves by staying in his company? He mentioned this to Nora, and advised that she perhaps leave as well.

"Erik," she said seriously, "stop this nonsense. 'Defiled by your company.' My dear man, that isn't just hyperbolic; it is insinuates a heinous falsehood. Slander, my dear, slander."

"How would you know?" Erik spat. How did she not see the man she was dealing with? Was she blind? "Christine called me a monster once, and she does not lie."

"She was a girl," Nora countered, "stop assessing yourself on the whims of a girl!"

"What shall I assess myself on, then? The thoughts of a woman?" Erik turned to her, his voice bitterly mocking. "My mother was a good woman, devout and beautiful—rather like you in that regard. Even she called me devil-cursed and could not bear to look at me."

"None of that," she whispered, "your merit so far exceeds what other people are even capable of seeing in you." She tried to hold his hand again, but Erik pushed her away.

There so much goodness in her, he thought. Most all of the goodness he had encountered in the world, really, all wrapped up in her person. Perhaps confession really was good for the soul…

How could he possibly let her stay near him, knowing that he would only ruin her? Bit by bit, he would. He would not mean to, but he would slowly erode her goodness until they were both damned.

He tried to tell her so, but she simply shook her head vehemently.

"We may part ways for many reasons, Erik; we will not part ways based on this."

He got up to simply leave but she blocked his path. His hand tightened around his concealed lasso—if he killed her here, that would save them both, wouldn't it? But no—no, that was one sin he could not carry. He could not have her blood on his hands.

"Let me pass," he murmured, willing her with his voice to comply. She almost did, but then continued to shake her head.

She was saying such strange things, as she always did. Just take a nap, Erik; it will all look better tomorrow, Erik; stop this, Erik; don't say such a thing, Erik; Erik, please…

Erik, please! As if he was a simple gentleman who would give in to the request of a lady.

Oh, how he wanted to!

He could not, though, as long as he did not want her blood on his hands, he could not. How to make her see? How to make her realize that he spoke the truth, that he was a monster, wholly unworthy of her allegiance or friendship?

The answer was so simple.

The mask.

Could he possibly? Could he simply slip it off, confront her with evidence of the truth? Could he expose himself, even to save her? But if she saw him, surely she would believe him.

His hand moved to his face almost of its own initiative. He soon felt the bite of the cold air on his bare skin.

She paled, and he waited for the terror to overtake her, the screams and the following sickness. He waited for her to run, even as Christine had run.

She stepped towards him. "Erik," she whispered his name as a plea.

He stood, struck dumb for untold eons. He found his voice at last and commanded her, "Look at me!"

"I am looking at you," she said serenely. She really did appear to be looking at Erik, her gaze even and sweeping over his features. She was a little pale, a little drawn, but her eyes were dry. She was almost statue like in composure—no, not statue-like. Not cold marble with an unbeating heart and unseeing eyes—living and live, and quite plainly looking at Erik.

Everything melted away at that point—the day at least, if not his entire life.

"Do you not see me?" Erik whispered.

She nodded and had the nerve to smile at him. It was the faintest, most fleeting smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I see you, Erik."

Who was this creature who had strolled into his life by happenstance? Surely, she was not mere mortal woman, not with those unfearing eyes! Erik came closer to her and she did not shirk away.

Here now is Sunday bleeding over into the rest of my life. How lovely!

Bold Nora, brave Nora! He tried once more to frighten her away—with his kiss. How strange, that she did not pull away, even from that.

The chapter was almost impossible to write—so much to do! But, after over sixty thousand words, we finally have our first kiss.