There was something immensely satisfying about hailing a cab and directing it to Nora's home. Erik still pulled his hat down to cast a deep shadow over his face, but few carriage drivers refused a well-dressed man with ready money in his hand.
His initial success in his endeavor should have alerted him that disappointment was nigh. Carey's unusually contented expression should have been the second alert. Alas, Erik remained blissfully unaware of trouble until he heard the laughter emanating from Nora's parlor. The sound pierced his heart.
She sounded so delightfully carefree, and he—whoever he was—sounded equally amused. She had been in Paris for months, and in all that time, Erik knew that her visitors were few and professional in nature. It was just the tangling of the accursed fates that brought her into contact with some pleasant man as soon as Erik set his heart on her. He stood outside of the parlor, as cold and unmoving as stone.
He ought to wash his hands of the whole affair. Leave now—never mind Nora—never mind Christine—
"Ahem," Carey appeared at his shoulder, "Miss Farley is expecting you."
Erik closed his eyes, envisioned snapping the servant's neck, and then discarded the idea. "Please inform Miss Farley that I am obliged to cancel tonight's engagement—"
"Mr. Carey, is that Erik?" Erik had grown attuned to Nora's slips into English, and could usually understand her.
Carey glanced at Erik, "yes, Miss."
Erik could hear the rustle of her skirts draw closer. She appeared at the doorway, dressed in a dark brown gown that matched her hair and complemented her ivory complexion. As usual, her main ornaments were elaborately carved hair combs. She smiled at him, "do come in, if we have a moment to spare."
Erik begrudgingly walked forward, intent on facing his rival.
The man standing in the parlor was not what Erik had at first pictured—there were no waifishly handsome viscounts to be seen. This man was older than Nora and barely taller than her, dressed in a rumpled suit. His face was unlined, but his hair entirely silver and sticking out at odd angles. A nervous smile and smudged glasses completed the odd picture.
The man had the audacity to put out his hand to Erik, "Daniel Tremblay. Fresh from Calais!"
Where had Erik heard that name before? Nora supplied the answer, "my cousin."
Erik could not find words to reply with, but allowed Daniel to shake his hand. "I hear that you're taking Nora to the opera tonight—however did you manage to convince her to go with you?"
The question hung heavily in the room, and Erik's fantasy of killing Carey was suddenly transferred to Daniel.
Nora merely snorted, "what a way to put it, Daniel!"
Her cousin shrugged. "What? You're practically a social recluse, Eleanor. The fact that you are going out with someone is practically a miracle. Really, who have you been praying through recently? This could really be a boon to the beatification of some holy person or the other."
"Do you know," Nora spoke in a stage whisper, linking her arm with Erik's, "that he actually wonders why the High Commissioner keeps him locked up in his office instead of letting him go out on foreign assignments? Personally, I wonder how he stays in the diplomatic profession at all."
Daniel sniffed primly, "I would have you know that I am extremely… competent at my job."
Nora made some sort of reply that Erik did not quite hear. It was as if he was playing the role of the ghost again, eavesdropping unseen on some conversation wholly unrelated to himself. The only thing that brought any gravity of reality to the situation was the feeling of Nora's hand placed in the crook of his elbow. She continued to banter with her cousin for some time. It was a different side to her than Erik had seen. She was not soft with Daniel like she was with Erik, and he exulted in that. Rather, she was arch and wry, as she often was, but with an undercurrent of affection.
"Well, I won't detain you from your caterwauling any longer," Daniel said. He kissed Nora's cheek and shook Erik's hand again. He maintained unnerving eye contact with Erik throughout the action. "Feel free to keep her out as long as you like. It would probably do her some good." He winked.
Winked.
Someone winked at Erik.
He escorted Nora to the waiting carriage, dazed. He could not recall saying a single word during the visit. The silence continued until the carriage rolled off towards the Rue Scribe.
"So that is… Cousin Daniel," Erik said at last.
Nora offered a wry smile. "That's Daniel, yes."
Erik processed this thought for a long while. "He is here to overtake the question of Christian Tremblay's estate?" The unspoken accusation of you're leaving hung in the air.
Nora colored a bit, a very flattering look on her. "Actually, he's asked me to stay longer and take care of most of it."
"Ah," relief flooded through Erik's mind, erasing the darker thoughts that had plagued him for that past quarter of an hour. "Did you say that your cousin is married?"
Nora nodded. "With four daughters."
"Ah." He took a moment to reclaim his former joy at the prospect of this evening, gazing at his pretty Nora and anticipating the night to come. He smiled to himself, uncaring of even of the harsh jarring of the cab over the cobblestones. "So. Eleanor?"
She groaned, and Erik laughed.
Didier looked at the handbill for the night's performance. He was pleased that he had been able to persuade their new leading lady to shorten her stage name. "La Fonseca" fit nicely beneath The Elixir of Love.
The production had been meticulously arranged, and Didier was slightly perturbed that he would be missing it. He preferred comedic operas, but tonight had his own melodrama to participate in.
After the first act was underway, he meandered over to the Grand Tier. Madame Giry nodded to him with proud diffidence.
"Monsieur Manager," she whispered.
"Madame," he nodded formally to her. It had been his experience that if one treated the boxkeeper with respect she could be extraordinarily helpful. "Might I inquire if Box Five is occupied tonight?"
She looked at him curiously. "Box Five is always occupied, Monsieur."
"I know, I know," Didier said, appeasing her with his agreement, "but is he here now?"
"Well, yes, Monsieur," she bobbed her head, the feathers in her bonnet waving, "along with his lady friend."
"…His lady friend?" Didier repeated.
"A woman of breeding," Madame Giry assured him, "though not as gracious as he."
Didier nodded, shuffling this information away for future reference. "Thank you, Madame…" He checked his watch. Just two hours until the opera ended. With any luck, the ghost would dally and delay with his guest—though it was just as possible that they might depart the opera early.
Either way, there was not a moment to lose. Didier hurried to the back stage, passing by the various workers without a word. He ducked into one of the unused dressing room, looking around fugitively. He doffed his tails and put on a coarse work coat he had set aside. He had a loaded gun at the ready and a kerosene lantern. A length of candle was in his pocket, as well as matches, as a backup. He kept a switchblade at the ready as well.
He had spent days planning this, pouring over the blue prints of the opera house and recreating the route Christine de Changy had described to him.
With any luck, he would be soon be in the lair of the Opera Ghost.
The main issue was the underground lake—besides the innumerable traps the Countess had so airily mentioned, of course. In order to bypass it, he would be obliged to go through a zigzagging maze of service corridors. It could easily be an hour's walk, he figured, and he could not risk taking so much time. As soon as he was unobserved, he broke into a run.
City life had made him soft, Didier grumbled to himself. As soon as he could, he would escape out to the country. Long walks, a good horse, a few pretty rustic girls… Yes, he could definitely use a vacation.
Erik had never like The Elixir of Love, for more reasons than he could possibly number. To be fair, it was not a terrible opera. Musically, it was vaguely amusing. In terms of characterization, rather too accurate. But the ending? Heartbreaking in its improbability.
Somehow, none of that seemed to matter this time. Erik laughed when the others in the audience laughed, allowed himself to enjoy the clever bits of the score, and delighted in the foreknowledge that Nemorino would win his proud Adina.
Such was the joy of sharing something, anything, with another person.
The intermission came far too quickly to Erik's mind. Half the evening gone!
He looked out at the other couples in the audience as the lights brightened. If he was forced to be fully objective, he would be obliged to say that Nora was not the most beautiful woman in attendance, nor the most stylishly attired. But what did that matter? She was beautiful, and more importantly, she was with Erik. He knew for a certainty that none of the other smiling men out there, escorting their proud, painted creatures, were half as pleased as Erik was.
Such a pity they could not carry on in this manner forever!
"I suppose our walk will need to be postponed," Erik said. He tried not to sound as morose as he felt at the prospect.
"Hm?" Nora turned to face him. "Do you have other plans tomorrow?"
Was she mocking him? Erik would have thought so, but apparently not. "Not at all. But I thought that you would be busy with… your cousin."
Nora rolled her eyes. "I practically grew up with him. I feel no compulsion to spend my Sunday morning with him, too."
Her answer pleased him. "Then we will finally get to finish out tour of the Luxembourg Garden."
"Barren trees, slushy snow, and frozen fountains," Nora smirked, "Make sure you bring a good coat, Erik."
She could not see it, of course, but Erik smiled at her warmly. "I could give you the same admonishment, my dear."
She smiled at him and settled into her chair for the second act.
Erik observed her for some time, even after the curtain was raised. She noticed his stare, and glanced at him with a mild blush. She tapped his hand with her fan. "Enjoy the opera, Erik," she whispered.
"I am," he replied, utterly truthful.
It was a cottage.
A quaint little cottage with a porch and window boxes, situated on a lake.
Didier abandoned his haste for a moment, simply to look at the bizarre tableau before him. The Opera Ghost, with his exorbitant salary, lived in the most mundane structure Didier could have possibly conceived of. Only its location made it noteworthy.
Now that the moment had come, Didier felt a bit faint. What exactly did he intend to do here?
Find answers, he repeated to himself, firmly. Now, if only he knew what questions he was supposed to ask…
The front door was unlocked and apparently not beset by booby traps. The interior of the house was just as ordinary as the exterior. A parlor, done up in the conventional style of forty years past. A bedroom, practically unused. Didier lamented that there was a locked door off the hallways—surely, he could have found answers there. He tried to force the door, but it would not move. He did not dare to attempt more drastic measures.
The kitchen was surprisingly modern, with running water and an ice chest. A loaf of good bread was on a cutting board and several bottles of wine stood ready in a cool corner. Didier looked at these; they were all exceptional vintages.
Well, it was nice to know that the Garnier's funds were going to good use.
Didier returned to the parlor, at a loss. Here was his grand scheme, finally at fruition, and it was worthless. Banal furniture, commonplace knickknacks—nothing of note. Nothing to hint at the identity of his phantom, or to provide insight into the man's motives.
He checked his watch again. The intermission would have ended some minutes ago—a scant hour remained of the program. At best, he had a few more minutes to poke around an utterly average house. He sat down on the piano bench, bereft of motivation to anything else. Sheets of music surrounded the instrument, all penned in the same red ink as the notes Didier occasionally received. He leafed through the papers carefully.
Didier fancied that he had some degree of musical sensitivity, if not talent. This natural inclination had been honed by constant attendance on the Opera. His tastes had broadened as well, and even Richard, who composed, declared that he had a fine grasp of what made music fine.
The compositions Didier held in his hands now were wholly beyond his realm of experience. He read the notes, entranced and befuddled. What was this? How did one play this?
…What would an audience think of this?
He picked out the simplest of the songs and played the first few chords. His fingers were clumsy on the piano keys, but at last he could conceive of what the song sounded like. Magnificent.
A strong knock interrupted him and he nearly dropped the papers. Another knock and then the door opened. At once, a man's voice called out loudly in a foreign tongue. Didier was on his feet, fumbling for his forgotten firearm. By the time he had pulled it out of his coat pocket, he found himself face to face with the intruder.
They simply looked at one another for a long moment. The man was older, dark skinned and light eyed, dressed in a respectable suit and an astrakhan hat. He was slack jawed with shock; Didier imagined he wore a similar expression.
The man rushed towards him, unheeding of the poorly held gun in Didier's hand. He grasped Didier's arm.
"Does he know you are here?" the man asked, his French barely accented.
It took a moment for Didier to decipher this question, but he ultimately managed to shake his head in the negative.
"Then we must go at once," the man said, already pulling Didier out of the parlor, "it is the lasso for us both if he finds you here, Monsieur Manager."
Didier had the presence of mind to pick up his lantern before the odd man forced him out of the house.
"By what passage did you come here?" the man asked, his voice still low and hurried. Didier replied and the man shook his head. "Treacherous, to say the least! You are fortunate to have made it this far." He led him out by a different passage, shorter and far more direct. Didier found himself outside, on the Rue Scribe. The man did not stop there, however, and continued to draw Didier away from the Opera Garnier.
At last they stopped.
"Who are you?" Didier demanded, scraping together what dignity he could.
The man merely stared at him, searching his face before replying. "I am the Persian."
"The Persian?" Didier repeated. "I have heard of you! You used to haunt the Garnier as much as… our mutual friend."
"You do well not to treat him so lightly," the Persian warned, "I did not jest when I said it would be death for us both."
"Who is he?" Didier pressed, "why does he behave in the outrageous manner that he does?"
The Persian shook his head. "We cannot speak here, not now. If I return to the house on the lake and wait for him, he might excuse the disturbances he sees, attributing them to me. If not, he may well trace them to you."
"When can we speak?" Didier asked.
The Persian reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a card. "This is my address. Come when you please—but if my man sends you away, leave without question."
Didier found himself left alone on the street, dressed in a patched coat and carrying a lantern. He walked back to the Garnier whistling, as if he was dressed in the latest mode.
Erik delivered Nora to her door as promised. They had chatted quietly for a few minutes, reaffirming their plan to meet in the morning. Erik tarried at the last moment, before quickly lifting his mask a few inches and kissing Nora goodnight. He disappeared and left Nora with a headache.
Mr. Carey was still up, probably because of Daniel's arrival. It seemed a bit wrong that Daniel would be taking over the guest bedroom, so recently occupied by Erik. Nora handed off her cape and gloves to Mr. Carey and went into the parlor. Daniel sat in the wingback chair, holding a little liqueur glass.
"You're back early," he commented.
"It's nearly midnight," Nora replied, taking a seat across from him.
"Well, you know—"
"If it wasn't you," Nora growled, "I would have Mr. Carey come and shoot you for attempting to sully my good name."
Daniel shrugged. "You know I mean well."
"I suppose. Is that the Grand Marnier?"
Daniel nodded and took a sip. "It tastes like someone decided to distill orange peel. Would you care for a glass?"
Nora accepted. "I hear you can cook with it, too."
"And I hear you gave a bottle to… Erik," Daniel said.
"I did," Nora replied. "My staff is becoming lax and gossipy."
Daniel waved his hand dismissively. "They adore you. They worry. I like you, but I still worry."
"Are you here to lecture me on propriety?" Nora asked.
"Hardly. At your worst, you've never been anything less than a lady," Daniel said.
"So you think."
"So I know," there was a dull edge to Daniel's voice that indicated that he might not be drinking his first glass of the liqueur. "I watched you grow up, Nora. You don't have the capacity for willful badness."
Daniel really was a sweetheart, Nora mused. Naïve perhaps, and possessing an odd sense of humor, but as kind as men came.
"Tell me about Erik," he said at last.
"There isn't much to say," Nora shrugged.
"The mask?"
"He needs it."
"For what? To avoid recognition?"
"He looks…" Nora paused and searched for the proper words. There was no point in varnishing the truth for Daniel. "He looks like a reanimated corpse. A Frankenstein's monster wrought by God, rather than man."
Daniel blinked and nodded slowly. "Mr. Carey says he's bright."
"He's brilliant," Nora amended.
"Do you like him?"
Nora set down her glass and fixed Daniel with an intent stare. "What are you asking?"
"I know it's silly," Daniel said, "but I want to see you settled, dear girl."
"Settled? I am settled," Nora replied, "I have a house of my own, a staff, I keep my own carriage. I do what I please, spend what I please, and your girls will each get a tidy sum from me once I've finally skipped off to Purgatory."
"I'm not speaking of finances," Daniel said, "and you know it. I don't like to see you alone, and this Erik is this first man you've paid more than cursory attention to in years."
"That you know of," Nora shot back.
Daniel smiled at her, a little patronizing, "would it be so bad? If you really like the man, what prevents a union?"
A union? What a cavalier manner Daniel had, in dealing with Nora's entire future! "If marriage had been a goal in my life, I would have done so years ago. Even if none would have had me, husbands are not difficult to buy."
"Don't be crass," Daniel said. "Timing is not always right… at times, we must wait…"
"I'll thirty-eight next month," Nora said. "My time is not simply 'not right,' it is well gone."
"Not at all!" He was trying so hard to sound reasonable, Nora thought. It was a bad form for him. "I was thirty-seven before I married, myself."
"And how old was Anne?" Nora asked.
"That's not the point—"
"She was twenty-two," Nora supplied. "You've been married for ten years, and your wife is still younger than I."
"Marriage for a woman of your age may not be conventional," Daniel conceded, "but I would hardly think it immoral." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I just want what is best for you."
Nora sighed and stood. She pat Daniel's shoulder before leaving the room. "I know. I thank you."
He grumbled indistinctly. "Are you meeting Erik after Mass tomorrow?"
Nora was already out of the parlor. Her headache was threatening to blind her. "Yes."
"Good for you. I don't want to see you home before supper!"