Nora had seldom managed to procure such a long list of sins to confess during the course of a single week. In addition to her usual errors, she had a few choice bits— jealousy for one, lust for another. She threw in 'staying up too late and therefore not wanting to attend Mass' for good measure. She had the misfortune of confessing before the youngest and most enthusiastic of Notre Dame's priests. He listened intently and assigned her a half dozen Our Father prayers, with the recommendation that she also consider her rosary. She could not recall receiving a harsher penance since confessing her unholy joy over her mother's death.

The weather was vile when she finally exited the cathedral. Any semblance of a sunrise was obscured by rain clouds, and the streets were slick with frost. It was likely warmer than Ottawa was at the moment, but that was little comfort as the winds allowed the rain to bypass the protection of Nora's umbrella. By the time she reached the bridge, she had given up on it.

She recognized Erik from a distance, despite his anonymous attire and atypical homburg hat. He tilted his head at her in curiosity.

"Luxembourg Gardens was it?" Nora asked, fixing her chapel veil to better cover her ears and throat.

"I think not," Erik replied. He unbuttoned his great Ulster coat and drew Nora close, wrapping the coat around her. He was surprisingly warm. "What happened to your umbrella?"

"It was doing more harm than good. That's what one gets when one buys an umbrella based solely on the pretty handle," Nora admitted. "Where shall we go, then, if not the gardens?"

"Rue de la Harpe," Erik replied primly, "you ought to be home in front of a fire."

"A little water is not going to cause my death," Nora said.

"It might," Erik said, trying to usher her across the bridge. "And then what would I do?"

"Isn't there anywhere you want to go?" Nora asked.

"Is there a particular reason you do not wish to return home?"

Nora shrugged. "I'm already out. I'm already wet. I'd rather spent my morning with you than hearing about the gastronomical habits of the French ambassador from Daniel."

Erik paused, before slowly turning around and walking back onto the Île de la Cité. "Very well." They crossed over to the Right Bank quickly and Erik procured a hansom, grumbling all the while that Nora was still getting wet. He attempted to hand over his coat, which she refused.

"What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not do everything in my power to make you comfortable?" he huffed.

"Ask yourself this," Nora countered, "what sort of lady am I?"

"A very fine one," Erik said. The cab stopped at the corner of the Rue Scribe just as the rain transformed to hail. "Now aren't you glad to be going indoors?"

Nora glanced at him, peeling off her scarf as soon as they were through the hidden gate to the underground. His eyes sparkled humorously. "Why, yes, Erik. Your prudence is astounding."

"Indeed," Erik nodded. He took far too much delight in the role of 'protector,' Nora thought.

"I've always been curious about the roof here," Nora said slyly, "is it true there is a wading pool up there?"

"Hardly," Erik replied, "there are water tanks that the ballet rats use in the summer."

"But the statues are quite something, are they not?"

"They are," he replied noncommittally.

"I'd like to see them," Nora said.

Erik halted. "Be my guest. For my part, I am going to sit in my warm parlor with a pot of coffee."

Nora made a show of looking around the damp, dark corridor. "On second thoughts…"

"Quite."

"You know, dear," Nora said, "you're not much fun to tease."

Erik shrugged elegantly. "Are you sure that you are simply not very good at teasing me?"

They arrived at Erik's little house, which looked pleasantly warm and bright. Erik helped Nora out of her soaked coat and ushered her to the parlor. After fixing the fire, he departed, presumably to make the coffee.

Nora rubbed her hands together absently, looking around. She could not help the wave of panic that washed over her as observed the room. Her previous experiences in Erik's parlor were far from pleasant. What were they up to so far? Ah, yes, a pseudo-kidnapping and a very uncomfortable confession. Neither had inspired Nora to actually observe the room itself. For the most part it was as banal as she had recalled, but for the first time she noticed the bookshelves. A dozen languages and subjects were represented in the contained volumes. Few of the titles she could understand were familiar to her. Lacking any other distraction, she leafed through Erik's copy of the Divine Comedy.

She nearly jumped when Erik silently draped something over her shoulders.

"Inferno, Purgatorio, or Paradiso?" he asked.

"As far as Dante is concerned, I much prefer La Vita Nuova," she slipped the book back into its place and looked down at the shawl Erik had put on her. It was remarkably fine cashmere, vibrant red woven with a remarkable pattern of turquoise and gold. "Where on earth did you get this?"

"It was a gift," Erik grumbled, leading Nora back to the sofa.

"Who gave you a woman's shawl as a gift?" Nora asked.

Erik remained silent for some time before answering. He poured Nora a cup of coffee and handed it to her. "The Shah."

"The… Shah?" Nora had a vague memory of Erik laughing at her, claiming that her paranoia would have been at home in a Shah's court. She had not thought much of the comment at the time.

"Naser al-Din," if Nora had thought Erik had been grumbling earlier, now he must have been growling. "The Shah of Persia. And it is not a woman's shawl. In the Persian court, shawl fabric is used by both genders to create their fitted clothing."

She stared at him "The Shah of Persia gave you a cashmere shawl as a gift."

"You have an amazing gift for restatement and reiteration," Erik said.

"You were in Persia?"

"I was."

"How did you like it? You never mentioned it before."

Erik sighed. "I cannot speak of Persia. I was at my best and my worst there. "

Nora nodded as if she understood, though she honestly did not. "Your life has taken you interesting places."

"As has yours," Erik nodded. "I traveled because I needed to. You traveled for the simple love of it—I envy that. For my part, I have had enough of the world to last my lifetime."

"I don't think I will ever have had enough of the world," Nora replied. "I—" Her thoughts had turned glum, perhaps prompted by Erik's own dark air. She cut off her intended comment. With any luck, Erik would ignore it.

He did not. "What is it?"

"Never mind," she said.

"You expect me to 'never mind?'" Erik asked wryly, "and here I thought you might actually know me."

"It sounds so self-indulgent," Nora complained, "I dislike wallowing in childish self-pity, which is sadly something I am prone to."

"Just tell me," he pressed. Was that a note of panic in his voice? Nora immediately felt a surge of guilt. Erik never took any form of rejection well. But what was she supposed to do? Appease him at every turn?

In this case, she believed it would not harm anything. "I do love travel, as you say. But I also travel because I have never found a place that really feels like home. I've found places that I like, places that I am fond of. There have been places I've lived— but home, in terms of the abiding place of one's affections, has always eluded me. Doesn't it sound silly?"

Why did she always look at Erik's mask, expecting to see some sort of expression there? "What of… Ottawa?"

"I have a house there. I have family there and responsibilities that force me to return year after year. I suppose I can get a little sentimental over the place on occasion, but given the chance, I might just leave the house to Mr. Carey and never bother returning."

"Don't you like Paris?" he asked.

Did she like Paris? It seemed like a question with far too many implications to answer properly. "Do you?"

"I came here by chance," Erik said, "I stayed by design."

"I suppose I also came here by chance," Nora replied. She did not say that she could not imagine staying, by design or caprice. "Then again, chance has been a deciding factor in my of my destinations. It's one of the reasons I prefer to travel alone. The last thing one wants is to be obliged to debate the merits and demerits of any minor change in itinerary."

"It is not safe," Erik said suddenly.

"Pardon?"

"You really oughtn't travel by yourself. Who knows the sort of harm that might come to you?" He was absurdly earnest.

"Harm can come to me half a block from my front door," Nora pointed out.

"I suppose." That was likely the most Nora could expect in the way of an agreement. Erik had fixed himself a cup of coffee, but now sat at an impasse with the cup halfway to his masked face.

Nora sighed and reached up to remove it.

He flinched, a gesture made monstrous by his face. "I don't believe I'll ever grow accustomed to… this," he said, eyes wide.

She shrugged, disguising the fact that she was not quite looking at Erik by admiring the weave of the shawl. "Well, I don't see why a man shouldn't be able to have a cup of coffee in his own home."

"Perhaps, but I do not understand how you look at me," he murmured. After a moment, he asked, "or do you?"

Nora was surprised when she felt Erik place a finger under her chin and gently force her to look up at him. She jerked her head away, smiling to lessen the chance that Erik would perceive the motion as a personal slight. "Oh, Erik."

"Tell me," he demanded, "tell me how you do it."

"Does it matter?" It was uncomfortable to be scrutinized, Nora realized. Erik did so openly and harshly. She made a point of looking directly back at him.

"Yes, it does matter."

"Why?"

"Because I must wonder," he said softly, "I must wonder why you alone are capable of doing so."

"Ah." Nora lowered her eyes, withdrawing the challenge she had been making with them. Did she dare tell him of the days she had grappled with the image of his face, the nightmares and phantoms that it had conjured? There had been one particularly vivid dream that had haunted her for some time, recurring even in recent nights. She had dreamt of kissing Erik—a lover's kiss, full of life and passion. He wore his mask, but in the dream it served as his own warm, living face. It was his actual hideous face that served as the mask, slowly crystallizing and obscuring the original white porcelain. She would be caught then, caught between kissing Erik and making love to a corpse.

No, she could not tell him that. Besides, she was always—always—able to rid herself of the image upon awakening, separating man and face. At least, then, there was that truth to tell him. "You are more than your face."

"Ah, so you tolerate me in spite of my face," he said in his singsong voice.

Nora looked up at him. There was something about that mocking tone that brought out the worst in her, allowing anger and vanity and resentment to push her finer social polish. "My opinion of you is not in spite of your face; it is wholly separate. The one does not influence the other." Perhaps that was not quite true. If anything, the affection she had for Erik and the value she placed on his friendship served to lessen the dread of his countenance. She picked up her forgotten coffee and too a sip. "I will not insult you, Erik. I am not one of those who can find beauty in the grotesque." He flinched, but she carried on. "But when I look at you, I see my friend. Nothing more, and nothing less."

"Then you see things strangely, my dear," he whispered.

"Can we simply not speak of it any more?" Nora asked. It sounded more like a plea in her ears than a casual request.

"Conditionally," Erik said.

"And what is your condition?" she almost hoped that he would request a kiss. It would be easy enough to give, and would perhaps sweep the whole issue away with more finality than anything else she could say.

"Tell me," he said, "how you manage to see the world differently."

She blinked at him. His face really did not seem so terrible, particularly when he was so serious. He might as well have been a terrific carved gargoyle. "I don't know."

"But you do see it differently."

"I suppose I might."

"You do," he insisted, "and you must tell me how it came about. Only then will this be finished."

"I do not know," she reiterated.

"Don't you?" His hand ghosted over her own.

She shook her head, and he held her hand. His eyes were locked on her, leaving no quarter for escape.

"I went to Luxor," she said at length. "I toured the Karnak ruins, went through the bazaar, explored the suburbs, and ended up in the part of town where all of the dancing girls congregated. They were robed in a riot of colors, kohl-rimmed eyes and rouged lips, hair long and dressed in a hundred braids… they were rather impudent, laughing and jesting. It didn't bother me. They made for a striking picture, something wholly foreign." She tried to use her own most engaging voice, though it was nothing like Erik's vocal hypnotism. Clearly, she had been too much in his company. "Some years later, a Miss Amelia Edwards published her travel memoir of Egypt. I read it, and discovered that we had been many of the same places, scant months apart. She wrote of the very neighborhood I had seen the dancers in, and commented on them. She said—give me a moment to say this correctly—never before had we seen anything in female form so hideous. From what I could tell, such was the common opinion of Western women of good breeding. I tried to remember what I had thought and felt at the time. I had thought, how ridiculous we must look to them in our corsets and feathered hats. I cannot tell you how I came to think in that manner, but that was when I realized that it was different from the norm." She toyed with her coffee cup for a moment. "Does that satisfy you?"

"No," he said, "but we can consider… this matter closed."

"For the moment?" Nora asked.

He smiled and tapped her hand affably. "My clever Nora. Come now, and have a listen." He arose and offered Nora his hand. She took it tentatively and was soon set down next to Erik on the piano bench. He shuffled through the red inked papers on the music rack, setting an unnamed piece to the fore.

"What do we have here?" Nora asked. She looked over the notes. They were not as complex as some of the pieces she had just seen Erik set aside, but there was something unexpected and unconventional about the arrangement. She had certainly never attempted to play such a piece.

He smiled again and shushed her. "Just listen."

It was a remarkable song, though she could not tell if it was the music itself or the manner in which Erik played it. She tried to pay attention to technical aspects, but soon found all awareness swept aside by emotion. It was a song of hope, she thought, delicate, desperate hope. Did Erik know what she thought of hope, that she truly believed it to be the most damning of all feelings? Did it matter? The song faded at the end, and Nora felt Erik brush away tears she did not realize had escaped her eyes.

"The composers of the Baroque era held to the doctrine of the affects," Erik said clinically. "The idea was to highlight a single emotion, often through contrast. It is a practice that has long since fallen out of favor, supposedly because it is unnatural. But I have found that nothing mimics the very natural state of human confusion more than forcing a listener to confront a single, solitary feeling. Why look," he lowered the fall over the keys and turned to look at Nora, "you cried. An optimistic song, and you cry. And these are not tears of joy, are they?"

Nora quirked a smile and shook her head. "You are too good at this, Erik."

"Unnaturally so," he agreed, "another reason why I have never quite managed to fit into that world you are so anxious to explore."

"What made you create that?" Nora almost did not want to ask the question, fearful of how he might answer.

"It is an aria," he said, "for my new opera. I do not know who sings it, or under what circumstances. Yet."

"Will she be disappointed?" Nora asked.

"Pardon."

"All of the hopes and the dreams—she'll be disappointed, will she not?"

He looked at her for a moment and returned a portion of the red shawl that had fallen to its proper place on Nora's shoulder. "I do not know."

Amelia Edwards quote comes from A Thousand Miles Up the Nile, first published in 1877.