All right, a word of warning: we still have a number of chapters to go, but we are moving towards the end of this story. Alas, before we get there, things will get a little dark and twisty. There is a happy ending in store, but Erik and Nora are not making it easy to get there. You have been warned.

Nadir considered himself to be a man of simple desires. His youth had been consumed with the typical unreachable objectives—great fame and wealth, a grand love, and the pursuit of justice in an unjust world. But now? Good food, decent reading material, and quiet afternoons were all he really required from life.

Nadir had predicted that Sunday would be a rather good day for him. The frigid weather would surely prevent visitors from intruding on his peace. He had the latest bound volume of Jules Verne's work in one hand, and a steaming glass of Turkish style coffee in the other. He ought to have known that the peace would not remain. Too many years of civilian life had obviously dulled his keen investigator's intuition.

Erik arrived at four o'clock in the evening.

"I did not think I would see you again," Nadir said. Privately, he admitted that the prospect had disturbed him. He had reconciled himself to Erik's death once, but the idea that the man was alive and unseen was unpleasant.

"How could I stay away?" Erik had practically fallen onto the couch. The man really did have a flair for the dramatic—grand, sweeping gestures that meant next to nothing. "After all, someone broke into my house, and you are the only police officer I could think to alert."

For a moment, Nadir thought that Erik might have been aware of his other intruder, but realized that was unlikely. "You left your front door unlocked. Hardly a 'break-in.'"

"Aha!" Erik exclaimed, pointing a long finger at Nadir, "the culprit! I should have known…"

Nadir huffed. "Really, you are much too old for these sorts of displays, Erik."

"If I am old, then you are one foot in the grave, Daroga."

Nadir thought back to the picture of Erik retreating away from the Rue de Ravoli, running from Christine and God knew what else. How long ago had that been? Three days? Never had Nadir seen Erik recover from such a blow in such a short period of time. "I would have expected you to be buried in some morbid composition by now," he said.

"Pardon? Oh, yes, I suppose I do tend to retreat into music at times," Erik said airily.

Nadir's tea cup said, "But you must admit, it is very fine music!"

The maiden painted on the wall hanging replied, "and recently, Erik's work hasn't been morbid at all!"

"What can that possibly mean?" the book in Nadir's hand joined in the conversation, "when even the Living Corpse does not dwell upon the subject of death?"

"Erik!" Nadir set aside the book with a bit more force than was necessary. "Stop it!"

Erik's voice returned to its proper tone and location—namely, his own mouth. "Really, you have no sense of humor."

"Why? Because I do not laugh at mirrored rooms? Because I do not care for my cutlery to act possessed?"

"I'm a cup, not cutlery," the coffee glass whispered.

"Erik," Nadir warned.

"A thousand apologies," Erik inclined his head slightly.

Nadir had almost managed to relax, even in Erik's presence, when someone else rang the bell. For a moment, the briefest moment, he gave it no thought. Then he remembered handing his card to Didier Moncharmin, and the thought spurred him out of his chair. "Darius! If it is the errand boy, tell him we need nothing today. No one should be out in this ungodly weather."

Darius nodded in understanding and Nadir sat back down, ignoring Erik's curious eyes.

"The… errand boy?" he asked.

"He is useful, but too eager," Nadir offered.

Erik paused. "There is no errand boy."

Nadir glanced at Erik and then picked up his glass again. "Believe what you will."

"It was Christine," Erik declared morosely.

"Why would you say that?" Nadir asked. All in all, it was not the worst thing Erik could think—if he suspected that Moncharmin had connected him with Nadir…

"Who else would you be in such a hurry to send away from me?" His eyes narrowed momentarily, but then cleared. "She is quite something, isn't she?"

"Erik."

Erik waved his hand. "No, don't mistake me, Daroga. Christine… Christine was a beautiful fantasy, but I have found that I can live without her."

"You put on quite a convincing performance that indicated the opposite of that," Nadir pointed out. "And the last I saw of you—"

"Details," Erik said. "Tell me—what do you think of Nora?"

Nora—ah, yes, Nora. The name conjured such an uncanny image in Nadir's mind that he scarcely knew how to categorize it. "I hardly know."

"Now she is magnificent," Erik said.

Nadir turned to face Erik, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes against the dawn of a headache. "Erik, I do not know what you are saying, what you are intending—but it can hardly end well."

"How would you know?" Erik asked, indignant. "You do not know her."

"Perhaps not. But I know you. What good can good can come of your… association with this woman?"

"We are friends," Erik said suddenly. "Can you believe that? She is the dearest friend I have ever known."

Nadir was well informed on the quality of Erik's friendship and immediately pitied Nora, despite her obvious pride. "How did—"

"Our paths crossed," Erik said, "just an instant, soon to be forgotten. But then they crossed again, and again. Seldom in my life have I managed to procure for myself so strong a tie to the world."

"But does she care to be tied to you?" Nadir said bluntly. "I seem to recall something about Christine being your living wife. You were quite convinced on that score."

Erik seemed to wince, and he turned his face heavenward. "Christine's voice summoned angels down to earth; Nora's touch lifts me up to paradise."

Nadir looked at him startled. "What are you saying? You can't possibly mean—"

Erik snorted. "My Nora is as virtuous as her beloved saints. But, Nadir—" Nadir startled again at this rare use of his personal name—"she has seen under the mask. She has seen me, and still does not refuse me. She is so kind, my Nora."

If it was true, Nadir could only assume that she was mad, as well as kind. "Do not make the same mistakes twice, Erik."

"How could I? I could not!" Erik launched himself off his seat and began pacing. "Christine—Christine—had every feeling for me proper for a student to have for her mentor. Nora—Nora loves me."

Nadir strove to keep his voice calm and even. "She has said so?"

"Her eyes say so every time I look into them."

"Do not trust a woman's eyes," Nadir warned. "You have a talent for seeing the invisible, Erik. But at times, the invisible is nonexistent."

Erik lifted the window covering for a moment, revealing grey skies and heavy rains. "I do not think you wish to see Erik happy."

"On the contrary," Nadir actually arose and came to stand next to Erik. "I do not wish to see you unhappy. I have seen what love has done to you before." And it is terrifying.

"The only thing that can make me unhappy is losing her," Erik said, "I cannot lose her."

That was exactly what Nadir was most afraid to hear.

Didier really was not sure if patience was one of his virtues. He did not consider himself to be an impatient man, per se, but he had been profoundly annoyed to be sent away from 'Nadir Kahn's' door. It was this annoyance that had prompted him to brave the beastly weather once again on Sunday, this time after nightfall. He knocked loudly on the door, despite the hour.

This time, he was admitted by the Persian's unreadable manservant and led to the sitting room. It was an odd juxtaposition to Didier's eye; the workaday and the exotic shared space in a strange way. An average sofa was adorned by a colorfully woven coverlet, ordinary wallpaper was covered by eastern tapestry—even Didier's host wore the combination of kaftan over a wingtip collar and eye glasses that would have been at home on a Parisian banker.

"Monsieur Moncharmin," the man greeted, holding out his hand.

Didier accepted and shook it, "Monsieur… Kahn?"

The Persian inclined his head slightly, "if you please. Please sit and warm yourself—my man will bring refreshment."

"No," Didier replied, "thank you. I cannot imagine that I will be here long."

"All the same. You braved a cold night and will do so again soon."

Didier soon found himself with a cup of vilely strong tea in hand. He drank it, grudgingly thankful of the warmth. "He was here, was he not?" No need to say just who, Didier supposed.

The Persian nodded. "Quite unexpectedly. I apologize for sending you away. Under normal circumstances—"

"It is of little consequence," Didier said, somewhat mollified by the man's unprompted apology. "How do you know him?"

"That is also of little consequence," the Persian replied, "what is of consequence is how you came to be in Erik's house."

Erik. Erik? How queer it was to put such a name to an apparition! "I have business with him."

The Persian smiled benignly. "I believe it is more likely that Erik has business with you than you have business with Erik. But I meant was the actual how you came to the house, not why you came."

Didier shrugged. "How did you?"

"I suspect that you took a route suggested by the Countess de Chagny," the Persian said, ignoring Didier's own question, "you do not seem to recall that I was her escort some weeks ago."

His words brought up the memory to Didier's mind. How foolish to have forgotten! "Why, yes, of course. Monsieur le Daroga, she called you." Didier paused. "Then you know all of this business, do you not? From the past drama of Christine Daaé to the present."

"More than that," his voice became sad, "I have known Erik for nearly thirty years. He is part angel, part monster—but entirely man. What do you intend to do with him, Monsieur Manager?"

The question hit Didier unexpectedly. What did he intend to do with his Opera Ghost? Erik, his Opera Ghost! It took effort to answer truthfully. "I do not know."

"Don't you?"

"He extorts funds from me," Didier said, "he threatens and plays such games! But he has aided the Garnier, as well. I will not go as far as to say that his help equals his 'salary,' but I am not a man to ignore the good that stems from the bad."

The Persian considered him for a moment. "How neatly you sum up Erik, though you do not know him. He is called monster, he is called devil, and fiend—but also Erik. Erik is what we call the good that stems from the bad."

"I do not know what I shall do with him," Didier repeated, "for the moment, I shall do nothing."

"As long as nothing includes staying above ground," the Persian said, "it may well be your best option."

"Perhaps."

The rain continued into Monday morning. Nora was sitting in the seldom used dining room, reading the parts of the newspaper that had not been soaked through. Daniel appeared.

"I cannot believe I must be out in this weather," he said.

Nora did not bother looking away from the article she was reading. "How much snow has fallen in Ontario this winter?"

"Oh, feet and feet," Daniel replied. "I would not have wanted to be out in that, either."

"I suppose not," Nora said, "I will say, though, that I'll spend next winter somewhere warm. Like… Mexico. I've never been to Mexico."

"Porfirio is back in office," Daniel commented. "But the question is, do you think Erik would like Mexico?"

Nora set down the newspaper with a snap. "Daniel, stop it."

Daniel continued to innocently spread marmalade on his toast. "What?"

"You know what," Nora replied. "Please do not try to complicate my life."

"Improvement, m'dear," he said, "improvements are at times complicated, but they are still improvements. What is the time? Already nine?" He stood, toast still in hand. "Well, off I go. Examine your conscience."

Nora watched him go, shaking her head. She had watched Daniel interact with others, both friends and business acquaintances. He was always so polished, so imperturbable. It was only with Nora he felt free to play the impertinent schoolboy, and it could be profoundly irritating.

"Miss Farley," Mr. Carey appeared, "Monsieur Erik to see you."

"Just bring him in here, if he doesn't mind," Nora replied, picking up her paper again. "Otherwise, I'll go out to the parlor."

A minute later, Erik entered. "Good morning, Nora."

"Nine o'clock, Erik," Nora said, "I'm impressed. You just missed Daniel."

"I know. I watched for his carriage to leave."

Nora arched an eyebrow at this comment. How Erik-like. Nora folded the paper over to look at him. He was standing, stiff and awkward at the end of the table. "Take a seat, Erik. Coffee?"

"No, thank you," he replied. At first, she had thought he was simply declining the drink, but then realized that he was not sitting either.

"Perhaps we should go out to the parlor?" Nora offered. She did not like to see Erik in this sort of state. He was unpredictable at best, terrifying at worst.

He nodded stiffly. "Perhaps so."

She tossed aside the paper and peeled off the gloves she wore while reading it. She took Erik's arm. She could feel his pulse. It was astonishingly fast. She made him sit down when they arrived, but he was soon on his feet again.

"I went to see the Daroga yesterday," he said.

"Oh?" Nora did not know if that was good or bad.

"We spoke about you—he was naturally curious about you and your presence on Friday."

"Yes, I suppose that is reasonable."

Erik paused, distracted. "The Daroga is something of an anomaly in my life. He has known me longer than anyone else. He has saved my life, and I his."

"You are friends," Nora supplied.

"After a fashion," Erik shrugged. "I told you that I was at my best and my worst in Persia, and Nadir saw both. He is a rarity in this world—a genuinely good man, with a keen sense of justice and a noble heart." He sighed. "But even the good Daroga cannot separate the man and the monster in me. He looks at me. He does not fear me, but he is still repelled."

"Are you sure?" Nora asked. In her mind, it was easier to be afraid of Erik than to be repelled by him.

"Oh, yes," Erik said. "You are alone in your ability to see me, Nora. You look at me, and see neither man nor monster, simply Erik."

How grave he was! How intent and intense! Nora smiled lightly, trying to bring a note of levity to the stuffy parlor. "Not true, Erik. I wish it were true, but it isn't."

"Oh?" His eyes picked up the firelight, glinting in the grey room.

"I look at you," Nora said, "and before I even see Erik, I see my friend."

There was silence, and then Erik broke out in a fit of laughter. It was a joyful laugh, nothing unstable or unseemly about it. She smiled in return. "Oh, Nora. My friend. My friend Nora. How was I to know that I would end here, when at first I had only intended to walk to Notre Dame?"

"God works in mysterious ways?" Nora offered.

"God never bothered with me before," Erik replied. He was serious again, and came closer to Nora. He did not sit on the couch next to her, merely kneeled by her feet, taking her hands in his. Ever the thespian, Nora thought. "You look at me and see your friend. But I look at you—and I see my life. I see life as it was supposed to be, as ordinary men with ordinary faces live it."

He was using his honey-dipped tones again, and Nora's blood ran cold even as her heart yearned to be closer to him.

"It may be unfair," Erik continued, "it may be unjust, even. But when I look at you, I do not see my friend. I see my wife. Dear Nora, could you ever be my wife?"

Another evil cliff-hanger. I'll be sure to have the next chapter up in a timely fashion. ;)