Nora attempted to regain some semblance of normalcy on the following Monday. It was not as difficult as it should have been. Mr. Carey handed her a stack of letters that had been misdirected and she spent the entire day sorting through them.

"Any good gossip?" Daniel asked that evening.

"No," Nora replied, "all business. My lawyer is behaving more like a card sharp than anything else, the roof on my stables has collapsed, and my housekeeper decided this was sufficient cause to discharge my groom."

"Rather sounds like gossip, when you put it that way," Daniel casually picked up one of the letters. His eyes grew wide. "My God, Mr. Clacher didn't actually lose this amount of your money, did he?"

"It was a speculation," Nora grumbled, "there are no guarantees with speculations. I don't like to speculate with my money, but, oh no, never mind what the little woman says…"

"This is a year's income for you," Daniel protested.

"A year and half," Nora said. "I'm sending Mr. Carey back to Canada to straighten it all out, within the week if I can. I should have known that my staff couldn't operate without its head." She pushed aside the papers and rubbed her eyes. "I suppose I've been away too long. Never thought I would say that."

Daniel pulled over a chair and sat on the opposite side of Nora's desk. "Dear girl…"

"Don't call me that," Nora said. She sounded tired, she realized, fatigued beyond reason. "Not unless you want me to call you 'dear boy.'"

"In this case, I find that arrangement to be equitable," Daniel said seriously, "dear girl, I have never seen you so out of sorts."

"Haven't you?" Nora tried to smile at him.

"No, I never have," he said. "When are you seeing him again?"

Nora sighed. "Friday."

"Good," Daniel replied. "Going to the opera again?"

"Yes."

"Good," Daniel paused for a moment. "I do feel badly. From what Mr. Carey told me, everything was going swimmingly until I showed up."

Nora scoffed. "You hardly impacted my relationship with Erik."

"I didn't think that I did. But I get the impression that my timing was quite poor. A few more weeks and who knows what might have happened."

"Nothing would have happened," Nora said. Everything already did happen. "I am very fond of Erik, we have had a bit of a misunderstanding, everything will work out just fine. By the looks of it, I'll need to be back in Ottawa before spring as it is…"

"Surely Mr. Carey can take care of everything?"

Surely he can, Nora thought, but I think I'd rather be anywhere but Paris right now.

Erik had taken to spending hours in his rowboat, letting it drift in the stagnant parts of the underground lake. Often, he would be unmasked and in his shirtsleeves, humming vague tunes to himself. He tried bringing his violin once, but that had ended in disaster.

She had said… no.

Erik had battled with himself over whether he should or should not propose marriage to Nora. For one day and one night, he struggled with the question, turning it over and over in his mind. He examined it from every angle, poking and prodding and fearing the future. He came to the conclusion that the worst she could do was refuse, and had he not survived such a thing before?

Once he had decided to move forward with the idea, he was so sure of his success. Refuse? Of course she would not refuse. His Nora—his Nora—loved him. Even she could not deny that, when he asked her directly for an answer. She loved him, even with his face. If she loved him, why would she reject him, why would she refuse him?

Yet—she refused him.

He could barely remember her reasons for doing so. Freedom, she said. The world still awaited her, she said. I'm selfish, she said.

But above all else, she had said no.

Erik thought he was prepared for any answer, but somehow… that refusal shattered his heart. Only her hand in his kept him from breaking down utterly. How tragic that even then she influenced him so.

He did not remember what happened after that. The next thing he knew, he was at home, surrounded by the sheets of Don Juan Triumphant.

The irony was not lost on him, despite the miserable headache he was plagued by. He suspected that the half empty bottle of the orange liqueur as the culprit in that.

He set about straightening out the score. Why had he brought this out? He mentally traced out the notes. Even he was not immune to the power of the music. It seared and burned until he was obliged to stand and leave the entire manuscript sitting on the floor.

That was the first day he had spent out on the lake, plucking out the phantom of Don Juan on his violin until it drove him mad and he threw the instrument overboard.

She had said no. She had said no, and yet she insisted on Sunday mornings! On carrying on as friends!

Damn her.

Damn her and her purified soul, down to the depths of Hell.

He had continued in that state for an entire week. He worked on his new opera intermittently, the score growing darker by the day, fretting the rest of the time away. Then he saw her on Sunday, and he tried to curse her again.

…but how could he, while she was still Nora? Every wave of anger had to be tempered by the simple fact that she was… still Nora, still the object of his affection and dreams.

He could not hate her, and so resolved to love her better.

After all- wasn't living life about moving forward?

The Elixir of Love was still playing.

If Erik had had a proper address, Nora might have sent a messenger and canceled their evening based on that fact alone. What a coward that would have made her! Somehow that thought did not bother her as much as it should have. Cowards tended to live longer, happier lives than heroes.

Dressing for the evening practically sent her into hysterics, though she contained herself to a few restless twitches. She had ordered a new gown some weeks ago that had finally arrived. She put it on for a minute and looked at herself in the mirror. Oh, yes, it was a beautiful dress. It was cut conservatively but made of wine red silk, just the sort of thing Erik was constantly encouraging her to wear. That thought made her direct Perrine to pull out her old green dress instead. The wine color just seemed… terribly wrong to wear, like scarlet on one's wedding day.

Erik had not arranged to escort her to or from the opera. They met on the Rue Scribe and Nora prepared for another awkward night. How many more of these sorts of meetings could she handle? To her surprise, he seemed almost happy.

"You look lovely, my dear," he said.

Nora knew she looked nothing of the sort. Her meals and sleeping habits for the past fortnight had been erratic at best. Even the white powder Perrine had persuaded Nora to wear could not conceal the dark circles under her eyes. But she smiled and accepted the compliment, and they marched on to Box Five.

They arrived in the middle of the first act. Erik was attentive to her, but did not enjoy himself as he had the last time they had attended the performance.

Nora found that she was hopelessly distracted throughout the evening. Occasionally she would catch Erik looking at her, and she would try to smile at him. Then the story was coming to a close—a tear in Adina's eye, and Nemorino launched into Una furtiva lagrima.

Nora thought she had gained mastery over her tears over the past few days, but she must have been wrong. They escaped her silently, thank God. She let them run straight down her cheeks, tilting her head so that Erik could not see.

She managed to pat away the tear tracks before the lights turns on again. Erik was sedate, but seemed fairly content. He held her close as they traveled through his maze of back passages. They reached what Nora had come to recognize as the final stretch of muddy road leading up to the street.

"Nora?" he whispered.

"Hm?"

Erik slowed his pace and came to stop, forcing Nora to do the same. "I am sorry."

Nora shook her head. "No, Erik—don't—"

"Let me finish," he said, "you must realize that you are the best thing that has come into my life. Can you blame me for trying to hold onto you?"

Nora blinked. She could only see Erik's silhouette and the occasional yellow flash of his eyes. "I wish you many better things than I, Erik."

"No," he said. "If heaven opened up and an angel said, choose salvation or Nora, I would choose you."

Nora moved away from Erik ever so slightly. "Erik, stop this. Don't make me refuse you again."

"Don't, then," he said, "have your freedom, have your world—but have me, as well."

Nora covered her eyes for a moment, as if she could block the world. "I can't give you a divided heart."

"I will take a fraction of your heart," Erik said, "I will take a day out of your year, or a year out of your life—whatever you can spare, I will take. And I will give you everything I have in return."

"I can't take that." Something inside of Nora broke, and she found that her voice was higher and louder than normal. "I can be your equal—But, God in heaven, do not put me on a pedestal—do not give me this sort of power over you. I cannot handle it, and I will not accept it."

When the silence threatened to continue, Nora began to walk forward. Erik grabbed her wrist and without thinking she tore it away from him.

"Nora, please," his voice took on a frantic edge that nearly destroyed Nora's own carefully protected self-control.

"I'm going home," Nora said.

"Home?" he whispered. "Home? Didn't you tell me yourself that home has always eluded you? How can you go to a place that does not exist?" There was something aggressive in his tone now, and Nora matched it.

"Well, it's more home there than it is here," Nora shot back.

"It doesn't have to be," Erik said. "You must realize that I would not make you live down here! I am an architect- I will build you a house the likes of which you have never seen. I willl give-"

"Stop," Nora said, "just—stop."

"How can I?" He said, "How can I? You're leaving—"

"I've been leaving since the day I arrived," Nora said, "and you knew that. And thought you could change that."

"You're running away," he declared. The statement stood for awhile, until Nora was shocked to hear her own voice come from Erik. "'I believe that there occasions when running is the absolute best thing one can do."

"I consider myself something of an expert on the matter," Nora replied dryly.

"You would be a fool to run away from this."

"From this?" Nora asked, "ah, you mean from you." She paused and tried to control her pounding heart. "Erik, take me to the street."

"Not until we are finished," he said.

"Take me up to the street before I say something terrible," she said, "I am incapable of fighting fairly."

"Oh, Nora. Always so modest, my Nora. Can't do the right thing, an expert in the wrong thing," Erik was laughing at her, laughing. "I know you are perfectly capable of… anything, really. You simply choose to do the wrong thing—to take the coward's quarter."

"If I do, it is my choice," Nora said, "No one forces my hand. Not even you."

They were drawing close to the gate that would let Nora out onto the Rue Scribe.

"Don't leave," he said again, "don't marry me, if you do not please—but don't leave yet."

"What happened to accepting whatever I have to give?"

"I— I will, but if you leave now, everything will be lost."

"Everything?" Nora asked.

"Everything," he replied, dead serious. "Our friendship…"

"Don't you dare give me an ultimatum," Nora warned, "there is not scorpion or grasshopper here, Erik—if there was, I swear before God and all his saints that I would turn the grasshopper!"

"And kill thousands?" Erik asked. "No wonder we get on so well!" His words were simply venomous, lacking the nuances of persuasion and hope that he had hitherto had.

"Open the gate, Erik," she said. He had given her a key, but in her distraction she had forgotten it on her desk. Would he dare to simply keep her here? She had grown familiar enough with the walk between the Rue Scribe and his house, but that was hardly an escape route.

With great deliberation, he pulled out his own key and undid the lock. "Nora…"

She could see him now, by the weak flicker of the streetlights. Her Erik- her amusing Erik, her hapless Erik, her brilliant Erik, her broken Erik—well, she could hardly think of him like that anymore, could she? The game had gone on far too long, and she had lost too many hands to count. Though why did she get the impression that he had lost more? They must have been playing with some unknown, malevolent third who was simply raking in their wagers.

She opened up her reticule and fished out her card case. "This is my address," she said, handing him her calling card. "Write if you wish. Come, if you wish. But don't try to stop me from leaving."

When he would not take the card, she sighed and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. She left without a farewell.

Don't hate me. I told you that Erik and Nora were not making this easy. Blame his eager-beaver routine and her commitment issues. But also remember what I told you—happy ending.