"Madame Giry?" Didier hated the feeling that he was skulking in his own opera house. But somehow skulking and slinking and sneaking seemed to be the only appropriate things to do when one was dealing with a phantom. "Madame Giry!"

They were well into the second act of Faust, and Méphistophélès was singing his flippant song about the Golden Calf. It was wearing Didier's nerves thin. The boxkeeper finally appeared.

"Monsieur Manager?"

"Is Box Five occupied tonight?" Didier asked.

"Why, Monsieur, you well know that—"

"Box Five is always occupied, yes, I know," Didier made an effort to unclench his fists. "Is he right now?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Good," Didier took a moment to steady himself, "Good. Would you be so good as to tell him that I wish to… speak with him."

The old woman's eyes became impossibly large. Was it Didier's imagination, or did the dirty old feathers on her bonnet stick straight up in surprise? "Speak with him, Monsieur?"

"Just ask him," Didier said. "Go." Preferably before I lose my nerve.

Madame Giry scuttled away. Didier remained out in the corridor and paced furiously. He nearly jumped when Madame Giry returned.

"He says," she began primly, "that you may contact him in the usual fashion."

"No," Didier insisted, "I want to speak with him. Face to face!"

The boxkeeper laughed at him. "Face to face, Monsieur? Shall you now ascend to heaven, Monsieur?"

Didier grumbled in disgust. "No. No, I suppose I shall descend to hell."

Erik could not quite fathom the fancy that made him decide to attend Faust. He supposed it was a matter of distracting himself. He had the singular experience earlier in the day of 'seeing off' Daniel Tremblay. He had entrusted the man with a note for Nora, and had been agitated ever since.

Faust had seemed like a perfectly valid way to spend his evening at the time. Now, it seemed that he was only intent on reminding himself of as many unpleasant things as possible. Dores Fonseca sang a pretty Jewel Song, but, naturally, her Ange Purs, Ange Radieux was far below the bar Christine had set.

Beyond the singing, Erik found it simply miserable to sit in his box alone.

It's all worth it for the ending, Nora had said, the lovers' duet…

Funny, how he could not even remember listening to that one song tonight.

Surely, that was to be blamed on the distraction of Monsieur Moncharmin's curious request! Madame Giry had knocked on Box Five's door near the end of the second act to relay Moncharmin's request to 'speak with one another!' Ha! Erik had dismissively claimed that their written communication was sufficient.

In truth, their 'correspondence' remained an oddity to Erik. Moncharmin had taken to consistently requesting Erik's opinion, and Erik gave it in the form of missives dropped on the manager's desk. It was rather gratifying to see that he would take Erik's advice seriously. He did not always follow through properly, but most of the time Erik was well pleased with the results.

But meeting? Moncharmin was far too curious! And entirely too pragmatic…

Erik was annoyed to see his front door open when he arrived home.

He doffed his cape and opera cape. He strode into the parlor and growled, "Nadir! You are a fool!..."

Nadir was nowhere to be seen. Instead, standing in the center of the room, looking as rather like an animal caught in a trap, was Didier Moncharmin. His face was positively carmine red.

"Ah—ah— Monsieur… Monsieur Ghost," he stuttered and stumbled and did not step towards Erik. "It is a—ah—pleasure to finally meet you. Face to – ah—face."

Erik merely stood and stared at the man. His hand was already on his catgut, but he could not imagine what had prompted the manager to come here. How did he even know?...

Damn Nadir.

"I—ah—am sorry to intrude," Moncharmin continued, when Erik refused to shake his hand. "I—I—" he took a moment and steadied himself. When he looked back at Erik, he no longer appeared to be on the verge of a fainting spell. "I have a proposition." When Erik did not reply, Moncharmin tilted his head curiously. "Pardon, but do you speak French?"

Under different circumstances, Erik might have laughed. Say, if he had been hiding in a hollow wall and Moncharmin was tied to his desk. "A proposition, Monsieur?"

"Ah, yes. That." Moncharmin cleared his throat. "May I sit?"

In his most diabolic tones, Erik replied: "No."

"Right. Quite all right," Moncharmin nodded. "It is rather a simple thing, I suppose. You might have heard the rumor that Monsieur Richard is retiring—it is true. My uncle has decided to make me a full manager in Richard's stead, but he does not intend on returning to Paris himself. So you see, I will be rather alone in managing the entire operations of the Palais Garnier." He waited for Erik to nod before continuing. "My uncle at first thought that it would be best for me to hire another junior manager, which I may do. But I think what I really need is a… artistic advisor. I thought you might like the position."

Erik tilted his head at Moncharmin. Good God, what was he saying? Artistic advisor? "I cannot imagine why I would do such a thing."

"Just think of it," Moncharmin nerves seemed to have been abandoned for a moment. "You already do much. Really, it would be so little inconvenience..."

"I doubt that," Erik said.

"And it would warrant a salary!" Moncharmin added. "It wouldn't quite be your level of salary, but you can only imagine how much easier it would be to put together some quarter of a million francs per annum if there was an actual employee involved."

"I doubt that you would pay an advisor such a sum," Erik pointed out.

"No, I would not. But if you perhaps had an interest in the company itself and if you—" Moncharmin cut himself off.

"If I what?" Erik insisted.

"Well," Moncharmin's cheeks turned bright red again, "I noticed that you had some very interesting… compositions on the piano…"

In an instant, Erik was very near to Moncharmin, and his lasso was looped about the man's throat. He tightened it enough to be uncomfortable without being damaging. Though it would only take a flick of the wrist… "What of my compositions?"

Moncharmin started to nod vigorously but stopped when he realized that the movement tightened his noose. "Some I haven't a clue about—others are brilliant! If we could showcase one at the occasional gala—the annual ball! It could bring such acclaim—to yourself, to the company!"

"To you," Erik added.

"I take pride in this company," Moncharmin said and Erik believed him. "And you're a part of it, whether you accept the proposition or not."

"I have watched you make many a deal, Monsieur Moncharmin," Erik growled. He loosened the lasso. "You are—very cunning. A good actor."

Moncharmin rubbed at his throat and took a step back. "Thank you."

"It was not a compliment."

"Maybe not," Moncharmin said. "That's my proposition. I do not require an immediate answer. I understand that, if you accept, there will be many things to consider and plan. A silent partner is one thing—an invisible one…" He stopped himself and started to back away. "I'll show myself out…"

Erik allowed him to pass by. "Monsieur?"

"Yes?"

"The next time you come into my house without an invitation," Erik turned about and smiled pleasantly under his mask, making his tone saccharine, "I will kill you." He rather felt like killing him now, but what an idea he had presented Erik with! It warranted thought.

Moncharmin paled. "I believe you."

"She is not well, Daniel. She is utterly absorbed in preparing to leave for… wherever. Last time I joined her for tea, the parlor was littered with maps. I asked what she was planning—she said that she just read Around the World in Eighty Days and thought it was a fine idea, but she would rather draw out the trip three times longer."

"That's neither well nor unwell," Daniel said, "that's simply Nora."

"This is not simply Nora," Anne Tremblay countered. "She is behaving like a caricature of herself."

As a general rule, Daniel trusted his wife's intuition on people—expect in regards to Nora. He could not be sure if they misunderstood one another by accident or design. Regardless of the root of the problem, the result was the same. Whenever they were occasioned to be to together, Anne and Nora spent a good deal of time looking at one another in confusion.

"I'll see her tomorrow," Daniel declared. Part of him wanted to see her right away—the large letter in his briefcase, addressed in messy red ink to simply 'Nora' weighed heavily on him. But there were some things one simply did not do— abandoning one's wife in favor of one's cousin after a three month separation was one of them.

It was not difficult to get to Farley House from Daniel's office. It had been built on the outskirts of Ottawa in the early '40s, which now meant that it occupied a rather central location. It was almost as familiar to Daniel as his own childhood home and he knew most of the staff. Mr. Carey himself took Daniel's coat.

"Is it really as bad as all that?" Daniel asked quietly.

Mr. Carey was imperturbable, as always. "Miss Farley has not been receiving recently."

"She had damn well better receive me," It was seldom that Daniel's temper got the better of him, but he was tired of the Gorgonian knot that was Nora's Affairs. She never seemed to take the time to arrange them—simply to cut them off and leave them behind for others to trip over.

Mr. Carey replied: "Indeed, sir."

"She can be awfully impossible to deal with when she gets into these moods."

"I couldn't possibly comment."

"I suppose not," Daniel said. "But I feel rather sorry for Erik."

In the same neat tones that Mr. Carey used for such phrases as good day, sir or more wine, sir? he said, "I do not."

Their conversation ceased when they entered Nora's parlor.

Daniel did not now if Nora conformed to a certain mode or fashion in her décor—he left such things to Anne—but there was no doubt that she liked things. Hand-painted ducks from Kashmir, a German cuckoo clock, little ivory boxes from here, vases from there; there was even a hideous model ship Daniel could not conceive of a purpose for beyond offending the viewer. All in all, Daniel found that her collections gave him a headache, though they suited Nora just fine.

She sat surrounded by maps, just as Anne had said. She glanced up at Daniel. "Well. I awaited your return, as requested."

"And was it so terribly hard to do?"

Nora ignored him. "Have you ever heard of the Galapagos Islands?"

"It doesn't ring a bell," Daniel sat and accepted tea. "How do you find Canada, after the glamours of Paris?"

"Paris? I hardly think about Paris."

"I thought that might be the case," Daniel grumbled, "but did you ever stop to wonder if… Paris still thought of you?"

Oh, Nora. She thought she was so adept at masking her feelings. Daniel supposed that she was, but he had grown accustomed to deciphering the misdirections of true professionals. They tended to hide the truth under subtle layers of deceit. Nora's eyes simply went dead when she did not want to deal with some matter.

"As I said. I hardly think of Paris."

Daniel considered her, absorbed as she was in her maps and notes. "Very unfair, Nora. Bad form, really."

"Unsportsmanlike?" Nora added. "That's usually your next insult. I would remind you that life is not a sport, and even if it were, I am under no obligation to play at it fairly."

"Aren't you, though?"

"No," she pushed aside her papers and looked at Daniel. "What is it that you have come to say to me? What was so important that you felt compelled to face me in person?"

Daniel wordlessly pulled out the thick envelope from his inner coat pocket and set it on the low table between them. Nora's eyes locked onto the sloppy address.

"He wrote," she whispered.

"He did."

"What does it say?"

"I'm not in the habit of reading personal letters."

"You saw him?" she asked in the same low, subdued voice.

"A number of times." The number was three, and each time Daniel found Erik to more terrifying than the last. If it was not the gentleness that infused the masked man's voice when he mentioned Nora, Daniel would have probably called for the nearest policeman whenever he was caught conversing with him.

"Did he seem all right?" she asked. Her yes were still blank, as if she did not care.

"More or less," Daniel said, "he asked if I had heard from you, how you were. He asked if you were happy."

She made a vague, noncommittal sound.

"I didn't know what to tell him on that score," Daniel pressed, "are you?"

"People waste so much time in the pursuit of happiness," Nora said. "And how many attain it? And what is the point? Showing off to all of the unhappy of the world?"

"It's a simple question, Nora. Are you or are you not happy?"

"I don't know," she said, "happiness doesn't mean much to me."

"Do you remember when I came to Paris?" Daniel asked.

"Vaguely."

"You walked into the parlor, and started talking to Erik," Daniel said, "you were so… bright. Oh, you were being sarcastic, as usual—but you were smiling as I have never seen you smile, and you looked like you could walk on clouds. And then Erik came, and you looked at him as if... as if you were caught in some old courtly romance and he was your champion. You were happy."

She did not reply, but picked up the letter. She turned in over in her hands, eyes fixed on it. "I cannot be what he needs me to be."

"What does he need you to be?"

"He needs someone to be with him," Nora murmured, "he'll stay in Paris, and how can I?"

Daniel's sparse conversations with Erik had usually had an element of Nora can do what she pleases to them. He could hardly see him insisting on anything like and you will be with me always. "Did he say that?"

"It is what he wants."

"Did he say that?" She did not reply, and Daniel pressed the point. "What did he say?"

"He said," she began, begrudgingly, "that I could come and go as I please. That he would take whatever I could give him."

"And he lied to you?"

"He doesn't realize how unhappy he would be," Nora insisted.

"So, you are willing to try to prevent his unhappiness," Daniel said, "but your own happiness doesn't mean much?"

"I can't be a perfect wife—hellfire, I can't even be a good wife, or a decent wife," Nora said.

"No marriage is perfect," Daniel pointed out.

"Are you telling me, you wouldn't want a perfect wife?"

"Nothing of the sort," Daniel said, "of course I would. I know there are some who would claim otherwise, but, yes. I would rather have a perfect wife and a perfect marriage—but that doesn't make me love my Anne any less." Daniel sighed. "Erik may indeed want something you can't give him—but he also wants you." She was silent, and it angered Daniel. "For the love of God, Nora—think of someone else for once in your life."

"Don't you think that I am?"

"No," Daniel said, "I always thought you were simply thoughtless about things. But really, you are simply selfish. You cannot stand to give up the slightest bit of yourself, even for the man you love."

"Then I am not worthy of him," she said. Her eyes challenged him to refute her.

"No, I rather think you are not."

Nora wanted to be angry after Daniel left. She sulked for awhile, but that letter was taunting her.

She pushed aside thoughts of Daniel's rebuke, picked up the letter and cracked the plain wax seal. There were far too many pages for a piece of casual correspondence, though perhaps that was due to the larger size of his letters. His writing was labored-looking, as usual, but he appeared to have made an effort towards legibility.

My Dear Nora,

She stopped after the salutation, and took a deep breath. She had not entirely lied to Daniel when she said she hardly thought of Paris. Her thoughts only turned to Paris when she thought of Erik, and she only thought of Erik a few times a day. But what if she read the letter? Would she ever be able to stop thinking of him again?

She shook off that thought. If she did not read the letter, she would surely be haunted by it. She rubbed her eyes and stood. The parlor was not the place to read this. She went into the library instead, locking the door behind her. Once she started reading, she would not dare to stop.

My Dear Nora,

My one request is that you read this letter in its entirety. I know how I intend to begin, and I know how I intend to end—but the middle of this letter, the 'Act II' if you will, is still a mystery to me. I may reveal things that shock you, disgust you even. I beg you to reserve judgment until the end.

My entire life, I have been alone. My childhood was unkind. I do not put much emphasis on this point, for many endure an unkind childhood. But I learned in these formative years that I could not rely on the protection or benediction of any, even those duty-bound to care for me. It was a lesson I took to heart. I soon became adept in the art of self-sufficiency.

I first found that I could protect myself with my voice.

I have never sung for you and this is partially by design. I can weave spells with my voice, but I did not want to win your love with trickery. I have seldom had such a qualm. I suppose this solitary sufficiency of mine led to a peculiar side effect. At some point, I ceased to value human life. Mankind, I found, was a soulless bunch. They did not care for me, and I returned the consideration.

If they fell under the thrall of my voice, fine. If they fell victim to my hand, fine. I did not leave room for compassion, for I had never been shown any myself.

I have killed.

I have killed in the defense of my own person—I have killed in fits of anger. I have deemed certain ones to be a danger to myself or my plans, and so removed them. Others have taken advantage of my lack of compunction for their own ends. I cannot number those I have hurt, either with bodily harm or attacks to the spirit. They all have but one face—that of Enemy. I justify my crimes with that word, enemy. A man has the right to stumble his foe, does he not? Well, the world is in opposition to me, and I have made much of it suffer for it.

You may wonder why I say these things to you—this can hardly help my suit for your affections. Frankly, this is a matter entirely removed from that. I tell you this, so that you might really know me. Perhaps you will rejoice in your foresight, and think yourself quite lucky to have escaped Erik. Perhaps you will judge me. I would not mind that, for I think you a fit judge. Even if you were to condemn me, I would accept it.

Above all, however, I reveal these dark things to you so that you may understand. My mind—my voice—my very face have all served to separate me from this 'human family.' Kindness has long been an unknown quantity to me.

Then, you walked past me and you spoke to me. Oh, Nora—how will you ever understand what that meant? After a lifetime of sideward glances and hurried steps, your voice opened to me an entirely new world.

I do not know what providence allows you to look beyond my face and my obvious faults. Perhaps it is a blessing for you, perhaps it is a curse.

My own mother did not like to look at me. I had no sister, and I later learned to fear the disdain of women. There was mockery behind even Christine's smile. But because of you, I have had one friend—the whisper of one silken gown to grace my life. How precious that whisper became to me! Even now, I see your shadow cast across me, and it warms me. Can you not understand why I so desired to cling to you—you, who might be the last of your kind? Your rarity made you precious to me. Forgive me for selfishly desiring to keep you for myself.

I do not know what the future holds—I do not know if out paths will ever cross again. In a way in does not matter. You have already bettered my life incalculably. How shall I ever thank you? I can never thank you. I can merely love you. For what it is worth, I shall always love you.

I do not expect to hear from you, but if you ever need me, contact me care of Nadir. I have enclosed his address.

I remain not simply your servant, but yours,

Erik

Nora read and reread the letter a dozen times before setting it aside to actually think on what it meant. Such a short little thing. Such a strange little thing.

How quintessentially… Erik. The banal and the bizarre stood together in strange harmony.

Confessions, of course. Somehow they did not shock her, for all of their gravity. Erik—her brilliant, broken Erik— had led a life that she could not imagine. Perhaps her willingness to excuse him came from a very simple sort of selfishness. She could not imagine him ever hurting her, not any more at least.

As for the rest of it, what could she say? He asked her for—

Nothing. He asked nothing from her.

What does he need you to be? What did he say? Daniel's voice rolled about her mind carelessly. What had Erik ever asked her for, really? He had asked for whatever she could give, no matter how small. And in return- she could have everything.

Was that really so difficult? Couldn't she stand to give something, anything of herself to a man she was so fond of and respected so much? And if she could do that, how could she possibly approach him after all that she had said and done?

She supposed that ten days trapped on a steamer bound for France would be enough time to find an answer to that question.

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Cyrano de Bergerac reference snuck in of its own volition, but I'll admit to letting it stay.