A bit of fluff that I wrote for myself as a reward for surviving both a crappy work day and another chapter of psycho-immature-child-Erik in Sum of Earthly Happiness. Enjoy.

Tuesday

A Day in Four Movements

Otherwise known as, How the Parisians (and a Persian) Reacted to the Events of Monday

Morning

The news had come to Didier Moncharmin in the fashion of bad news the world over: by telegram.

It had said:

SIAMO WED.

That was all. No word on who, or when, or how. The 'how' was a particular question for Didier, who sometimes had to remind himself that the brilliant Honoré Siamo was not the late and unlamented Phantom of the Opera. At least, they were not the same man legally, or socially, or in any other important way. It was merely in body and soul and song that Didier's former curse and current business partner were related.

Hardly relevant at all.

Perhaps the how could be answered simply enough: Siamo was a famous composer and fabulously wealthy. Any number of women might be willing to overlook a predilection for masks, or even that odd musty smell that sometimes followed him like a wraith. But what sort of woman would Eri—the Gho—Siamo manage to tolerate? How often had Didier shared a cab with the man after some social event and been regaled with scathing imitations of the other guests? Man or woman, artist or aristocrat—there was no denying that Siamo was a misanthrope.

No wonder he had been content to live in a basement for God alone knew how long…

…not that the Great and Brilliant Siamo had ever lived in a basement. If he had, it certainly had not been the basement of the Garnier. No, indeed.

These days, Er—Siamo had a nice little estate a little outside of Paris. It had a dozen or so rooms, if Didier recalled, most playing host to various musical instruments. Was it so unbelievable that he might have wanted a little more life in those rooms?

No, not unbelievable in the least.

The next telegram was from the man himself, laconic as usual.

JUNE TEN. MORNING. GARNIER.

Didier managed to contain the better part of his curiosity and agitation until the date in question, comforting himself with the myriad of positive reviews for La Vie Nouvelle that drifted across the Atlantic. Why Erik had been so intent on the first performance being given at the Metropolitan was beyond Didier, but he supposed that the publicity was well worth it. Everyone knew that the Garnier was Siamo's home theater. Didier would be obliged to put on a fabulous gala performance to outdo the American premiere. Expectations would run high, and ticket prices even higher.

A cheerful thought, for a man who had married the daughter of a minor nobleman.

Tuesday, June tenth came at last. Didier awoke early and hurried to his offices at the Garnier. La Juive was playing that night. It was perennial favorite for the Garnier audiences, and the company performed it with practiced ease.

Regardless, Erik would watch from his favorite box and have commentary.

Or would he? There was the question of this wife of his…

Didier's secretary peaked into the office a few minutes before ten. "Monsieur Siamo and… a lady to see you."

Didier nearly jumped out of his chair. What good fortune! He had not expected Erik, secretive as he was, to bring his bride to meet him. Indeed, he had half expected the entire thing to be a joke, or misinformation.

A familiar spindly figure appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a woman in trim dark blue. "Moncharmin."

"I hear you had an eventful trip." Didier had intended to shake Erik's hand, but found himself staring at the woman next to him.

The voice that came from behind the chiseled white mask sounded immensely pleased. "It was."

The woman smiled as Didier remained dumb.

"I—I know you," he said at last.

"You do," she replied.

"Of course you do," Erik snorted. "If I recall, your acquaintance went something like this: Oh, Mademoiselle Farley, I do hope you enjoyed Lakmé, and I do hope you were not pestered by ghosts, and I would so much enjoy giving such a pretty woman a tour about the opera house."

"Mademoiselle… Farley," Didier repeated.

"Madame Siamo," she corrected.

How did Didier manage to forget her, when she had been the one to set off the entire chain of events that led to the most successful managerial team the Garnier had ever known? Didier smiled anew, took Madame Siamo's gloved hand and kissed it. "You are most welcome here, Madame. Most welcome. I am thrilled that your husband brought you around. I do hope you will grace us at tonight's performance?"

"Enough, Moncharmin," Erik growled. "Really, enough. I don't know why I let Nora talk me into bringing her this morning."

"I wanted to see the dear place again," she shrugged. Erik looked down at her and fondly patted the hand she kept on his arm. "Can you blame me?"

"Never," Erik replied and was rewarded with a dazzling smile that made the erstwhile Nora Farley look young and lovely. Didier suddenly felt as if he was intruding on a very private moment and glanced away.

He cleared his throat. "Well, Siamo, when is Nouvelle going to grace the Garnier with its brilliance?"

Siamo—well, this really was Erik, wasn't it?—glanced at him. "It already has."

Afternoon

"Daroga? Daroga!" Erik knocked loudly on the door of Nadir's apartment. "You asked me to come when I returned to Paris—well, here I am! Where are you?"

"He might be out," Nora commented.

Erik scoffed. "The Daroga? Out and about? I hardly think so." In a quieter, more serious voice, he added, "he is getting older."

"It happens to the best of us," she said. "Not to you, of course—but to the rest of us mortals."

"Don't tease me in front of Nadir. He will construe it as a sign of unhappiness."

"What shall I do, then? Cast my head down and make banal comments on the weather? I'm rather good at that. We had an awful lot of weather back in Ottawa. It provides one with a wealth of experience to draw on."

"I'm coming, I'm coming," a soft voice called from the other side of the door. After a moment, the door opened and Nadir appeared. He looked little different from the last time Erik had seen him, perhaps even a bit better for the coming summer warmth. He glanced between Erik and Nora repeatedly. "I am dead," he declared. "Erik, you have killed me. Your powers of illusion have grown too great for this world, and they have slain me."

Erik laughed at that. "Oh, yes. This is my most wonderful work to date, is it not? If you offer to take her coat, you won't even be able to tell that it is made of smoke and mirrors."

"A marvelous trick, indeed," Nadir turned to face Nora fully. "Peace to you, dear lady."

Nora inclined her head, "Monsieur Khan."

"Erik has persuaded you back to France?"

"For the time being," she replied.

"Yes, yes, and she will tell you all about it over tea," Erik said and stepped into Nadir's foyer. "You do still drink tea, don't you, old man?"

Nadir escorted them into his parlor. "I do. Rather, I do when Darius is not sick. The kitchen girl cannot brew a cup worth… well, never mind its worth. I shall call up for coffee."

Erik saw that Nora was comfortably arranged. "Pity. I was so hoping for tea. Tea, Nora?"

"Coffee is fine," she said.

"Tea it is," Erik said. "I am perfectly capable of making a pot. Having servants hasn't spoiled my self-sufficiency in the least."

Nadir rolled his eyes. "You are a master of many talents, Erik. Follow the hall to the end and turn right. Now, Mademoiselle Farley, tell me what vile trick Erik has played on you to lure you back into his clutches."

"Oh, actually…"

Erik was already half-way down the hall when he heard Nadir shout, then curse in Persian, and then—if his hearing did not fail him—faint.

Erik laughed.

Evening

Nora often thought that Erik's face was a blessing in disguise. Her heart bled for all he had suffered, but she could not wish him normalcy for all the world.

Selfishly, she could not imagine what contortions fate would have been forced into for a handsome Erik to have found his way into Nora's life. Perhaps they would have crossed paths; perhaps they would have been amused by one another. But what more? Probably nothing more, and Nora found that thought intolerable. She guarded her relationship with her mad masked man like a dragon guarded its gold. She knew the value of what she had, and would not take chances with it.

Altruistically, she thought of his face as a sacrifice to the arts. One had to wonder if Erik with a normal face would have ever been driven to hone his myriad talents to their sharpest points. His genius had touched innumerable people and countries in massive, tangible ways. After all, what would Paris be with the Garnier? And what would the Garnier have been without Erik?

Now, Nora saw the real reason why Erik was better off with his masks and shadows.

The man was a peacock. He strutted about the opera house like a lord, coattails flapping, gestures grandiose, condescension coloring every monosyllable he deigned to utter. He showed Nora off in outrageous fashion, introducing her like she was some sort of Queen of Sheba.

When she had a half-moment to confer with Didier Moncharmin, she had asked, "is he always like this now?"

The manager had looked thoughtful. "No. No, I think this is all your doing." It was a very polite way of saying your fault.

When they finally sat down for the opening act—in Box Five, of course, quite alone— Nora felt obliged to mentioned it. "You're being… maniacal. I would have thought you would have been a bit more inclined to… discretion, in this case."

"What's that English phrase? The world's mine oyster," Erik said, "I'm thinking of making you queen."

"Of the oysters?"

He chuckled. "Of the world."

"I'd settle for a nice night at the opera."

He flinched away from her for a moment, and when he replied, his voice was sullen. "I take it you're not enjoying yourself."

"I'm having a lovely time," Nora assured him, "but I can't imagine you're enjoying being the center of spectacle."

He thought on this as the overture melted into the introductory chorus. "It is strange to have everything you want."

"It is."

"One expects it to slip away at any given moment."

"Perhaps it will," Nora whispered, "but not during the opera."

"No, I suppose it would not." There was the beginning of a smile in his voice, and Nora let the subject rest.

By the time the intermission came, Erik seemed more like himself. He let Nora out of his sight long enough for her to slip down to the Salon for refreshments. She took her time in walking there, savoring the feel of being back in this magical building. There had been a time when she was sure she would never return—there was a time when she positively willed her memories of this place to die. At the time, she had thought she had succeeded rather well, but apparently she had been wrong. The very walls whispered reminisces to her, all made tender by a happy outcome.

The Salon du Glacier was exactly as she recalled, with its milling patrons in superfine. She remembered it as the place she had chatted idly with a countess, not realizing at the time how their lives were connected.

That memory ran strong, as if the fair Christine de Chagny was standing in front of her again.

It took Nora a moment to realize that it was fact rather than fancy. The Countess was returning her curious stare, as if she was also looking back at a mirror-image memory.

"I think…" she began, "I think you must be the new Madame Siamo."

"Countess. You look well."

"So do you," she replied, as if surprised by the fact. "I am glad to see you. I am glad to know that Erik is settled at last."

Nora smiled over her champagne flute. "You know, it seems."

"I think a lot of people know," the Countess shrugged elegantly. "But they have the good taste to forget what they know."

"You know, and you still come?"

"Well. I've never been made to feel unwelcome," she said, "besides, I am do seldom in Paris these days. My husband has been appointed to the staff of Admiral Gervais, in Toulon."

"Rather safer that sailing the seven seas, I would think." Was it strange to be chatting casually with a woman one's husband had once kidnapped? Perhaps Nora would think of it differently: the girl Erik had once tutored. Yes, that had a better ring to it…

"Oh, yes. It is so nice to have him close by—and Toulon… I like Toulon. It is a lovely place for children."

"Children, Countess?"

The Countess smiled suddenly and brightly, and for the first time, Nora thought she saw the girl Erik had so loved—all sunshine and sea breezes. "A daughter and a little viscount. Raoul wouldn't dream of being separated from them—well, except for the occasional jaunt to Paris."

"The Count? He's here?"

"Oh, somewhere. Catching up with the other men in uniform, no doubt."

"And does—ah—he know?"

"Ah, I discovered that Raoul has the most astonishing ability to not see things. Something may be set directly in front of him, and he simply does not see it," the Countess paused. "It's a marvelous thing to behold."

"I shall take your word for it."

"Well, see for yourself." The countess nodded towards the entrance of the Salon, where Nora saw a blond man in a fabulous blue uniform speaking to… a very familiar man in black. It was a brief exchange, little more than a greeting and a handshake, but apparently cordial.

"Life," the countess said mildly, "is full of surprises."

Night

Erik refused to book a hotel in Paris for the night, and had also declined to stay in the house by the lake.

"There are rats," Erik protested, "and dust. And I moved a good deal of the furniture out."

"Pity," Nora replied, sounding quite genuinely disappointed.

Instead, he arranged for his carriage—his carriage—to pick them up directly after of the opera and drive out of the city.

"I want to take you home," Erik whispered.

"By all means," Nora said, "just wake me when we arrive."

He let her sleep as they raced down deserted road into the country. This was perhaps they last test Erik had for his new life: to take Nora to the house, his house, the house he had built in the months after she had left. To see her there at last would confirm once and for all that that this was not some fantasy he had conjured.

Maybe. Perhaps. Could one ever trust absolute happiness?

As he helped a delightfully disheveled Nora alight from the carriage, he thought perhaps he could.

"It's lovely, dear," she muttered, half asleep. It wasn't quite the swooning admiration that he had hoped for, but in a way it was better. The house suited her perfectly, as Erik knew t would. She stepped into the house as if she had been there a thousand times before. She handed off her coat to a maid absently and shuffled through the letters on the console table. She picked up an envelope and opened it.

"You had something sent here?" he asked.

"Hm, yes," she thumbed through the contents, "tickets."

"Tickets?"

"Subscription, really," there was a devious glint in her eyes that managed to cut through the haze of sleep.

"Oh?"

"Opera series. In August."

"…where?"

"Bayreuth."

Erik paused, weighing the place for significance. It occurred to him in short order. "Oh, God, Nora. You can't be serious."

"They're doing the entire Ring Cycle, and I've always wanted to see it. I was out of the country when the Met did their German season—even if I hadn't been, they didn't show the operas on consecutive nights."

"Three consecutive nights? Of Wagner?"

"Four, actually. You're forgetting Das Rheingold, which is really the best part."

"'Best part.' I wasn't aware there was a best part."

"So… no to Bayreuth?"

Erik slipped off his mask and rubbed his eyes. "Four nights of Wagner."

Nora smiled. "Just four nights. Only four nights. You can manage four nights out of your life, can't you?'

Erik sighed. "I have a life to take four days out of, at least."

"I believe I just won our first argument." Nora's smile widened and she walked up the stairs, as if she knew exactly where she was going.

If that wasn't worth four days of German opera, Erik wasn't sure what was.

You know, I am very tempted to one day write a Raoul story. In my head canon, he does quite the Horatio Hornblower impersonation. Eh, maybe we'll leave that plot bunny alone for now.