A/N: I lied. My love affair with Erik and Nora never ends.

To give fair warning, since I'm told such is the fashion of the world these days, both 'Friday' and 'Saturday' contain Unhappy Occurrences. If unmitigated fluff is more your style, I suggest waiting for 'Some Other Sunday.' It will be up in a few days and, seriously, should be the Very Last Stoll on Sunday Chapter Ever. Ahem.

1911

It was pure chance that they were in Paris.

Didier was retiring from professional life and, in classic Moncharmin fashion, had decided to end his tenure at the Garnier with an extravagant gala.

Twice Erik had directed Nora to send their regrets: first to the formal invitation and then to Didier's personally scrawled plea. Nora pointed out that it would have been a fitting finale to Erik's own career. Erik had glared at her most menacingly.

Then, in even finer Moncharmin fashion— Nora had to admire the man's willingness to ram against unmovable walls until they gave way— it had been insinuated, and then formally announced, that the gala would also honor Didier's longtime collaborator, colleague, and friend Monsieur H. E. Siamo. (It was, after all, near the man's seventy-fifth birthday, and very close to twenty-five years since his work had premiered at the Garnier.)

"I shan't go, and then he'll look the fool he is," Erik said.

"Or everyone will simply think you old and crotchety," Nora replied. "Why don't we take the Mercedes? I've been wanting to try it out on a longer journey."

"And who will drive, eh? I'm not letting you behind the wheel of a motorcar again," Erik said. "No, we'll let Moncharmin make excuses and read about it in the next day's Epoque."

Nora said nothing in reply, but ordered the motorcar packed and the chauffeur to stand at the ready. It was a sound precaution— Erik acquiesced to gracing the event with his presence at the last possible moment.

He, of course, enjoyed himself immensely once they were in Paris—he never could resist the glitter of the opera. He deigned to conduct one of his concertos in Didier's honor, and toasted his old partner with mock severity, and generally played his mostly-retired overblown public persona to the hilt.

They returned to their hotel well after midnight, arm in arm, laughing.

The concierge stopped them in the lobby.

"There is a man to see you, Monsieur Siamo. He has been here the better part of the hour and will not leave.

"If it is a reporter—"

"He gave his name as 'Darius.' He insisted that you knew him."

"I—" Erik coughed and pressed Nora's hand tightly. "Yes. Send him to our parlor." With that, Erik fled, all but dragging Nora behind him. He remained silent as they took the elevator up to their floor, casting distrustful looks at the innocuous attendant.

"All will be well," Nora insisted.

Erik jerked his head. "Midnight is not a fit hour for social calls. You informed me of that yourself."

"And you have told me that Persians keep different hours," Nora teased but then refrained from any further show of levity. Instead, she gripped his hand, white glove to white glove. "I will be here."

He nodded.

Darius must have run up the stairways, for he was waiting outside of their suite.

He swallowed compulsively and addressed Erik in quiet, quick Persian.

When Erik's grip on her hand threatened to break bone, Nora asked, "what is it?"

"He says the Daroga is doing badly. He thinks that our appointment to see him in the morning will be too late."

Nora glanced between her husband and the attendant. Seldom had she seen either man looking quite so haggard. "Then we go tonight."

Erik glanced down at her a bit desperately. "Nora, really—"

"We go now," she said.

Darius bowed to her gratefully. "I will fetch a carriage. Thank you."

Erik was silent and fidgety on the short carriage ride to Nadir's apartment. He would not stand to be distracted. Nora tried to engage Darius, but he was equally preoccupied. In addition, every brief reply was preceded by a lengthy, anxious look at Erik—as if Erik would leap up suddenly and commit some great violence.

She finally gave in to the doom and gloom of the occasion, and kept her peace. They came to a stop and both men all but flew out of the carriage and up the stairs to the apartment. Nora paid the hired driver and sent him on his way. She expected it to be a long night.

It was, in fact, quite short.

Erik only occasionally mentioned Nadir over the course of the next week—curious, commonplace things.

"He spoke of returning to Persia. He had clearly lost his wits."

"It's that damned reporter he had been talking to. It overtaxed him, the idiot."

"Did I ever tell you of when I met him in Nijni Novgorod? He called me 'the Animate Corpse,' the fool."

It was never more than a sentence or two, spoken more or less at random, and followed by a stonewall of silence. Nora did not think too much of it—grief was, by definition, a solitary sort of trial—until the morning of the funeral.

She should have taken it as a sign of the troubles to come when Erik asked why she was wearing a black dress.

"It is not that you do not look well in it," he said, "indeed, you look well in most colors, my dear. But it does not show you to the same advantage as blue, or perhaps that new plum."

She had smiled, barely, and said that she didn't want to scandalize poor Darius. Erik cocked his head and looked at her curiously before mumbling his assent. He watched her with a keen eye as she let her veil drop over her face and then turned to stare at the black silk scarf tied around his own top hat.

He was silent on the short journey from their hotel to Pere Lachaise, and silent upon their arrival at the grave site.

It was Nora who had exclaimed in surprise: "why, who are all of these people?"

Fool that she was, she had expected to bid farewell to the Daroga in the same way she had always received him in life—a small gathering of intimates, befitting the simple life of a man in retirement. She did not expect the dozen men in frock coats and rich rings from the Persian Embassy. She did not expect the handful of gentlemen that whiled their days in the Opera's foyer, or the local Inspector of the Police, or the pretty, older Parisenne who stood next to Darius and cried in earnest. She might have expected the massive display of white lilies that bore the de Chagny crest on the card, but not the pile of other bouquets.

She was as stiff as her husband in this unexpected crowd, as uncomfortable with their acquaintanceship as she was with their grief. She gripped Erik's arm. He hardly seemed to notice.

They left with scarcely a word to anyone save Darius, and Erik at once went into a flutter of activity. He commanded the hotel concierge to procure a carriage at once—no, Erik did not want a train compartment or a motorcar, thank you very much. No, they would not take luncheon. No, they would not wait on their luggage. Erik would arrange for his valet to deal with all of that in day or two.

Nora tried to suggest that they stay the night in Paris, but Erik wouldn't hear of it. The fact that Nora had made the suggestion forcefully, that is had been her decided preference, and Erik had all but ignored her spoke to the great disquiet of his mind.

They departed within the hour of laying the Daroga to rest. Nora settled into the carriage, resigned. Erik eschewed his usual seat next to her in favor of wedging himself into the far corner across.

She couldn't remember the last time she had dealt with this skittish, furtive Erik. Sulky Erik she could handle—petulant Erik was easy. But these dark moods were rare and still unnerved her .

Many thoughts crossed Nora's mind during the first, silent hour of their journey. I'm too old to be dealing with this. You are too old to be acting like this. A particularly traitorous thought took precedence: he was my friend, too.

That, of all thoughts, was unfair. As fond as Nora was of the old Persian, it was nothing compared to Erik. Theirs had been a bittersweet comradery, a friendship born of enmity that had been decades in the making. Even when he had been a guest at Nora's supper table, he was still, and always, Erik's.

It was late when they arrived home. Hardly a word had passed between them during the journey, and Erik wasted no time on pleasantries now.

He locked himself in his music room and affixed himself to the piano.

Nora had seen him through three operas, eight symphonies, dozens of concerti, fugues, and rhapsodies—never mind innumerable caprices, fantasias, chorales, cantatas, etudes. Oh, her Erik was brilliant. Some might have called him a visionary, which was true enough. But Nora knew him to be a craftsman first and foremost—both meticulous and ambitious in full measure. There was hardly a day in Nora's life that hadn't been scored. She thought she was prepared for one of Erik's common, creative spells.

She should have recognized the difference immediately.

He was always an unsociable creature when at work, and his insistence on solitude increased with the seriousness of the composition. But this was a terrible isolation he forced himself into. It was a fortnight of the maids being verbally eviscerated every time they came near the music room, of only slightly kinder 'Go away, Nora!'s every time she worked up the courage to knock.

More than that, the music was different. It tore through the house like a sandstorm, lambasting the walls until they shook. It seldom stopped for long— Nora would fall asleep during a lull in the sound, only to awaken before dawn to find her pillow tear-soaked.

Then, one day, it all stopped.

He appeared, at long last, at the entrance of the breakfast room, a thick stack of paper held in the crook of his arm. He paused and Nora offered him a half-smile over the rim of her coffee cup. The tension went out of his shoulders and he approached.

"You didn't give up setting my place at table," he commented, coming around to kiss Nora's cheek. He smelled faintly of his salty Marseilles soap and menthol aftershave. "Thank you."

"The question is—will you use it?" Nora pointed out.

"I think I might," After a moment of hesitation, he set the paper—the score, Nora knew—at her elbow before taking up his own seat. He helped himself to a hunk of bread, an orange, and a few thick pieces of back bacon. All the while, his attention remained on the score and Nora.

She set down her coffee cup and ran a finger over the blank cover page. The string he had tied about the sheaf would not come undone. She held up her knife and waited for Erik to nod assent before she cut through the knot.

At the head of the paper, Erik had written Symphony for a Weary Traveler Now at Rest in his usual spiky, untidy red letters before giving way to the meticulous staves. Nora barely attended the notes, finding that a short phrase could conjure up most of the movement from her memory. Skilled as Erik was, few of his pieces had been so seared into Nora as this one was.

"Well?" he asked, after she had shuffled through the first several pages.

"It's uncommonly good," Nora admitted. "Even for you."

"I know," he replied. He did not sound particularly pleased.

"It will be a sensation," Nora added, "if anyone knows what to do with it."

"I know that, as well," Erik said. Somehow he sounded even more morose. "It is the best thing I have ever composed. Isn't it?"

Nora flipped page over page. "Yes."

"It is better than the Don," he said. He pushed away from the table and stalked out of the room. "Damn Nadir."

An hour or so later, Nora found Erik in his study.

"The door was open," she commented. "I hope you don't mind."

He waved her in. "No, no. All is well enough."

Nora handed him the symphony score, retied and wrapped for delivery.

He took the package and snorted. "I don't even know who to send it to."

"Moncharmin. He'll know who to pass it on to."

"Perhaps," he sighed. "Or perhaps I will lock it away with Don Juan Triumphant. The unseen bookends of my career."

"If you'd like," Nora replied. "But be aware that I will have it published posthumously. The world must hear this."

This didn't earn her a laugh, as she had anticipated. Instead, Erik nodded seriously. "Perhaps that would be best."

Nora finally sank down next to Erik on his couch and rested her head on his shoulder. In a voice just above a whisper—quiet enough so that Erik could ignore her, if he wished—she said the words that had been ricocheting through her mind since the Daroga's death. "My heart breaks for you."

He said nothing, but embraced her tightly. It was enough.

Within a week, a semblance of balance had been regained.

Nora worried that it would all be undone with the arrival of 'Good Old Darius,' but her fears were unfounded. It had been Erik's idea, anyway—to give the Daroga's faithful servant a little cottage on their property and a generous salary for a job that amounted to puttering around the garden. The old Persian took to his new place with quiet gratitude and generally avoided the main house.

Then she worried that it would be Didier who disturbed Erik. With her husband's blessing, Nora had sent him the new symphony. He had received it with something like ecstasy and had bombarded the house with telegrams. It seemed like every morning Nora would open an envelope and be forced to ask Erik some question in Didier's stead.

Erik's answers were always the same.

"Do you want to sit in on the preliminary rehearsals?"

"No."

"They're trying to secure Hofmann for the piano. Do you care?"

"No."

"Do you want to conduct the premiere yourself?"

"No."

"Do you want to attend the premiere?"

"No."

"The reviews are in. Do want Didier to send them to you?"

"No."

Erik may have said no, but Nora found that her curiosity could not be repressed. She wrote to Moncharmin and asked for the worst.

In reply, he sent her a dozen clippings, ranging from the glowing to the ecstatic. Perhaps they did not always understand perfectly, she thought, but they understood enough. After great deliberation, Nora took the very best of the reviews—the one that caught the nuances of grief, of joy, and of nostalgia—and set it on Erik's desk. She underlined the final line, for she personally thought it was remarkably true.

"If Monsieur Siamo is not the preeminent composer of our era, then Mahler never resurrected, Liszt never transcended, and Bach certainly never attended Mass."