a/n: Well, here we are again. My great gratitude to everyone who has favorite and followed this story over the years. Thanks also to KE1966 and lilac for taking the time to review the last few chapters—and to all of my reviewers.

1890, again

Those whom the gods love, die young.

Those whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.

Erik had never questioned which category he belonged in, until a different bit of Latinism crept into his head.

Miris modis Di ludos faciunt hominibus— In wondrous ways do the gods make sport with men.

He was still rather dubious of the gods, though wonders he could attest to.

It was a wonder of sorts to be standing on the docks of the Port of New York. The air smelt of salt and sewage, but Erik was unbothered. He had just disembarked a fast and sleek Cunarder, on which he had spent the last six day as a first-class passenger. He was greeted by a serious, fair-haired man who identified himself as an agent of the Metropolitan Opera Company. He assured Monsieur Siamo that he would attend to his every need and deal with as many of the mundanities as Monsieur Siamo saw fit to delegate to him.

They talked shop in the luxurious carriage that had been hired for Erik's use in the city, and Erik found the arrangements for his premiere well in hand.

The suddenness—the oddity—of Erik's descent on New York was touched upon with the lightest hand.

"It's true it's been a bit of a scramble," Erik's assistant said, "but the Subscribers, as well as the entire Company, cannot help but be sensible of the Great Opportunity you have given Us."

Erik doubted that to be the prevailing sentiment. But he could not complain of the work that company put forward, nor the enthusiastic spirit they showed.

Scant weeks after his arrival, Erik sat and listened to the first full run-through of his La Vie Nouvelle.

And, oh, it was wonderful.

The first part of his scheme had paid off beautifully. But it was the second part he was more concerned with. And on that score, he was forced to wait.

He sat in his suite in the Fifth Avenue Hotel (another miracle) with a fortune in telegrams laid before him. Didier chastising him for 'selling out to the Americans.' The Met expecting him to make all manner of last-minute decisions. Invitations to a multitude of impromptu parties in his honor, all to be declined. Short missives from Daniel Tremblay, who was acting as his eyes and ears on a mission of the utmost delicacy.

It was these personal messages that Erik took the keenest interest in, for they concerned the impetus of his journey to New York. He kept each one close at hand and reread them frequently.

N EN ROUTE TO NY.

N ARRIVED ON TIME.

MADE ARRANGEMENTS TO SEE N.

The most recent had come just a few days before:

WILL WAIT UPON YOU SUNDAY.

Sunday had come and Erik kept to his hotel suite in expectation. He attempted to use his time wisely, catching up on the humdrum business of putting on a grand premiere. Alas, humdrum was not a word up for a fight against Nora.

It was late afternoon before a bellboy brought up a calling card to Erik. Erik gave it only a passing glance before commanding his visitor be brought up directly. He was obeyed without hesitation, though Daniel Tremblay's pace was unconcerned with Erik's direction. He ambled in and offered Erik his hand.

"Mr. Tremblay," Erik greeted.

"Daniel," his guest corrected, "Sir Daniel, if you listen to my wife—or to Nora. She made quite an unexpected fuss. No coffee, thanks. I've been drowned in the stuff."

Lacking the distraction of calling for refreshments, Erik sat uneasily across from Daniel. Though they had become unlikely correspondents over the years, Erik had not actually laid eyes on the man since their early meetings in Paris. Since then, Erik had become a different man altogether. As for Daniel, Erik could believe he had simply stepped over years as other men stepped across a street. His appearance hadn't altered by a stitch. "You've seen her, then?"

"Within the hour, yes," Daniel replied. He took a moment to clean his glasses, which involved moving the smudges from one side to the other, before answering Erik's unspoken question. "She's well. Very much herself. Can't be bothered to talk about what she's been doing the last few years. You'd think her only care in the world was to be kitted out a la mode."

Erik found himself smiling. "Well, I am glad of it. You see, I've always liked her as she is."

"Hm. I dare say there's been one change, though it is probably something in your favor." When Erik did not comment, Daniel continued: "I dare say this is the most tame I've ever seen the old girl. I think she wouldn't be terribly averse to putting down some roots."

"I find it hardly matters," Erik said. "If she is willing to put down one root, then I can work with the rest."

Daniel eyed Erik in fashion that hinted at a steel-spined professional totally at odds with rumpled suits and smudged spectacles. "Indeed? Then you'll be glad to hear that she's got her paws on an invitation—one that I imagine you have rather a lot to do with."

Erik inclined his head modestly.

"I must say the timing of all of this is positively supernatural," Daniel offered a suspicious glare. "Do I want to know how you convinced the Metropolitan Opera to go all topsy-turvy for you?"

"It is nothing so bad as all that," Erik assured him, "I simply made an offer that could not be refused."

"You seem to have something of a talent for that," Daniel commented, "perhaps when we are cousins you will take the time to teach me the art and science."

"Then you think we will be cousins?" Erik asked. He tried for a light tone, though he knew the little man was not fooled.

"I think so," Daniel shrugged in a way that very much called to mind his kinswoman, "but I am ashamed to admit that I am a hopeless romantic of the highest order." After a moment he added, "I certainly hope you will be."

With that proclamation, which struck Erik as rather more ominous than encouraging, Sir Daniel took his leave.

Erik turned his attention the messages from the Met. He dashed off a very curt reply to the costume master that any idiot could follow the sketches and direction he had already provided. Was the costume master an idiot? Thus pleasurably engaged, Erik found that his thoughts turned to Nora but every few minutes. And every thought was a happy one—I will see her, I will see her, I will see her soon.

The Metropolitan Opera did not offer Erik the same elegancies of hideaways as the Garnier did, but he had never lost his talent for finding shadows and staying in them. His attention barely touched upon the smart set of Americans streaming in. He cared even less for the sprinkling of Europeans, who were carefully insinuating that their New World brethren were getting naught but the sloppy artistic leftovers of their older, wiser friends. Of course they knew who H. E. Siamo was. He had been the toast of Paris for years—and while this opera of his was sure to be delightful, it could hardly be expected to surprise them.

Erik would have laughed, if his mission had not called for great discretion.

She came in without an escort, of course. She held her invitation out with two gloved fingers and handed off her fur stole with the other hand.

It would not do to say that Erik's hear skipped a beat, or was set aflutter, or beset by any such silly, romantic malady. But it did do his heart a great deal of good to see her so very much the same. She still cut a path right through a crowd, still looked on the world like it was a joke not quite in good taste. He was pleased to provide her with every little comfort she liked, even though he remained unseen. Her favorite champagne, the luxury of a private box—the whole night was his gift to her, even if she did not know it.

He saw her settled before absconding backstage to offer final directions and threats. He stayed there for the first act. He was satisfied with the production and the performances. And it would have been a lie to say that he was not gratified by the positive reaction of whole audience, though, in truth, he played for an audience of one.

When the second act began, he at last made his way to the grand tier. She had, by his request, the best seat in the house. He slipped into her box without a noise. He took up the seat next her, unnoticed. He decided that he would tease her about that one day, though he was truthfully glad for the opportunity to really look upon her after all this time.

He had to admit to immediately conceiving a great fondness for the shadow her profile cut against the velvet curtains of the box. He liked how her brocade gown caught the stage lights, how the diamonds she wore offset the whiteness of her throat. And he thought that he could easily fall very much in love with the gloved fingers that were currently clutching her fan. Indeed, there was nothing about this particular moment in time—or this particular woman, for that matter— that Erik did not adore.

It was, after all, a moment half-a-decade in the making. And a woman—well, unless he was very much mistaken, it was a love an entire lifetime in the making. Watching her now, he was conscious of a great joy warming every fiber of his body and soothing every poor cross-stitched scar on his soul.

Even her tears were precious to him, prompted as they were by the song on which he had pinned every dream and desire upon. He reached out, at last, to capture them.