I reread Leroux shortly before writing this chapter. I forgot how much I like Mifroid and his lame jokes. Also, I am far too invested in Darius.

Darius made his way down the wide boulevard running parallel to the wasteland that had once been the Tuileries Palace. He had never seen more than the ruins of the old buildings, and now even that had been cleared away. Supposedly, a garden was being installed on the grounds, but Darius had yet to see any evidence to support that. Today, he didn't have a glance to spare for the bare land. He contended with a large mass of parcels that somewhat abated his enjoyment of the late autumn day. Seeing a break in the traffic, he crossed to the other side of the street. Here, the walkway was protected by a portico that blocked out much of the weak sun. No matter—he took a quick turn onto a tiny side street and was in the light again.

Street was almost too grand of a word. It was practically an alley of the Rue de Rivoli, with a cramped succession of front doors and stairways to second-floor apartments, only occasionally enlivened with the odd window-box. They were nice enough apartments inside, in decent repair and with all the necessities. The landlady, who resided in the largest specimen on the corner, was sensible and believed in reasonable rents.

The front door of that venerable lady's home opened just as Darius passed it. "Monsieur Darius! Darius, darling, I'm not letting you slip away from me!"

Darius turned on his heel and undertook the perilous business of shifting his load to one arm. Once he had a free hand, he lifted his astrakhan to the landlady's daughter. "Madame, when have I ever tried to slip away from you? Why would I want to?"

Irène Lantins was pretty and wore her newish widow's weeds with enough aplomb that she had no need to doubt Darius's words. Still, she gave him a sharp glare and said, "Flatterer."

"Flattery? No, indeed. To what do I owe this honor?"

"It's Mama," she said pointedly. There was a world contained in that word, and not one Darius wanted to deal with at the moment.

"Ah." Darius had found that to be a profoundly useful syllable over his years away from Persia. One could communicate so much with so little. Just as Irène did with the word mama. Or rather, the capitalized Mama, which was still decidedly foreign to Darius's Persian mind.

"Now, we both know that Monsieur Khan is good for his word, but we're a full two weeks into the month…"

"Ah, yes of course."

"We know the poor man's been sick— all of that awful business at the Garnier."

Darius knew that Irène really was sympathetic, but if there was one thing he didn't want to talk about it was his master's business at the Garnier. He set down his packages on the steps and reached into the inner pocket of his coat. "Well, I might be able to take care of this." He pulled out an envelope—not nearly as hefty an envelope as it should have been, in Darius's opinion—with the seal of the Persian Diplomatic Mission.

"Payday?" Irène asked, amused.

More like 'badger a diplomatic aide for hours on end day,' but Darius didn't care to tell Irène about that. He spent a moment quickly considering the household expenses and savings, comparing them with the monies on hand. He pulled out a considerable portion of the envelope's contents, deciding to include most of what would have been his own wages. The Daroga would have been furious—worse, the Daroga would have been insulted—if he knew. But it was Darius's duty to keep the books, and keep his secrets while he was at it. "Last month's, this month's, and next month's, for good measure."

Irène offered him a pout. "I told you we trust Monsieur Khan. Though… Mama will be very happy, to be sure."

"Then three months' rent it will be," Darius offered her the money with something like a flourish. She didn't grin, but her eyes danced.

"Well, then. I think such responsibility should be rewarded. Supper tonight?"

Darius bent down to retrieve his parcels. "Do you remember last time?"

Irène laughed. "Don't worry. Mama's going out. She'll be gone for, oh, hours. Eight o'clock?"

"In that case, certainly. Until tonight—"

"Now, be on your best behavior when you go upstairs. When I was on my way back from Madame Bianchi, I saw a strange man go into visit Monsieur Khan. For all I know, he'll be wanting you to play the proper valet."

"A… strange man?" Darius's blood went cold. It had been well over two weeks since he had come to see the Daroga. Darius had been out running errands, just as he had today, and had returned to find his master sitting dumbly in his chair, staring out the window like an imbecile.

He came, the Daroga finally whispered after being plied first with tea and then with brandy. He came, oh God, and he cried.

"Was the man particularly tall?" Darius asked Irène. He could hardly ask, did he wear a mask and call up the fires of Hell in his wake?

"Oh, no. Quite short and wearing a blue greatcoat."

"Ah," Darius sighed, "Mifroid. Again. Excuse me, Madame."

He took the stairs two at a time to the apartment directly above the landlady's home. He paused at the door, caught his breath, and straightened his shoulders before entering. He could hear the Daroga conversing with Mifroid, commissioner of the police.

The discussion sounded amiable enough, and leisurely. Darius divested himself of his burden and went to put together a tray of old-fashioned Persian hospitality. Dates and almonds served in enameled bowls, anise seed cookies he baked every week with the maid-of-all-work peering over his shoulder, and good, strong tea that could go toe-to-toe with any demitasse of French café noir. Thus prepared, he entered the parlor silently.

"…They've set up house in Stockholm," Mifroid said.

"And the Widow Valerius?" the Daroga asked. His tone was mild, but Darius knew his whole attention was on the conversation.

"Residing with them," Mifroid took two of the cookies Darius had just set down and popped them into his mouth one after the other. "The Courts had thought to keep a hold on the Viscount's—rather, the Count's—assets, but it didn't last."

"Oh?" The Daroga asked. It was his 'ah.'

"They thought it might compel him back into the country, so that the case could be tied up nicely. Well, it seems the boy—Count, Count, sorry—just found himself a position with the Swedish Royal Shipyard, inheritance be damned. I'll hand it to him: a good man and husband, even if he isn't much for noblesse oblige. Anyway, it didn't matter one way or the other. The good Count has two very formidable older sisters with formidable husbands who happen to be interested in Politics. They didn't much care for their wives' good name being touched by scandal or their settlements being tied up. So the entire case has been locked up wholesale."

The Daroga blinked slowly and sipped his tea. "The entire case?"

Mifroid's face lost its 'just-a-social-call' mildness. His dark eyes nearly sparkled. Darius wondered if Mifroid somehow instinctively sensed a colleague, a professional equal, in Nadir Khan. The Daroga never spoke of his former position here. (Here, where they thought Khan was a name and not an honorable, ancient title to match any of their timeworn Comte de —s or Duc de — s.) Nevertheless, the commissioner had come to see the Daroga several times, especially after 'that idiot Faure' had dismissed all of the Daroga's testimony concerning the death of Philippe de Chagny. Well, it sounded as though that was moot point now, anyway.

"Oh, yes, the entire case," Mifroid said, "After all, what case is there, now that the former Count merely suffered a fatal misadventure, the kidnapped ingénue is a happy housewife, and all the 'extorted' money returned?"

The Daroga offered a tight smile. "I'll not trot out the old nightmare words."

Mifroid procured two more cookies. "'Truth and justice,' eh? A mismatched pair if ever there was one. Harness them to a carriage and watch it charge off a mountaintop. "

"What of the other players in the drama?" the Daroga asked.

"The management of the Garnier is, amazingly, not interested in capitalizing on the gossip." He looked at the Daroga pointedly. "They are also not interested in allowing the police to make a thorough search of the premises. What more is there to do?"

"Darius?" the Daroga turned a little to where Darius silently stood. "There is a box on my dressing table. Please bring it here."

Darius nodded and retrieved it immediately. He returned in time to hear the Daroga explain himself.

"…I had been told to expect a particular delivery." He motioned for Darius to set the box on the low table in front of the commissioner. "It came today."

Mifroid lifted a chary eyebrow, but his curiosity obviously got the better of him. He opened the box and began to lay out its contents. One cut steel shoe buckle. Grey suede gloves, not very small but still ladylike. Two handkerchiefs somewhat shakily embroidered with lilies-of-the-valley and violets. A haphazard stash of papers, some flat, some letter-folded, some tied with girlish ribbons.

Darius recognized the trove from the Daroga's description. To his credit, Mifroid did not require much of an explanation. He thumbed through the papers for a moment before asking, "Christine Daaé's?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps by way of… your old friend?"

"Yes," he said a bit darkly. "His part of the story is well and truly over now."

Mifroid offered nothing beyond a fascinated, "Huh." He spent a moment reading over the papers. "One sees many strange things in my line of work, as you might be able to imagine. But I would have never believed… all of this."

There was something like good humor in the Daroga's voice, but Darius thought it might have actually been something more akin to dreadful, dramatic irony. "Do you believe all of this?"

The commissioner heaved a sigh and took to his feet. "Well, it hardly matters now, does it? I'm afraid I have already taken up much of your time. Farewell, Monsieur Khan."

The Daroga saw the commissioner to the door and shook his hand. After he closed the door, the Daroga turned to Darius. "We have not seen the last of him. I am not sure what he loves more—a fantastical mystery or your baking."

Darius half-smiled in reply before his mind drifted back to the box. "Agha, if he sent the girl's things to you—"

"I know," the Daroga sighed. "I can scarce credit it. Erik. Dead."

Erik. It was the first time in a long, long time that Darius had heard that name aloud. It existed in his mind as more than the sum of its syllables—a nightmare from another world, a memory from someone else's life, a nebulous curse that had followed him since their exile. Nothing really substantial, the substance of the man having long since faded from the reality of Darius's life. Now, it appeared that he had truly faded.

Strange. Truly strange.

"I have a letter for you to post," the Daroga cut through the haze Darius's thoughts. "After you disclose whatever gossip you learned from our countrymen today."

Darius followed the Daroga into his tiny study, giving him a précis of the news from Persia—the Shah still playing Russia and England off on one another even while Ottoman and Egypt fell to European imperialists, the hushing-up of the Ambassador's affair with a French Baroness, and the impending arrival of a new envoy who very much held with the Western way of doing things. The Daroga listened intently, occasionally nodding, as he finished sealing and writing out the address on his letter.

"Only time will tell what will come of any of it," he commented. He blew on the ink on the envelope before handing it to Darius. "I think I might go out tonight. You can manage by yourself, I'm sure."

Darius recalled his appointment with Madame Lantins and nodded. He glanced down at the letter in his hand. It was addressed to the Époque. Ah. Of course. He paused at the door, thunderstruck by a stray thought.

"Agha?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think… what I mean to say is, might this not be counted as 'success?'"

"Success?" the Daroga questioned. Darius watched as he found the answer. "Oh. Success. A word spoken long ago and far away. That's a thought for another day, my boy."

Darius bowed out then, leaving the Daroga with his thoughts.

Do not return without him, the Shah had said. Well, he was gone now. Might that not count for something?

Darius knew the answer, in his heart of hearts. One would have thought he would have been reconciled to it, after so many years.

When he exited the apartment, the skies were gloomier and the city greyer than before.

Darius knew that he would probably grow old and die here, but it didn't mean he had to like it.