Another bit of story backtracking, because, again, I love Darius. I think this is his last POV chapter, and I wanted to make sure he had some kind of closure in his own words.

It had been a long time since Darius had been awoken in the middle of the night by a messenger. He was slow to wake up at the knock on the door, and slow to rise once he did. The flat was not large, and while Darius was the one to answer the door, the Daroga was not long in emerging from his own bedroom.

He stood while the Daroga looked over the contents of the message, waiting to find out who and what was the matter. The Daroga did not relay the contents to him. Nor did he issue some vague command, but simply handed the note over to Darius to read for himself. Lady Mojgan. The death of her husband. Some short details. Could they come to call soon? He was not surprised that she wrote as clearly and concisely as a good police report.

Darius looked over at the Daroga in expectation.

"I will go," the Daroga said.

"And I?"

"You're free to return to your sleep," he said. "Though, I would not mind the company."

That was all the invitation Darius required, and within the hour they were standing before the grand Palais-Borbon townhouse Mojgan resided in. The all-French staff did not hesitate to admit them once the Daroga presented his card.

Mojgan met them in the parlor and smiled in grim humor. "I do promise that I did not come to Paris with the intention of repeating all of my past."

This time, there were no surprises for Darius. He was, truthfully, quite relieved to see how little she had changed in the intervening decades. The Daroga sat with her, and Darius played the butler. The spoke of practical things. One of Reza's aides had also been lodged in the townhome, but he had taken himself away to inform the embassy. He would be given other accommodations, he said, so that the Khanum could stay in residence.

"I will not be relying on your hospitality this time, at least," Mojgan said.

"Good," the Daroga said. "I haven't a house with guest rooms anymore." They all knew that if the need arose, the Daroga would give up his own room for her and sleep on a floor somewhere. But that hardly needed to be said.

The diplomatic mission took care of the funeral itself, and in very short order, Reza Gholi Khan was interred in the Muslim enclosure of Père Lachaise. Darius was familiar with the cemetery. It was, after all, where he expected to one day be buried. They went to the funeral, which was quieter than any other one Darius had attended. They went on the third day, as well, and on the seventh. That last time it was just the Daroga and Mojgan, Darius trailing a step behind them.

Mojgan laid down fresh flowers, the very first of early spring's hyacinths, irises, and jonquils. She tapped the gravestone thoughtfully and sprinkled rose water over the grounds with careful, practiced motions. She spoke more of this husband than she had the first time she had been widowed, wry comments that spoke more of affectionate friendship than deep love. For all the kind words, it was the first time Darius had really seen her look her age. He knew her hair was still dark under her black hat and veil, but her skin had faded in the weak winter sunlight. It seemed to be pulled over the bones of her face now, gaunt where there had once been the fresh firmness of youth. Her pretty eyes, too, were lost to the dark circles underneath them. She had not looked so worn, Darius thought, in the early hours of that fatal morning. But now, a week on, the full weight of death had settled on her.

"Shall we return to the townhouse?" the Daroga asked, as Darius commandeered a carriage for them.

Mojgan shrugged. "I am sorry to say that it slipped my mind to leave instructions for the staff—they are all French. They will not have thought to put together anything special there." She paused for a moment. "Actually, I have something to discuss with you that I'd prefer to keep private. May we go to your apartment for a bit?"

It was silent journey there. Darius wondered if by private, she meant truly just between herself and the Daroga. He told himself he would not be stung by the exclusion, but was still relieved when she gestured for him to stay in the parlor.

"I have been thinking about what comes next," she said. "The embassy is trying to make arrangements for my return—once my mourning period is elapsed. It has been difficult, as there is not some easy companion to accompany me."

"I would do it," the Daroga said at once. "If only I could." He started thinking aloud of others he knew, the married men whose European wives might be persuaded to venture into the heathen East. But Mojgan held up a staying hand.

"Nadir," she said, very quietly. "I said that is what the embassy is doing. I was not consulted in it at all. And I find… I have other wishes."

Darius ignored the whistle of the kettle coming from the kitchen. It may have been impertinent to stare at a lady, but both he and the Daroga did so.

"Yes?" the Daroga asked.

"I do not intend to return to Iran," she said. "There is nothing for me there."

The Daroga was a long time in replying. Darius could tell he was surprised, and perhaps bemused. "You may find… that you feel differently in days to come."

She shook her head a little. "Perhaps. But I am willing to run that risk." She paused a little, as if trying to sort out her words. "The problem is not one of making a decision. I have done that. It is now a… legal question."

Before she could launch into further details, there was a knock. And just as Darius had never seen Mojgan look so careworn, he also never had seen her look so startled at a normal sound. What was it she meant to do, that made her so ill at ease?

Everything paused for a time, and Darius was not sure if he should be relieved or not when the jadugar came in—Erik, he reminded himself firmly. Just a man named Erik.

Predictably, he had a very different reaction to Mojgan's news. "If it's merely a matter of a passport, that is easy. It is not difficult to have papers made. Indeed, I am quite sure I could manage a convincing set." He seemed a bit insulted by the ensuing silence. "Or I have a man who made mine. They have served me quite well these past ten years."

The Daroga rubbed his eyes tiredly. "That is all a consideration for another day. Mojgan, you and I both know that this is not a matter of extending your sojourn until it pleases you to return."

She nodded. "I know. I know that by defying the embassy's plans now, I will not be able to call on them again in the future. I know that the ways I might need to defy them could make it… quite dangerous for me, even here. I am satisfied to set my face in one direction and not look back—provided I may choose the direction. But the one thing I do not want to do is bring trouble on your head. And so…"

Darius found himself leaving the room. He went to the kitchen, and spent much longer than usual straightening things and preparing food for the evening. He dropped his spoon more than once, agitated, and finally took a moment to sit. He could not quite articulate what was in his heart. Annoyance? No, it was deeper. Anger? No, something colder. Grief? Yes, grief. Well, he wasn't a boy any more. He pulled himself together and returned to the group, but found it on the verge of dispersal.

"Good, Darius," the Daroga said, "Mojgan needs to be returned home."

Erik spoke up, "I—"

"No, you are staying here to talk with me," the Daroga growled.

"Of course," Darius cut in before anything else could be said. "My lady?"

She nodded and rose. She went up to the Daroga first. "I will think on what you've said, Nadir. But I am afraid that I have made up my mind. Are you angry with me?"

The Daroga shook his head. "Worried. Not angry."

She took leave of Erik next, something about 'tomorrow' passing between them, but Darius did not stay to hear the particulars. He went out to hail a cab off the main street, and then brought Mojgan down to it. He sat in the backwards-facing seat, and remained silent for many minutes.

She peered at him curiously, as the last remnants of the sunset faded. "Are you cross with me, as well, Darius? Do you think I am being very foolish?"

"…I don't quite understand you," he replied at length. "I do not know why you would make such a decision."

"Ah. That is between me and the birds," she replied, not unkindly. "I admit, I thought I would find the good Daroga a bit more understanding. I suppose time has colored my memories: I had always felt like he had let me have my way. But I do not love him less for his sternness, and I am sorry if I have distressed him."

There was no need for Darius to reply to this, and he could have—should have—kept his place. But as he looked at her, he felt compelled to try to say something of what was trapped in his heart.

"It is the voice of his experience speaking, not his distress. To stay here," he said slowly, "Lady, it is a… terrible thing."

"Are you so very unhappy in France?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. It's a life like any other life: some good days, and some bad. I think that if I simply had the option to go back, I would be content to stay. It is knowing that I will never go home again… to choose that…" the words faded off. What more was there to say?

"You could return," Mojgan said, grave. "You are not under the same sentence as Nadir."

"Ah, no." He gestured vaguely in the direction they had come from. "He is my only family. What is a home without family? That would be more terrible still."

It startled him when her gloved hand reached across to touch his sleeve, if only for a moment. "You are such a good man, Darius," she said quietly. "I don't think I've ever met your equal for loyalty. You have a thousand times the honor of a hundred princes of the blood."

"Lady, I did not tell you for your pity." He knew his face was burning. "I told you because you are undertaking something very difficult. When I left Mazandaran, I knew it would be hard—but not how hard."

"And knowing that now," she said, her words very deliberate, "would you have made a different choice?"

There was no reply he could make but the truth. "No, I don't think I would have."

"Nor, I think, will I regret my choice," she said quietly. "Home stopped being home long ago. I must follow your example and make a new one for myself." She quirked a smile at him. "And it is not pity, Darius. It is respect."

When he returned to the flat, he found the Daroga alone. He had dug out the old water pipe from some cramped cupboard and sat smoking by the window.

"She has good enough reasons," he said without preamble. "It is not as foolish of a fancy as I had first thought. You and I both know the life that awaits her when she returns—ah, if she could be but satisfied. I never knew her to be so discontented with her lot in life in years past."

"Forgive me, Daroga," Darius said, "but I believe the same might be said of any of us."

The Daroga snorted. "Even Erik." He sat puffing at his pipe for a few minutes. "I suppose it is too much to hope that you somehow convinced her to rethink staying abroad?"

"No, though I did try."

"I thought you might."

"What is it that you mean to do for her?" Darius asked. He was remembering the days of hiding Mojgan away in the guest rooms, with a rifle at the ready. What, he had to ask himself across the years, had he thought to do with the rifle? He was a terrible shot. And yet, at the time, it had seemed the natural and heroic thing to do. Darius had much less interested in heroics now than he had had at seventeen. But if the Daroga did have something he wanted done—well, Darius would do his best.

"There isn't anything I can do for her," the Daroga said instead. "I have no diplomatic sway here or there. I can offer no protection if her request goes badly. The silly girl has a head for numbers, I'll grant you. She has as good a handle on what she can do with banks and the resources at her disposal as any man might. Her only real concern about us is that we might be a liability to one another. She is in uncharted territory, and worries that we might suffer for it."

"And?"

"And? Oh, and we might. I don't know of anyone who wishes us ill here in Paris, but nor do I know of anyone who holds us in affection either." The Daroga pushed his pipe away and stood. "And yet, I did not use that as an argument to dissuade her. Curious."

Darius put out a simple supper for the Daroga and made some half-hearted excuse to slip away. He found himself walking the familiar steps of their street, coming to a pause at the corner. He took a deep breath, the air still chilly in these days just before spring. He tried to see the stars through the effluence of the city. There—the North Star was just bright enough to see peeking out of the constellation of Deb Asghar. The stars were the same, he reminded himself, even if they were harder to see here.

"Are we both escaping our duties?"

He turned sharply to see Irène Lantins stealing out of the front door of her home. Even with the streetlamps lit, she was mostly hidden in the shadows. She had traded her black widow's weeds for soft purples and greys in recent weeks. Darius, ever the tailor's son, thought they suited her delicate coloring far better than the severe black, but he was in no mood to be complimentary.

Still, he could not help but be polite, even in the face of his fatigue and the sadness he could not shake. "Your mother?"

It may have been a trick of the shadows, but he thought he saw her roll her eyes. "I don't want to speak of Mama just now. Tell me, Monsieur Darius, what is it that has you looking so pensively up there at the stars?"

He meant to demur. He meant to wall up the sense of defeat and isolation that had invaded his very soul this day. He meant to perhaps even flirt a bit, a distraction to while away this stolen quarter of an hour.

Instead, he told her of the blue of the Caspian and the white of Damavand and the green of Mazandaran. She listened, and he felt better for it.