Sorry, sorry. Work is still crazy and I've been putting in some overtime just now. I'll hopefully soon be able to make some replies to all the kind, wonderful reviews that have been left over the last few days. Thank you all so much!

"Have you read that old American writer, Poe?" Mifroid asked Nadir. "Because, occasionally, you put me in mind of Dupin."

The two men had met by chance at a café unknown to both of them in Palais-Bourbon. Nadir had tried without success to see Mojgan; Mifroid had been in the area on official business. Both had needed coffee. It was Mifroid who had invited Nadir to join him, and had spoken very generally of his business. That Nadir had been able to take those few vague sentences, combined with the known fact that the 7th arrondissement did not generally fall under Mifroid's purview, and connect them to a news article from a few days before was simply a matter of paying attention—not, as the Commissioner had just implied—a wild leap of logic. He merely shrugged and directed the conversation back to neutral topics.

They did not speak of the Chagnys. Official interest had ended and anything Nadir might have wanted to learn was unlikely to have landed on Mifroid's desk. Instead, they passed a pleasant hour discussing the concerns of the day, liberally sprinkled with anecdotes of Mifroid's children who were just adult enough to cause trouble and consternation. Evidently thinking such personal discussion warranted some kind of quid pro quo, Mifroid prompted Nadir with an airy. "Didn't you say you were visiting your cousin?"

"Yes," Nadir replied, in discouraging tones. There was a time when such a voice from the Daroga of Mazandaran would have frozen conversation— it had little apparent effect on a Parisian commissaire de police, who simply took the ensuing silence as opportunity to take snuff. Nadir relented somewhat. "My cousin is quite a bit younger than I am. Therefore, it is my right as the elder to despair over the younger generation."

"Of course," Mifroid said equitably. They were coming to the end of their second demitasses of espresso. "But it is also the right of the young to expect their elders to step gracefully to the side. Eventually."

Nadir eyed Mifroid, who was probably closer to Mojgan's age than his own, with resigned displeasure. "Perhaps."

"Besides, if your cousin is anything like you, I am sure he is a fine fellow."

Nadir laughed. "Not as such, but I thank you all the same." They parted with a handshake and the Commissioner promising (threatening?) to call on Nadir in a few days, and Nadir found himself alone in a cab. It gave him ample opportunity to stew.

The fact of the matter was, Nadir was extremely unsettled.

Erik had visited the night before, and his obvious pleasure with himself should have warned Nadir of trouble to come. He had been uneasy when Mojgan and Erik had made arrangements to meet alone: what had come of it had shocked him into silence. Erik informed Nadir grandly that Mojgan would travel with him to Rouen, there to lead a quiet, retired life away from society in general and international politics in particular. Nadir treated this flight of fancy with the scorn it deserved, and was not reconciled to the idea by the intelligence that it had originally come from Mojgan.

"But," Erik said, still in a magnanimous mood, "I made the necessary arrangements."

The deliberate, carefully emphasized pronoun made Nadir think that that phrase had shifted from Erik made the arrangements somewhere between mind and mouth. That certainly didn't help Erik's case, but gave Nadir a moment to pause. Ever since that day with the Vicomte de Chagny, that day Nadir had almost died at Erik's hands—intentionally or not—his previous cool temper had stayed too close to the surface. And what had it gotten him? Many arguments that went nowhere. Many headaches that had turned into heartaches. And no success, as such. It was an exercise in imagination and, perhaps, faith to ascribe good motives to Erik. But there was nothing to be gained from another round of accusations.

And so Nadir held his tongue and allowed Erik to lay out a plan that was equal parts clever and hopelessly naïve.

"I have one… favor to ask of you," Erik said. Nadir answered with a look of polite surprise—Erik did not ask for favors. "And that is to exercise whatever remains of your investigative abilities. You surely know some individuals connected with Reza and his ilk. It would be helpful to know if there is any thought of intervention."

"And if there is?" Nadir asked bluntly. He personally thought the probability quite low, but did not say this to Erik.

"It will be dealt with."

"Ah." Nadir replied. "I know how you deal with things, Erik. Forgive me if I am not in a hurry to put some innocent's head in a noose."

Erik's eyes were positively owlish. "Oho, is that it, Daroga? I can see that you are still unconvinced. You will think I mean your precious Mojgan some harm, I suppose. Well, mark me well, Daroga—I don't. And what's more, she knows it. I do this because it is what she wants."

"I believe you," Nadir said very slowly. "And so my objections to this scheme do not lie chiefly with you." It was true enough. However, he was finding it very difficult to put to words just what his objections were. They seemed to involve words that had very little to do with his life any more: propriety, perhaps? Morality? Modesty? And all of those words were centered, not on Erik, but on Mojgan. Nadir also knew that they were concerns Erik would not properly understand, that he would not heed. But Nadir knew he could not talk circles around Erik, could not bring him around to his way of thinking through smooth words and trickery. His only hope was to level with him, as one man might to another man, and hope he might understand. "Grief does peculiar things to a person. Mojgan is putting herself in needless danger—and, no, Erik, this is not about you." Begrudgingly, he added, "indeed, I am the only other man I would… trust… more to behave decently towards her. Nor do I believe there will be assassins waiting in the shadows for her! But unmarried women do not go gallivanting off with any man—however trustworthy—if they hope to retain their good character. It is no different here in France than home in Persia, in that regard."

The golden owl eyes stared back at him. They were calculating. "So?"

Ah, so an out and out argument was not a prerequisite to a blinding headache. "What else is there to say? You say your motives are good: fine. Will you still let Mojgan ruin herself?"

The eyes remained fixed, but the head tilted. "I am not so much of a booby, Daroga. I told you I undertook making the necessary arrangements. I wrote to the agent dealing my lodgings in Rouen, and requested a chateau with two wings and caretakers."

"And so you intend to… maintain her?"

"Erik does not care for your tone," came the tart reply. "Yes, the house will be mine. The table will be mine. But she is managing quite well on her own. This last husband left something accessible for her maintenance abroad. Not much, but he was not a complete fool and did foresee she might need some ready money in Europe if he was… unavailable. Moving that money is another matter, but it is being dealt with. Alas, the fortune is probably lost. Can't get to the first husband's money from here; and the bulk of the last one's is going to some nephew who will carry on the family name. All will be well. You will see."

The impasse remained, and Nadir could only shake his head. "And what of you, Erik? What good do you gain from this chivalrous impulse, if that is indeed what it is?"

Erik fidgeted under Nadir's steady gaze. "I," he said, standing with great dignity, "will not be alone."

No, there was no comfort to be found in Erik's words. He had hopes that Mojgan could have been brought to her senses, but his visit to her house in Palais-Bourbon had only yielded a scrawled note delivered by her maid. Will send word soon.

Was it any wonder that he had let himself be distracted by coffee and the conversation for the hours to follow? A man could only take so much.

And, at the heart of the matter, what business did Nadir really have in Mojgan's affairs? He cared, to be sure. But she had lived this long without Nadir's protection or interference. If it wasn't for the unusual life she had carved out for herself, Nadir would have never even laid eyes on her again. Oh, he knew it could be argued that she had merely traveled in the wake of her husband the Great Man, but Nadir knew better. He knew that Mojgan was never a truly passive player in her life. In some roundabout way, she was in Paris because she wanted to be. And she would stay—because she wanted to.

Nadir could not blame her. He liked his life in Paris.

The months after leaving Mazandaran had been a rough and ready time, desperately trying to start a search that Nadir had no inclination to end. The road to France had been twisted and long, littered with poky inns and barren rooms. When they had at last arrived, it had been a relief to settle in a place for more than a few months. They had taken the lodgings on the Rue de Rivoli, and he had been pleased enough with them. Darius may have thought them a bit beneath the Daroga's dignity, but Nadir was no longer the Daroga, even if many still called him that. He supposed he could compare his comfortably shabby apartment to his lost home, where even the old things had been well-cared for and well-maintained so as to make the word antique more appropriate than old, and find ample cause for dissatisfaction. To think, he had once employed a steward, a cook, a groom, and handful of lower servants besides Darius.

But besides a desire that Darius could occasionally take a longer break from his responsibilities (the best Nadir could do was the occasional meal out, or surreptitiously dusting when Darius was running errands,) Nadir was content with his reduced circumstances.

If he could honestly look at his life and say, yes, I am content with my choices and where they have led me—how could he doubt that Mojgan would be able to do the same? If danger were to come—dishonor—disgrace—well, what was new in that? Nadir knew what evil looked like. He knew what it looked like in dirty alleyways and bloodied gutters. He knew what it looked like in palace rooms, hung with finest silks, being discussed over tea. That was not the life Mojgan had made for herself, even if she had inexplicably chosen Erik as her companion for this new adventure. Or perhaps it wasn't so very unexplainable.

There had been a time when Nadir had thought a friendship with Mojgan might do Erik some good. That had been long ago and far away, with Mojgan simply being a better woman than the one Erik worshipped, virtuous enough to keep him at a distance, kind enough to perhaps prod him to better behavior. When had Nadir first thought that? Ah, that picnic in Tehran— truly a world away. It hadn't occurred to him that such a friendship would, by definition, need to go both ways. Erik had been there when Mojgan needed to run the first time. Was it any wonder that she had turned to him this second time?

His brain refused to reason on the subject any longer. All Nadir knew for certain was that he cared about the woman, and he was worried. But, like any good investigator, he knew when he had reached a dead end. He left the matter alone and went on with his day.

As evening came, he gave thought to Erik's request. No, he did not like what they were scheming. But what he had been asked to do was small and simple, and so on went the evening clothes (new as of a mere few months ago) and he went to the lounge.

He had been there once since finding Erik alive, for checkers and gossip about Mojgan's husband. He had not been disappointed, but nor had he felt a burning desire to return. But he knew who he could count on to be there.

A few greetings were exchanged between Nadir and some of the regulars, but he kept the general trend of his progress towards the corner Masood usually claimed. Indeed, the aide was to be found there and hailed Nadir when he noticed him.

"Haven't seen you since the funeral," he commented. "Come have coffee with me."

Nadir demurred, as if the invitation had been unexpected and he did not want to intrude. Nadir may have been far from home, but he was still Persian and knew how to taarof with the best of them. Masood offered again and Nadir eventually took up a seat.

The younger man looked very much at his leisure. He tossed a bedraggled newspaper across to Nadir. It took his eye a moment to adjust to the clean typeset was showing him Persian, instead of the expected French. The date was March—not too far gone, then.

"Fresh from the capital. They're trying to compete with the expatriate papers," Masood said. "Asking for contributions from their readers and trying to create a free-sounding forum."

If Nadir had still been in the Shah's service, he would not have laughed. But with five thousand kilometers between Paris and Tehran, he allowed himself a brief chuckle. "And you have reason to doubt it?"

Despite his official capacity, Masood laughed with much more force than Nadir. "No? Why? Because it's owned by the Minister of Publication?"

"And what makes you think the Parisian press has any more freedom?" Nadir asked, eyebrows raised high.

"They are a republic?" Masood offered with a shrug. "No. No, that way lays madness. As is often the case with politics, as you well know."

"A reason why I am grateful to be so far removed from them now," Nadir commented. Coffee was served, and he focused on admiring the little cobalt and gilt demitasse with its portrait of the Shah on the side. It seemed to be a more recent rendering than Nadir had seen, but the Shah looked remarkably… the same. What was it about royalty that they seemed to freeze so? Some uncanny side effect of having one's likeness on so many portraits and so many coins? Now, there was a thought that did not befit the logical inspector.

"In truth, I would not care—if I were the Minister of Publication," Masood said. Nadir wondered if he was intending to make a career out of radical honesty. It would certainly be a novelty. Or, more likely, a nine days' wonder. "So, Daroga, what news with you?"

This time, Nadir cut to the point. "My cousin."

"Ah, yes," Masood's voice was very wry. "Your cousin. How is it that you managed to keep your illustrious relatives concealed for so long?"

Nadir gestured with his coffee cup in one hand and saucer in the other. "They weren't concealed. Merely… removed." It wasn't something one thought of, in one's little flat in Paris, but a different sort of man would have made frequent, proud mention of his ancestry. Nadir had always thought that he needed to stand on his own. And yet… He took a sip and then matched Masood's dry tone. "Or, did you think the previous Shahs were not given over to nepotism? I assure you, if my father hadn't been somebody, I wouldn't have been either. And so it follows, some of my cousins are interesting."

"Perhaps," Masood allowed. "Don't mistake me: I like Mojgan Khanum well enough. Sophie thinks she's charming. But she's not quite the thing, is she? And you have to admit, it is quite a coincidence that it is your cousin who has come and given us so much trouble."

Now Nadir really did laugh. "Really, if you knew everyone involved, it's not surprising in the least."

"Reza was a rare one, to be sure," he said by way of agreement. "And if he was still alive, we wouldn't be talking about the Khanum at all, would we?"

Nadir decided to turn Masood's given approach around on him. A straightforward question. "Does the embassy mean to make trouble for Mojgan?"

"You mean, does Mojgan mean to make trouble for the embassy?" Masood shot back. "Officially, I don't believe we have anything to say about her beyond trying to arrange passage home to a countrywoman. Unofficially—" his eyes became sharp, and shifted towards Nadir with something like ruthlessness lurking in them—"I don't think anyone gives two figs. If this was Constantinople, she could probably just be absorbed into the local community. But why does she want to stay in Paris?"

"For the ateliers," Nadir quipped. "But in all seriousness, I do not think she cares about Paris one way or the other. Quiet is the word she uses to describe the life she wants."

"Well, then, who can object to a quiet and modest life?" The casualness Masood said this with was far from genuine. "Didn't Reza say she was from Ghazvin? She isn't a Babi, is she?"

"Ah, no. She doesn't hold any radical ideas, religious or political." Except perhaps that desire to strike out on her own, Nadir added silently. But did that perhaps have more to do with the human condition than any societal expectations? He quirked a smile at Masood. "Not a poet, either, if you're really concerned."

"I'm not concerned," he said. "It's not my affair."

"Whose affair is it?" Nadir asked.

"Yours, by the sound of it. And it is true: I do not know of anyone who will care if one woman lives some quiet, retired life. But politics is fickle. Sometimes not being thought of at all is as damaging as being thought of too much."

Nadir would need to be a fool to miss the warning in those words. But like so many warnings he had received over the course of his life, it was irritatingly vague. Where was Masood's candor now? They slipped slowly into other conversation and Nadir allowed himself to believe he was an ordinary man enjoying a chat with an old acquaintance.

It was a long while before Nadir could rest that night, and even longer before he felt like sleep would come. Too much coffee, he decided. Afternoon and evening, and at his age!

For the first time in many years, he found himself thinking of the woman who had been his wife. Their time together had been short, and she was dead now these forty years. But he could not shake the idea that she would have been a blessing to have around just now. Perhaps there were things she could have said that would have touched Mojgan's heart. Perhaps she would have had words to reassure Nadir. Or perhaps she would have simply complained that she had been taken out of a royal harem to end her days in little Parisian flat. He really didn't know.

Eventually he retired, and fell asleep trying to remember what her name had been.

Erik said he would come again Friday evening. Friday evening turned to Friday night, and Nadir involved himself with a book. Even Darius eventually ran out of things to do, and sat scratching in a notebook. After all these years, Nadir still did not know what he put down on the pages, though he currently suspected love poems.

Eventually, he came. There was a thump outside the door, and then the two doomsday raps that usually served as Erik's knock. Darius opened the door in time for Nadir to see Erik tipping some lackey and then gesturing to a large steamer truck.

"Don't stand there—let me in," Erik said. "Give me a hand, Darius. That woman must pack bricks in her luggage."

"What's this?" Nadir asked, wandering closer to the door.

"It's what Mojgan doesn't wish to take to Rouen, but does not wish to leave behind. I did not ask for specifics."

"Ah, and we are to stand in place of her storerooms?"

"If you please," Erik said, in a tone that indicated that there was no other option.

Nadir sighed. "Put it wherever Darius tells you to. And then a word, Erik."

They disappeared into the hallways that led to the kitchen, and Nadir made himself comfortable.

"I know the word you want, Daroga!" Erik called from down the hall. "Same, meddlesome word as always! Erik, don't!"

Nadir sighed and then with some irony said, "Erik, don't assume."

The tilt of Erik's head when he returned to the sitting room indicated that he was not amused.

"Oh, sit down, you hellion," Nadir grumbled. "I did as you asked!"

The posture changed almost at once, and Erik looked very pleased and at his ease on Nadir's settee. "And?"

"As I said, no assassins lurking in the shadows."

"A pity," the words seemed to slip out of Erik without a thought, for he paused and then nodded slowly. "No, that is for the best. It will be safe enough."

"I suppose." Nadir stared at Erik for a long while. "Erik. I am… choosing to believe that you are a man capable of doing better, and that you will. Will you?"

Erik stood and gave his hat vicious shake. "I am that which I am, Daroga. I cannot change the past. What comes next? Who is to say? But if it is any comfort, I do not delight in being a disappointment."

Nadir also stood, and with the slow movements one might use around a frightened animal, extended his hand. "It is well, Erik."

"Is it?" Erik simply stared at the offered handshake, his voice a whisper. "Ah, before I forget. She wanted to send this along." He placed a note in Nadir's outstretched hand, and remained standing.

As expected, it was from Mojgan, and after a moment's hesitation, Nadir opened it and read.

Dear Nadir,

Thank you for putting up with my whims. I never struck you as a whimsical woman before, did I? I leave tomorrow, and though I do not know every particular, I am content that our plan is sound. Certain members of my house staff are aware of my departure, so there will be no hue and cry raised. A letter will be delivered to Reza's old staff Monday morning. I have not mentioned you in it, so if it is possible, you may be forgotten as a source of information. But if you are applied to, I have full confidence in your ability to reply well, though I loathe putting you in such a position. I hope to write to you once we are settled. Please have no concerns over me. Thank you for being ever my friend and good cousin.

Mojgan Khanum

Nadir glanced back at Erik. "It is for the best Feridoon kept her as away from court as he did. I don't think she could intrigue well if she wanted to." He folded the note and stuck it in the pocket of his dressing gown.

"No," Erik agreed slowly, "she seems incurably truthful." After a moment, he added, "After a fashion. Do you have a reply for her?"

"Just to send my affection," Nadir said. "I hope all goes well with you, Erik."

"As do I," he said. After a beat, Erik extended his own hand. It was cold and bony, by Nadir could still feel that old hidden power in it. Here was a man who could flip him to the floor in an instant, who could strangle a thug with nothing more than a wire—who could build palaces and summon the angels with the keys and strings of any instrument. May your hands do good work, Nadir said silently, as fervently as a prayer. May you at last be satisfied with good works.

Erik took his leave and Nadir was at last able to ready himself for bed. He slipped the note into his book and left it on his night stand. He turned off the kerosene lamp in his room and sat in the darkness for a long while.

He heard Darius lock the doors and then retreat to his own room. He heard their closest neighbor drop what sounded like a bottle on the floor. Through the window he had propped open, he could make out the carriages rolling down past the Tuileries. Distant laugher came from across the street. He could almost swear he could hear the sound of applause as the curtain dropped at the Garnier for the night.

His wife had been named Afsaneh. He allowed himself to miss her.

There is no way intelligent, polished Nadir did not make friends in Paris. I'm not sure he had much in common with the theater folk he seemed to spend the most time around while trying to keep tabs on Erik, but still. I will die on this hill.

Also, I have a sad feeling that my desire to see the Daroga and Darius as an expatriated-Persian Holmes and Watson* will go unfulfilled. File it away with my Horatio Hornblower-style Captain Raoul series that never managed to be written.

*with Mifroid as Lestrade, Jammes and the corps de ballet filling in for the Baker Street Irregulars, and some impossibly chic Parisienne jewel thief as The Woman. …and Erik as Moriarty?