Ugh, I tried. I tried cutting this into two chapters. It didn't work. I tried writing a new bridge between the two halves. It didn't work. But- here you go.

There had been an incident with the mask.

If asked, Erik could not have relayed the specifics of said incident. Someone had bumped into him. He had stumbled. Someone else had reached out to steady him. And somehow, through some cruel machination of fate, his usually perfectly secure mask ended up on the ground, its empty eyes staring up at him in mockery.

Then, he was on a horse. (A part of his mind supplied commentary: it's not in the contract to borrow a horse from the main Rouen station.) He rode recklessly through the city and would have torn through the forest if the rawboned creature could have been compelled to move any faster than its own placid pace. Still he kicked up gravel when he at last came to the chateau and dismounted. There was some commotion outside: the caretaker was standing with the gig ready, and the front doors were thrown wide open. Erik left his horse behind (someone would take of it) and took the front steps two at a time. He almost slammed into the figure exiting the house.

"Erik! Thank God!" she said. "A messenger came from your foreman and said you had taken ill. Are you all right?"

He felt something like a hot brand on his wrist and shook it off. It came back again after a moment, slightly less searing.

"Erik?"

He looked down and realized it was just a hand resting over his own, fingers lying on his skin just at the edge of his shirt cuffs. "Erik," the voice attached to the hand was low and soothing, but he could detect a note of strain in it, like a singer just reaching outside of their range. He looked up at her, strangely out of focus.

Poor princess in the tower, he thought, freeing himself from her grasp again. Why did she come to live with the dragon?

She had stopped him almost in midstride, and he just barely resisted the impulse to push her to the side. But he mustn't do that, he thought. Princesses could be fragile things, and one didn't push them. But one could command them. His voice echoed harshly in his own ears. "Get—out—of my way." What language was that, anyway? One that she understood, at least, for she did not hesitate to step aside to allow him into the chateau.

He veered right, leaving her standing in the foyer, and slammed closed all the doors leading into his own rooms. But they weren't really his rooms, were they? He paid someone to let him live in this house that wasn't his, that he hadn't built, so he could go build someone else's designs, and—it—was—maddening.

Or was it just the mask that made him mad? Was he a madman in a mask, or did it work the other was around? He did not know and did not care.

He locked the doors that could be locked, threw the accursed object clear across the room. Something at the other end broke, but he did not care. He sat and attacked the piano. The piano, however, was fighting back.

Why would nothing come from the keys? Oh, sounds. Sounds that somehow innately conformed to the basic principles of music, but still the notes escaped him. He chased them for what seemed like hours; seemed like eternity. There was such pain in his hands, such pain in his heart—and yet, the music mocked him as the mask had. In despair, he looked up, and the words seemed to form in front of him—oversized lyrics painted on a wall.

Day of wrath—that day will dissolve the world into ashes.

How fitting, that those were the words and notes that finally came! Had he not first heard them here in Rouen, slender white fingertips conjuring the melody at a piano and a clear soubrette brightening the dark words into beautiful lyrics? She would not like what her son could do with the notes and the words now, he thought. She would have been afraid.

The hours and eternities passed, and so too did the music.

Supplicating, I kneel—my heart broken as ash—take care of my end.

"Erik?"

A soft voice cut through the stupor of almost-sleep Erik was in. His cheek was resting uncomfortably on the keyboard of the piano, an arm flung protectively around his face. It was not the first time he had awoken in such a position, but it was the first time he had been roused out of it by someone quietly speaking his name. He was acutely aware of the feel of the keys on his bare skin.

"Mask," he murmured. His voice was hoarse.

"Where?"

"More on my dresser."

A hand rested on his shoulder very briefly and then he felt the weight of her presence retreat. A little while later she came to stand in the same place a little behind him, and set a mask on the piano. It was one of the comfortable fabric ones he reserved for his more private hours. Satisfied that she could only really see the back of his head—if she was looking—he straighten up and tied it on. He rolled his shoulders carefully. He still did not dare to turn to look at Mojgan. Looking back at the last while (hours? Days?) there were so many holes, and he was terrified to see her face. He did not know what would be worse: horror, disappointment, or kindness.

"Here. I have a tray. Come and eat something." she said. Her voice sounded kind. He supposed he could manage kindness.

He turned and rose with painful slowness. When did he grow so old? His armchair was only a few steps away, but it seemed so very, very distant at the moment. But he could smell the tea she had set down near the chair, very black and fragrant, and steaming. Next to it, bread heavily buttered. Trust Mojgan to pay attention to what he would unfailingly eat. He collapsed in the chair.

"How long was I?—" he gestured back at the piano before picking up the tea.

"Oh, not very," she replied. She was perched on a stool near him, but seemed strangely out of focus. "It was just after lunch when you came home. It's just gone midnight now."

He leaned his head back in the chair, trying to reconstruct the events of the day. "Did anything… was anyone hurt?"

"Hurt?" she echoed. "Erik, what do you think happened?"

He did not want to respond to her, but if there was some fallout from the day's events, if they were obliged to leave town in a hurry, she had best be forewarned. And so honestly, he said, "I have no memory of it."

She nodded slowly. "No one was hurt. You fainted. At first the foreman thought you had struck your head when you—tripped, was it?—but you came around quickly and fled."

Fainted? Erik wondered at that. In all the times he could recall becoming unmasked in public, he had lashed out, suddenly and violently. Fatally, at times. He had never simply lost consciousness. Had he?

"…They're quite worried about you," Mojgan was still speaking. "I replied to the note, and said you will be back Monday morning."

"…Hm," was the only thing Erik could say in response. So articulate, the master contractor. Hard to believe he had very recently succeeded in extorting hundreds of thousands of francs from the opera management.

She said his name again, and it pulled him out of his revery. "Erik, I know you are upset about… something? But it is just the two of us here. There is no danger." He nodded in reply, too weary to enumerate all of the very real dangers that most certainly were about. "Do you think you could sleep a little?" she asked.

The tea in Erik's cup was strong and sweet, but he still nodded. He felt… undone. He made to stand, gentlemanlike, when Mojgan arose from her perch, but she waved him to stay seated.

"May I get anything ready for you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I am sorry to have kept you up so late."

"Nonsense. You know I'm often still awake at this hour." She stood expectantly in front of him for another minute, but he shook his head again.

"I am well," he lied. He set down his tea. "I will be well. I will rest easier knowing you are in bed."

She nodded. "Just promise me to go to sleep soon."

"Very soon," he said. As it was, his eyes wanted to drift close. But they flew open when he felt when her arm slip around his shoulder in half an embrace. She leaned over him, her hair falling near his face, and may have pressed her lips to the top of his head for a fleeting instant—he could not be sure.

"Sleep well," she said and was away.

How? Erik's mind demanded. How was he supposed to sleep with all that jasmine and cardamom seeping under his skin?

But in this case, Erik's mind lost the war against his body, and he fell dead asleep as soon as he crawled into bed.

It was late when Erik awoke. Sunlight was pouring in through his bedroom windows—which meant someone must have come in and opened the curtains. He felt like he should find that fact far more disconcerting. Hadn't he locked his door last night?

Slowly, the previous day came back to him. The mask. The mad dash back to the house. Mojgan. The absolute miracle that no one had been hurt. At least—Erik could still assume so. He did not relish what lay ahead of him upon his return to work. But he had a vague memory of Mojgan telling him that he was not expected back until Monday. And what was it today? Friday? Yes, Friday morning.

But not morning for much longer, he realized in some startlement. It was closer to noon than morning.

The world was coming into focus again, in the too-bright too-loud style of a hangover. But he hadn't had anything to drink, had he? Just tea. With these thoughts working through his brain, he rolled out of bed. He took care of his most pressing needs, and rang for more water to be brought up.

Mother Bidault appeared. "Madame thought you might want a bath," she said.

A somewhat needless extravagance, Erik thought, but since the one tub had already been filled, he dutifully collected his clothes for the day and went downstairs to the wood-paneled bathroom. And he was glad afterwards to feel truly clean, as if the bath had washed away some of yesterday's shock as well as yesterday's dust. He had been told that Mojgan was in the dining room and so presented himself there once dressed, feeling almost human.

She looked up from a newspaper almost immediately. "Erik! You look well." Erik wanted to laugh at her, but she sounded sincere.

"I believe," Erik replied, "that your years as a noblewoman are showing. Capriciously commanding for baths and breakfasts in the middle of the day is not appropriately bourgeoisie."

"I am not bourgeoisie, appropriate or otherwise," she said. The tone she was using was so uncharacteristically haughty that it would have been impossible to mistake her for being serious. "I am both a lady and a Lady."

"And a sultana," Erik pointed out, "unless I am much mistaken."

It was a foolish thing to say, and Erik could not conceive of why the words had come to mind—let alone come tumbling out. There were things they never spoke of—things that seemed to be fading in the face of French novels and the forests of Normandy. They were better left in the past, Erik firmly believed, and Mojgan was always quick to retreat when she unintentionally trod on some painful memory. How was it that he had made such a blunder?

"The own the truth," she said, her only apparent concern being spreading cherry preserves on her bread, "I have always preferred to be Mojgan."

There was a lull in the conversation as more tea and a few extra dishes added to the bread and jam on the table, but when they were left alone again, he murmured, "'Mojgan' is what best suits you, in any event."

She inclined her head. "And you," she said, "are Erik."

He was, and he was hungry.

He had heard in the first days they had spent in the chateau how horrified Mother Bidault had been at Mojgan's request to have cheese with her bread in the morning, and after some deliberation, she had decided to forego even this simple staple. And so breakfast was always a straightforward affair, and he had been surprised to see that a lidded bowl had been set before him. Out of curiosity, he lifted the lid off.

"Please tell me," Erik said, eying the uncovered dish with some suspicion, "that you are not trying to serve me a plate of turnips."

"Well, not exclusively. But we had some, and so…"

"I don't have a cold," Erik replied drily, "and even if I did, I am not convinced that turnips are the cure-all you Persians seem to think they are."

"Of course not," Mojgan sounded affronted. "That's what the chai is for."

Erik maintained a fixed glare at Mojgan for some time. She remained indifferent, though she reached across and took buttered turnip onto her own plate. She ate it without comment. God spare Erik from folk cures. He had had enough of those in his life. But he was hungry, and in between pieces of baguette hidden under layers of jam, he did condescend to poke at a few of the root vegetables.

Mojgan still did not comment. "What would you like to do today?"

He informed her of his intention to go straight back to work, but she shook her head fiercely.

"Oh, please, Erik—take a little rest. It will look peculiar if I told them you would be indisposed for a few days and you just… pop up."

"On the contrary," Erik said. "It will be a very fine thing for them to know that I am back on my feet. Respect, Mojgan. One must have the respect of one's workforce."

"You will not have their respect if you end up fainting dead away again," she said. "You don't even know why it happened."

Erik was loathed to contradict her, but he suspected that he did know why. Fear. But where fear used to sharpen his senses, throwing things into stark relief—this time, it dulled him into senselessness. But, no—he did not want to say so. It was easier to allow himself to be persuaded into taking a day at his ease.

"Will you walk with me?" she asked.

"It's hot as blazes out there," Erik complained.

"Less so if you didn't wear black wool," she commented thoughtfully. "I don't see what would be so scandalous about wearing your shirtsleeves. We're unlikely to meet anyone, if we walk by the creek. Well, besides the deer."

"And wild boar. Really, it's mad that I've let you wander around like this for so long."

"I don't bother the boar and they do not bother me," Mojgan replied. She helped herself to more tea. "Mostly because I am not so headstrong as to go out walking in the evening. And they're not quite as large here as the ones back home."

"Perhaps," Erik murmured. "I was almost killed by one, once." A faint noise of distressed interest encouraged him to continue. "But it probably was in the evening. And there were piglets." Rather adorable little things, with their brown and tan stripes.

"When did this happen?" Mojgan asked.

"Oh, I was a child," Erik shrugged. "And it wasn't in these woods; we lived to the east of the city."

The teacup was set down with uncommon force. "You were a child, here in Rouen?" she asked.

"To the east," he reiterated, but would not say more. "There was another incident with a boar—in Russia." This story he shared, even if the details were somewhat gory for the breakfast table, and by the end, Mojgan was shaking her head.

"You've almost persuaded me to give up walks in the forest," she said.

"Oh, nonsense," he said, rising from the table. "I'm quite looking forward to it now."

In the end, they did not set out until the worst heat of the day passed. Erik tinkered on his guitar, letting his piano rest for the morning, and then dutifully came out when Mojgan knocked. She had a wicker case with a strap slung over her shoulder, holding her smallest sketchbook and some water.

"Are we ready?" she asked.

Erik nodded, and they set out.

"I am curious," he said, as the chateau faded from sight. "You came into my parlor last night?" She nodded. "How?"

"How do you mean?"

"My memory is not very clear," he said slowly, "but I feel like I must have locked the door."

"Oh, yes," she said. "You did."

"I was not aware that breaking and entering was one of the skills a diplomat's wife learns."

She shrugged. "Perhaps or perhaps not. But asking the housekeeper for the keys certainly is. I hope you don't mind?"

Erik thought that he should mind. But there had been something very steadying about having Mojgan come to see him, something that helped the fog and terror recede. He shook his head slowly. "You would not have done so in… years past, I think."

"No," she agreed. "I would not have. I wouldn't have even thought of it. I was comfortable keeping to women's quarters. And not simply because it was all that I knew."

"So you would leave me to the menservants, if that was an option?" he teased.

"Oh, no," she laughed. "I have grown accustomed to mixing with men. And I enjoy the company of something quite a bit."

Even in the shade of the trees, Mojgan had been right that it was too hot for Erik's black wool. He doffed his coat and flung it over a shoulder. "Well, then, another reason to be gladly rid of Persia."

"Oh, there must be something about it you liked," she said.

There was. Wealth. Power. Beauty. But he shook his head. "Nothing that I miss." He might have added, since you're here with me anyway, and the good Daroga won't leave me alone.

"I suppose I understand you," she said. "I am content where I am, even if there are some things I miss."

"Well, of course there are some things," Erik agreed.

"Like?"

"Sholeh zard, for instance." The first time Erik had tried the bright yellow rice pudding, he had just occasion enough to steal a few bites. It was sweeter and creamier than he had expected, and he knew the price of saffron, and it had felt like a taste of the luxury his life had previously been devoid of. The second time he had it, he made himself sick off it—he had eaten several bowls over the course of the day, and nothing else—but that did not dampen his enthusiasm. He simply… learned. He wondered when Mojgan had first had it; probably, it had simply always been there on festival occasions.

"Of course," she replied, "but is there anything besides sholeh zard that you miss?"

Without missing a beat, he replied. "Baghlava."

"Erik!"

"Bastani, too. Not too keen on faloodeh, but it was serve very nicely just now in all this heat."

"Anything besides desserts?"

He made a show of thinking about this. "You made very good fesenjan." The paused for a moment, as a flash of blue on the ground caught Mojgan's eye. She picked up a fallen tail feather and stored it with some others in her sketchbook. He had a sudden memory of her, in a green silk veil edged with pearls. The feathers seemed like a funny thing for such a woman to keep. "What do you miss?" he asked.

"The Mohammedi roses blooming in Ghazvin," she said. "And the color of Damavand in the twilight. And, of course—being able to walk down a street and actually understand what people are saying."

Erik tilted his head a little. They were not conversing in Persian at the moment, and she did not seem to be struggling in the least. "Your French is more than passable, Mojgan."

"High praise, I thank you! I am somewhat proud of myself after all these years. But… it is one thing to understand the words, and a very different thing to understand what is being said."

He had no argument for that.

They walked for perhaps an hour, skirting closer to some of the large old properties in the area. Mojgan had paused with her sketchbook to draw one of the last white narcissus to be seen, and Erik continued to amble within her line of sight. They had circled back around to an area close to one of the real footpaths, and there was a large chateau somewhere nearby. He could see a stone wall marking a boundary. It stretched quite far, and out of morbid curiosity, he went closer. He studied it with a carefully critical eye. It was not terribly tall, but the top was extremely even. The stone was set in an intricate, sturdy pattern of filled arches, and the thin lines of mortar seemed to be there as mere decoration. Erik suspected that the stones were so precisely cut that they would have stood fast without anything to bind them. It was magnificent work—classical principles underpinning and embellishing something that might have been purely utilitarian.

He followed the wall for a while, his hand skimming the top stones. He saw Mojgan arise from her spot and lifted his hand. She waved back and set out in his direction.

"I thought I had lost sight of you," she called.

"But I did not lose sight of you," he called back. He could not resist teasing her. "I am not an invalid, you know! You needn't hover. I do not intend to become the third husband killed."

She shook her head in unwilling amusement. "Please, don't. At least the last one had the advantage of being a natural death—if we can call any death natural, for all it must be."

"Are you sure it was so natural?" Erik asked. He could almost see the Daroga rising before his eyes to shake a fist at him for his impertinent questions. But the Daroga always wanted to shield Mojgan from more than Mojgan chose to shield herself from.

"What are the odds that both of the men I married would die by assassination?" she asked meditatively. "No, don't answer that. But, to be sure, the doctor seemed to think that it had much more to do with the fact that Reza was old enough to be my father." After a moment, she chuckled and shook her head.

Erik tilted his head at her, prompting her to share the joke.

"Just reflecting on my own mortality," she said. "I'm ten years older than my mother was when she died. Ten years younger than my father, when he died. At the time, it had felt like they had been old when they passed. How wrong I was!" She kicked at a pebble in their path. "Forty years old, and I still feel like my life is just beginning."

"I've never had that luxury," Erik admitted. "One doesn't, you know, when one wakes up every morning already looking like death.

She had the audacity to rib him. "Come now, Erik. You look quite alive to me."

He shrugged. "Well. One must use the time one has. Build, if you can. Create, if you can. Make something to outlast you." He looked back at the stone wall, "If for no other reason than to torment the next generation."

"Are you tormented by the creations of the past generations?" she asked curiously. She followed his line of vision. "Are you thinking about how you could tear down and make up that wall better? It's probably stood there for hundreds of years, without anyone to help it."

"Not quite that long," Erik replied. "A few decades, perhaps, not centuries." He turned away and prompted their meandering course away from the property lines and back towards one of the footpaths. "And, no, I could not do better in this case. The craftsmanship is exquisite."

"If it is so recent, perhaps the mason is still around," Mojgan said reflectively. "Perhaps you could have him on your project."

"Oh, no," he said. "He's dead."

"Who was he? You must have asked someone about the stonework, for I do not believe your magical powers extend to divination."

Erik chuckled. "Neither! He was my father." Erik paused and turned around. Mojgan had halted several steps behind him, and stood there blinking. "Don't look so troubled. The fact that my parents predeceased me is perhaps the most ordinary thing to have happened in my life."

"Yes, I suppose that is the usual way," she said slowly. All of the humor that had colored her own discussion of death was gone. He had never heard that particular tone from her before: was that what horrified really sounded like in her voice? "I am sorry, Erik. I did not know."

How could you have? Erik barely knows himself. He chuckled again. "Nothing to be sorry about. They've been dead these many years. I—checked, when I first returned to France." He waved in the general direction of Bonsecours. "The house was still there, of course. I bought some of the old furniture from the new owners. Very nice Louis-Philippe pieces. They're at the house under the lake."

"Your mother, too," she murmured. Was she picturing her own long-dead mother, with her brood of pretty daughters? Strange, Erik realized: there was not many years difference between the last times they had seen their respective mothers. Or was she merely remembering that she had sat on a dead woman's couch in Erik's flat?

"Oh, yes," Erik said, "He blew his brains out, you know, and then she died not too long after. Broken heart, from what I could discern. Quite romantic."

She had caught up with Erik again, and now linked her arm through his. "I could live without that kind of romance."

"Wise, perhaps, but not something I think one has a choice in deciding," he said. His mind was skimming over fuzzy old memories, indistinct and so far removed from his life as it now stood. "I was somewhat surprised. I would have expected her to be the one to destroy herself. But ladies do not like spoiling their beauty with bullets, do they?"

They walked in silence for some time and eventually were back on the footpath proper again.

"Erik," Mojgan glanced up at him, "have you… ever thought to do as your father did?"

Erik very nearly launched into a technical explanation of building stone walls, when he caught her meaning. "Ah. While I admit a somewhat stronger than usual passion for black powder, I have never turned it on myself… in such a fashion." That he had willingly set his house abutted to enough gunpowder to take out the whole neighborhood of the Paris Opera was not quite the same, he reasoned. "I have found that, even when life is difficult, death is more so."

"So you would not try such a thing yourself?" It seemed like the grip of her hand at the crook of his elbow was tighter than necessary. The ground was not that uneven. Perhaps he could just feel it better through his shirtsleeves, as opposed to his coat.

"I have wished for death many times; it has not come yet," he said, "I have reconciled myself to seeing out my days. Such as they are."

"Good," she murmured, "that is good. It is as I said: forty, and life is still beginning."

"I am tired of beginning," Erik replied. "Beginning again—and again and again. But… I cannot claim that I want and ending at just this moment."

"We're in the middle," Mojgan said. The lightness was starting to return. "Let us stay in the middle for a good long time."

He inclined his head fractionally. "As the lady commands."

When he returned to the construction site on Monday morning, Erik was met with both polite inquiries about his health and more than a few open stares. He brushed both off harshly.

Deadlines, he could contend with deadlines.

The morning went swiftly, but it was punctuated by one too many whispered.

Dead man walking, he heard someone say, and left like the devil was on his heels.

So, that was how it was to be—again? At least, so far, the workers seemed content to still work. The usual lull of the lunch hour started to overtake the site, but Erik kept on with his work. He could not say he had fallen behind in just three and a half days, but there was some comfort in taking stock of the simple business of the building.

"Pardon me," he could make out a familiar voice in the distance, "but could you point me to Monsieur Rossi?" He had grown used to hearing the alias on his passport, but he couldn't recall having heard it in her voice before. He turned to see his foreman escorting Mojgan towards him.

"I know you're very busy," she started without preamble, "but could you spare me an hour, Erik? It's the upholsterer: Madame Bidault is finally letting me have the loveseat redone."

He blinked at her. More than one of the workmen had stopped to look, as well. She was trying to keep the hem of her skirt safe from the unfinished floor. "And you need me there for what purpose?"

"So you don't have me send back the fabric I order," she turned confidentially to the foreman, "I'm sure you've seen how he is about coordinating materials."

The foreman laughed. "Indeed, Madame. Monsieur, the committee inspector comes at three. Everything is well in hand before then."

Erik felt trapped. He knew the time, but pulled his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat to stall a little. After a moment, he offered a shallow bow. "Madame, I dance attendance on you until a quarter to one."

Mojgan gave an impudent half-curtsy in return and took Erik's arm. "Too generous, Monsieur."

They left the site with the faint sound of laughter following them. It set Erik's nerves on edge. They walked towards the city center, the Cathedral dominating the distance, and Erik cast his voice low for her ear.

"What," he inquired, "are you doing?"

"I think dark green," she said. "Patterned? But I do not want to clash with the lace curtains."

Erik vented an exasperated sigh. "You know very well what I mean, Madame."

"I came to make sure my recently ill almost-husband was doing well," she replied calmly. "It is something like the done thing. Even with my—ah—nervous disorder? The heat will probably be too much for me, however, so feel free to decline any invitations that might be forthcoming."

Erik stuck at her side grimly, like a man awaiting execution, as they walked to the fabric warehouse. He was known there, after the question of the red velvet, and the man behind the counter was all prompt solicitude. His panic calmed only slightly under Mojgan's mild smile.

In short order, they selected a subtle damask of a somewhat cooler hue than Mojgan had at first favored. She had a good eye, Erik thought, but he had to concede that he would have noticed the (very slight) mismatch between her first choice and the dark stained walnut that framed the loveseat. This business completed, they dispensed with the cab they had taken on their way to the shop and started their walk back towards the riverbank and the opera. Erik could feel the glances thrown at them from time to time.

She was dressed for the heat in cotton—fine Indian cotton, woven almost as light as silk, and picked out with indigo embroidery—with a straw hat. To the band of this hat were affixed a few familiar mésange bleue feathers. Erik wondered how many fashionable women decorated their hats with their small finds from forest floors. She looked lovely, he thought, but not entirely point-device. He would need to speak to her about blending in better; though, as long as she was to be seen in his company, Erik thought it might be a moot point. They made for too high a contrast: him, tall and spare and pale and dressed in severe black; she, small and feminine and glowing bronze in her white dress.

And, truthfully, the glances did not seem quite as malevolent as Erik would have expected. No insults were offered. Just moments of attention that settled on the two of them and then moved harmlessly on.

There was a cart selling ices in the green park on their way back, and they paused on a bench, Mojgan at work on a lemon ice and Erik staring up into the trees. He liked trees, he thought. He liked what one could do with them, once they had been chopped down and shaped to man's will. But he liked them as they were, as well: tall and long-lasting.

He parted ways with her before returning to the worksite, twitting her for her unladylike gallivanting. She only smiled at him, and bid him a good day.

Erik stayed a little later than usual on the project, but the long summer days meant it was still bright as he returned home. He found Mojgan with her sewing box near the garden window, fixing a tear on a skirt with tiny, straight stitches.

"You knew," he declared.

She looked up. "Knew what?"

"When you came to the opera house," he said. He was standing very straight in the middle of the parlor, and was aware that he had slipped into something like the old Opera Ghost voice—a little too ringing for this pretty little room and its domestic inhabitant. Mojgan, however, did not appear discommoded. She merely set aside her work and waiting for him to continue. "You knew that you would give them… something else to speak of."

"Say rather, hoped rather than knew," she said.

"It was a spectacle," he said flatly. "It worked." Even Erik's smoothest professional relationships—Garnier, say—had fallen short of… comradery. But today, even the fellows who usually glanced askance at Erik were obliged to admit that he was not so different than they were. He had been complimented on his attractive wife; had found himself received into a hitherto unguessed-at club of men whose wives were likewise peskily interested in their welfare. He was keenly aware of the deception. But just as the guise of the Shah's indomitable jadguar or the Garnier's commanding ghost had proved to be very useful, so too was this new charade of husband.

Mojgan smiled at him. "Good. I have a surprise for you." She stood and went to the bell pull.

"I think I've had quite enough surprises recently, thank you," Erik said.

"I promise you'll like it."

Mother Bidault appeared with a tray and set it down on the usual side table. The old woman cast a suspicious glance at it before taking her leave. Curiosity peaked, Erik wandered over. "Cooking again, Mojgan?" The centerpiece of the tray was a glass goblet, filled with set, blindingly saffron yellow pudding. Cinnamon and pistachios had been painstakingly set as delicate little flowers to decorate the smooth top. It was the first sholeh zard Erik had seen in twenty years.

Mojgan was grinning now, and she held up a spoon. Erik took it from her silently.

No, his imagination really had fallen short on what life with a wife might be like.

Most of you already have, but you can get a glimpse of this Erik's backstory in les cieux et la terre on my profile. It's not required reading for this story, as it covers things that Erik doesn't know/doesn't remember.