Reading was a pleasure that Nadir had found later in life. Oh, he had been well-educated in his youth. And his career had called for a constant intake of information. But it had been simply that: information. Back in those days, even when he had been occasioned to read some novel or volume of poetry, it had usually been with an eye to understanding the other people who might have read it.

Now, Nadir had his leisure. Perhaps he had had more money in former days, but time truly had proved to be the most valuable thing.

Darius had asked leave to help their landlady with a few projects, which Nadir allowed without reservation. It was only out of habit that the boy asked, as it was. When was the last time Nadir had said 'no' to him? If Darius wanted to use his time to do a kind service for the woman who controlled their rent—why would Nadir stop him? And if there were other incentives at play? Well, Nadir had several times been near to the point of telling Darius that he could go see the landlady's pretty daughter without sneaking around like a naughty schoolboy. But as Darius had not made actual mention of Irène Lantins yet, Nadir thought it best to maintain the polite fiction that he did not know his faithful servant had tumbled into a full affaire de coeur.

So it was that the Darius was off acting the handyman, and Nadir was comfortable with the summer sun warming his back as he sat and read. Sylvestre Bonnard had not yet committed the Crime indicated by the title, insofar as Nadir could see. Indeed, he was fast coming to the conclusion that he was not reading a mystery novel. But like any detective worth his title, Nadir was compelled to see the matter through to its conclusion.

He may have succeeded to that end, were he not interrupted by a visitor.

The knock at the door was a curious one. It was not Erik's usual authoritative two beats nor the nervous scratching he otherwise did in his unsettled moods. Nor was it Mojgan's now-familiar tap-tap-tap, or Mifroid's businesslike knock. It was a firm hand, but not heavy; brisk but unhurried. A man, Nadir reasoned, from the height on the door and the general tone.

It a man—a young man. It was the Vicomte de Chagny. Or rather, the Comte de Chagny.

Nadir stumbled over that change of title in his greeting, thoroughly caught off guard and annoyed that he had not foreseen this visit as a possibility.

Raoul simply waved the mix-up away (rather like a count might, Nadir thought ruefully.) "Say rather, your friend de Chagny!"

Count, Monsieur, or simply Friend, Nadir stepped aside and let Raoul into his parlor. He sent up a quick prayer that, on the slight chance Erik had decided this would be a good day to leave Normandy, that his train would be derailed, or carriage overturned, or one way or the other would not cross paths with Raoul de Chagny. He made the pro forma offer of refreshment—which was declined—and the usual polite inquiries.

When Raoul replied quickly, "very well, thank you!" Nadir felt compelled to observe him more closely. Indeed, the young man did look 'very well.' The oppression Nadir had last seen him under had lifted and left no trace on the young, earnest face. He had a sailor's dark, ruddy complexion, his hair further lightened by the sun and surf. His eyes were clear and bright, his smile genuine and warm, his bearing confident and at ease. He looked, in a word, like a man. It was less than a year, and he was already losing the slightness of youth. His moustache had filled out from its previous wisp.

Looking at him, Nadir could not help but envy the resilience of youth. He asked the next polite question, the one he was most interested in having answered. "And your wife is well?"

There was a clear attempt to be serious on the count's part, but it gave way to the first sign of lingering boyishness Nadir had yet seen. He grinned in unmitigated delight. "Very well, indeed. At first she—we—were concerned that it might be difficult to settle in, er—"

"Mifroid told me that we were established in Stockholm," Nadir interjected.

Raoul looked relieved that he did not need to choose how much to say or conceal. If Nadir had been a different man, he might have been miffed that his discretion was a matter of concern. But he understood the strain of their shared adventures, the caution that it must stamp into even the most irrepressible spirit. Indeed, he respected the count more for it. "Quite so! It had been so very long since Christine had lived in Sweden, and there was the question of how Mama Valerius would cope with the weather… but, in the end, we have become very comfortable there. Christine has set up house so nicely! Just a few weeks ago, we realized that we had blueberries planted all about the property, and I think it safe to say that we were purple for all of July." He chuckled at some fond memory. "It will be a wonderful place to raise a family."

Nadir raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry, which Raoul responded to with another blinding grin. "My congratulations."

There was a brief struggle as Raoul pulled his countenance under better control—perhaps he remembered that they were not, in fact, friends. "It is one of the items of business that returned me to Paris. I have not felt the need to call on the resources of my estate as yet, but would like to line up a few matters for the coming months—or years."

"Practical."

Now, the count really did become serious. "I admit I am grateful for Christine's interesting condition just now. She would have felt obliged to travel with me otherwise, to finish the business. But I have promised to do so in her stead."

"Oh?" Part of his mind had been puzzling out how best to deal with this exact matter since he saw Raoul on his doorstep, but Nadir felt he could use another minute or two.

"We were religious with our reading of Le Epoque," de Chagny said. "And so… it is quite finished?"

"Yes," Nadir said. "It is finished." It was not a lie, strictly speaking. Nadir truly believed that Erik had turned the page on that chapter—as he had left behind so many other unfinished stories in years past. He felt confident that Raoul and Christine could do the same safely.

"Are there, er, arrangements to be made?"

Nadir shook his head. "No."

Any compunction Nadir might have felt at deceiving the count vanished when Raoul released a long breath. If Nadir had thought he looked comfortable and sunny before, it was even more marked now. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and fished something out. He set a plain gold wedding band on the table set between them.

"Perhaps you can see that this is placed as appropriately as possible?" he asked, businesslike. "I would like to be able to tell Christine that I at least saw to that much."

Nadir let the ring stay at rest. "You have my word. Tell your wife to rest easy—and to find joy. Both of you."

No, they were not friends. Raoul de Chagny took his leave soon afterwards. And though Nadir did not doubt his earnestness, or his protestations of thanks, he suspected the young man was as glad to leave as Nadir was glad to see him go. He supposed he should communicate with Erik on the matter, but he did not relish that idea.

He made to pick up his book again, but instead found himself looking over the paper he had thrust between the pages to mark his place. It was Mojgan's latest letter.

She was a curious writer, he found, at times chronicling some insignificant incident in minute detail, and at others passing over huge swathes of time and story with an ironical but I mustn't ramble on… Whenever her wit did show itself, it tended towards the sharp, the cynical, and the self-deprecating. But even trying to read between the lines of the straightforward statements was an exercise of his reasoning abilities.

With the opening of the opera house mere weeks away, Erik is constantly at work. When not in the city itself, he is bent over his desk, and I believe will soon diminish his height by several centimeters if we do not acquire a piece of furniture better suited to his stature.

That was an easy one. Erik had thrown himself into his project and was being obnoxious. Nadir could easily imagine the late nights and early mornings; the increasingly short temper brought on by lack of sleep and insufficient food. But, if that last little quirk—if we do not—made Nadir think the genius might not be allowed to run quite so bad this time around. Probably to everyone's benefit.

As you know, Erik's connection to Rouen stretches back very far.

That was an interesting knot to untie, a little throwaway line in the middle of a paragraph about the wildflowers giving way to the end of summer. Just a few words, and yet it implied an almost unprecedented amount of communication had passed between Mojgan and Erik: Nadir could not remember Erik having made more than two or three passing references to the general location of his childhood in the course of their entire acquaintanceship. It had been a feat of investigation, which Nadir had to grudgingly concede was liberally helped along by luck, that he had ever come to discover Erik's birthplace. But apparently, he had shared something of it with Mojgan—and it had come up that Nadir also knew. He could not quite picture what those conversations must look like, but apparently, they had happened.

Erik intends a return to Paris after the stage is inaugurated, and is suggesting that I trespass on your hospitality. But I do not know if that is quite possible; I will see what arrangements are best to make. In the meantime, Erik is taking a small break from his duties, and the house is filled with music. It is the sound of happiness.

That was the most difficult puzzle of all. What was it that Erik was thinking? What was it that he wanted to do in Paris? What would Mojgan do? Oh—there was no question, Nadir would find a way to put her under his roof for a time. But why did Erik suggest it? But more than any of these practical little details: the house is filled with music. It is the sound of happiness.

No sharp wit there—even the lines of her letters seemed softer. The last yeh in happiness seemed to fairly dance.

And then he had to wonder: Erik, Erik, Erik. His name pervaded her letters. Oh, Nadir was also privy to all sorts of mundane details about the household, and to the glories of the Normandy forests, and so on. But everywhere in it, Erik was to be found. Erik liked this… Erik did that… Erik said…

He suspected that he was not merely receiving news of a neutral, mutual friend. He folded the letter again and set it to the side. He would write his reply tomorrow, making sure to emphasis that he would view any other arrangement than Mojgan staying with him for a visit as a grave offense. She would laugh at him—but she would come.

By the time The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard was revealed (Nadir was disappointed), it was dark and he heard Darius unlocking the front door.

Nadir said a friendly greeting, which startled Darius. Ah, so something was afoot. Nadir set aside his book yet again, cleaned his glasses, and inquired politely after Darius's day.

"They need a great deal of help," Darius said slowly. "There are many things that have fallen into disrepair since Madame Lantins' father died. Her husband helped a little, but since they did not live here… I am sorry that I was gone for so much of the day. Did you find what I left in the larder?"

"Contrary to common belief, I am capable of feeding myself," Nadir said equitably. The look on Darius's face said that he still held with the common belief. "So, who was the harsher mistress—Madame Serrurier, or her pretty daughter?"

It was probably not kind to tease Darius, but, after all, he was a grown man, for all his blushes. "They were both grateful for the help. There's still more to do, but—well, I did want to speak with you, Daroga."

"I've already said that I have no objection," Nadir said. "But I suspect that you do not want to discuss your list of future chores. Sit down, Darius." Darius sat at the edge of the armchair. Nadir leaned forward and fixed him with a serious stare. "Relax."

Darius broke out in laugher, and leaned back. Nadir smiled in turn. "I'm a fool, Daroga! I feel like that boy trying to fix up your coat and return it to you and not knowing which way to go or who to ask."

"That boy," Nadir said, "who fixed up my coat was no fool. He was a good child who grew up to be a good man."

"Perhaps. And yet— 'I was not like this before,'" he loosely quoted, "'out of my mind and senses. I used to be wise like you…'"

"'But now, so deeply enchanted?'" Nadir offered another line from the poem.

"'So deeply enthralled,'" Darius concluded in a tone of confession. "I've been speaking with Madame Lantins—Irène." Nadir gestured for Darius to continue. "I mean to marry her."

"That is wise," Nadir agreed, "especially if you intend to continue coming home smelling so strongly of her perfume." Darius turned suitably red at this comment. No doubt he would have stammered through some sort of explanation, and it would have been entertaining, but Nadir decided to spare him that particular discomfort. "And so the sooner the better. I know for a fact that Masood would help you find a new position with a better salary."

The mad blush faded and Darius frowned. "That's… not a consideration, Daroga."

"It should be," Nadir did not try to soften his cynical tone, "God knows I wish I could settle a pension on you for your service, Darius, but—"

"We'll manage," Darius interrupted. "The three townhouses are Irène's inheritance, but we mean to help Madame Serrurier with them now. There is a great deal of maintenance to occupy us. And we think we can use Irène's jointure from her first husband to buy out the Bianchis next door. That would give us seven tenants in total; more than enough."

"Only seven?" Nadir asked pointedly.

"You can't imagine that we would want you to keep paying for the apartment!" Darius paused for a moment. "I am not so far out of my senses."

"You may find that a husband has more pressing concerns than caring for—an old friend," Nadir intoned. "Rightly so. And, a father…"

Oh, yes, the younger man was badly love-bitten. He had turned positively dreamy at Nadir's last statement, and likely would have returned to Rumi if not forestalled. A lenient master Nadir might be, but he had no particular desire to sit through a starry-eyed recitation of Like this at the moment. "Promise me that it will be one or the other: either speak to Masood about a salaried position, or promise to charge me my fair rent. I already know you negotiated a shamefully cheap price for us."

Darius nodded slowly, though Nadir fancied he could see him coming up with ideas to work around the promise. How was it, Nadir wondered, he had ended up with such a bunch of schemers—lovable and well-meaning as they were? "I should tell you that, while I figured out the sums, it was Irène who brought the idea up. It is as important to her as to me to see… everyone cared for."

Nadir nodded in turn and, after a moment, stood. Darius scrambled to his feet as well, and Nadir offered him his hand. He shook it firmly, and clasped Darius's shoulder. "I have known her as a good woman for many years now. But I am looking forward to becoming better acquainted with her."

"Thank you, agha," Darius replied. There might have been tears standing in his eyes, but Nadir could not be sure. His own were inexplicably fuzzy. He must not have cleaned his glasses as well as he had thought. He released his hand and started for the hallway. It was feeling very late, indeed. But he paused for a moment and turned back. He could not help the mischief in his voice. "Tell me: is Madame Lantins looking forward to becoming Madame Mazandarani?"

The blush returned, and a short sigh followed it. "She may have been under the impression until quite recently that she was to be Madame Darius. These last names are a nuisance."

Nadir chuckled. "You might consider changing it. I think you will need a letter from the Embassy to stand instead of a birth certificate for the registrar as it is."

"Perhaps," Darius said slowly, "though I haven't any idea what to use."

"May I suggest that you take the surname I chose?" Nadir was deliberately casual, but he knew that Darius would not take the offer lightly. "Oh—not the title they all mix up. I could shoot myself for writing that down in my papers. Though you could call yourself a khan and no one would be any the wiser."

Darius was truly smiling now, even as he shook his head. "Thank you, but no. But I will ask Irène if she prefers to be Madame Lepersan. I believe she might."

"It is a little on the nose," Nadir admitted. "But it serves. And—well, we've stuck together this long. To my delight."

"I am honored," Darius murmured. As Nadir turned and continued on to his room, he heard Darius add, even more quietly, "khan agha."

I am unfairly dropping hints about the story... in Persian. A language I do not speak, and that this story is not written in. But I swear they're there.