One of the hardest things I find about writing is having a plausible series of events. Ever wanted to throw a book across the room because nobody would do that!? Yeah. And being a particularly retiring sort of individual myself, I have a hard time conjuring up appropriately Main Character behavior. Luckily, Nora is stubborn and Erik lives for drama. Because otherwise, things might've gone a bit more like this...

Seating Arrangements

Nora, my dear girl,

You are a marvel. I can only wonder at how you sorted everything out so quickly. The Gorgon's Knot was clearly no match for the old Farley bullheadedness, for which I am enterally grateful. (Alas, the railways, my dear! I have much to tell you of the railways when you return.) As thanks for your many and varied services, please accept this 'night on the town.' A friend at the Embassy was good enough to secure a private box for your use for the showing on November the first. I know that is likely your last week in Paris, and how can you leave without taking in an opera?

Enjoy yourself, and stay out of mischief.

Affectionately,

Daniel Tremblay

"If I may ask, Madame—are you superstitious?"

Nora turned her full attention to the box attendant. She seemed a little out of place in this beautiful theater. Perhaps if the Garnier had been older, with a century or so of history shadowing its corners, Nora could better believe it populated by such characters. But this old-before-its-time face and fairytale-witch voice done up in rusty widow's weeds and battered black feathers did not belong in this bright building, not even ten years old and meticulously maintained. No matter—Nora had long since learned not to pay too much heed to appearances.

"No," she replied and made to select her seat out of the few set in the empty box.

"Be that as it may, Madame," the attendant said, "I must tell you that this box is haunted!"

Nora paused in the arrangement of his skirts and turned to face the older woman, eyebrows lifted. "Indeed?" It was a chilling word, and more than a few individuals from all social stations had quelled when Nora had deployed it in the past. Not so with the attendant. If anything, Nora's reaction seemed to give her relish.

"Indeed. And not a sad, unfortunate shade—a devil! His tricks and terrors have brought tragedy to this place."

In certain moods, Nora would have dismissed the woman curtly and without compunction. Well, in most moods. She lived and traveled alone, and found coldness suited her better than being conciliatory. But the daft woman had stumbled upon a rare day: Nora was willing to be amused. Indeed, she did not even bother to keep the laughter out of her voice when she asked, "but these tricks are reserved only for the unfortunate ticket holders of Box Five?"

The attendant drew up to her full, if still insignificant, height. "Well. Well, there have been other instances—too terrible to dwell upon!—but this is certainly his personal box, and I feel it my duty to you, Madame, to offer other arrangements for your comfort."

Nora had a sneaking suspicion that the attendant had a personal interest in keeping this box empty. Perhaps scalped tickets? Perhaps a friend in the wings or a favor owed? Or—Nora could have kicked herself for the maudlin image that popped into her mind—perhaps it was her own pleasure in the spectacle she was after, a lone figure of fun in rusty black, sitting well back in that grand box and giving ear to the music. Whatever it was, Nora had half a mind to humor her.

"Tell me, my good woman, what would those other arrangements be?"

It was a box across from the haunted one, usually reserved for a family of wealth but not much consequence that happened to be abroad. It was empty, which was perhaps Nora's only consideration beyond the view. She spent most of the first act engrossed—the company at the Garnier was talented—but found her attention wandering. Gilda was duped, and started her aria extolling the virtues of a man who did not really exist. Without meaning to, Nora's attention drifted away from the stage. It touched first on the orchestra, and then the audience, and finally rested on the boxes opposite her. Box Five was all shadow and shade, and Nora found herself feeling ridiculous for changing seats. If she had been at the Metropolitan, or Covent Garden, she would wonder how she could ever show her face again. But Paris was a place for whims, and she shrugged off the feeling.

She started to turn back to the stage, but the light caught the gilt of Box Five and for the briefest of moments, she thought she saw a figure there. But it was clearly a trick of the shadows, and when Nora looked again, there was nothing to be seen.

or, like this...

Novacula Occami

Routine. It was a concept Erik was well-familiar with, within his own life. As much freedom as his solitary existence permitted him, and as wild and untamable a force his bout of creativity could be, much of his life was routine. The Garnier, too, ran on routine (and routines.) Erik could, and at times did, set his watch by them.

Yet, with so many weeks of Sunday morning walks now to his credit, it came as something of a surprise to Erik how much the outside world ran on schedule as well. Oh, that he saw the same baker plying his wares at the same hour was no surprise. But that he would start recognizing other passersby, seemingly random and in such a city as Paris, struck him as strange. There were always new faces, of course—something he was ever aware and wary of—but he started to see the same domestic staff scurrying on errands, the same coachmen, the same bon vivants slinking home with the sunrise, the same faithful being disgorged from their places of worship. (He often thought of those latter two groups as one and the same.) Ah, them again, Erik found himself thinking with increasing frequency.

Of course, there was one who was unmistakable. He had a voice for her—not the call of a workman, or indistinguishable laughter of the indulged, but direct words spoken to Erik. Simple words, unremarkable. The voice matched the face, matched the carriage of the woman: nonthreatening, and yet a little sharp for comfort and ease. Out of all the routines of a Sunday morning Erik now observed, her words, her voice, had become his favorite.

And so if he slowed his steps ever so slightly as he approached the Pont au Double, walking in time with the faint music that followed those departing Notre Dame's earliest mass—well, that had become routine, as well. Strange, how just a few weeks had so set him in his ways.

And so it surprised him when he realized he could hear her before she stepped into view, and when he realized she was not alone.

She was the same, and yet utterly different. Still dressed in black, with her bright eyes and careless veil, but her hand was slipped through the crook of a man's elbow. She did not hold tightly, but, as far as Erik could tell, she did not need to hold on at all. The man next to her was not tall, not prepossessing in any way. He was short, and steely haired, and his glasses showed smudges in the early morning light. He looked like he would have rather been abed, whereas she was laughing and merry.

Erik would have faded into the shadows—or into the water of the Seine—if he had had the chance. But routine was a powerful force, and her head tracked his path with the confidence.

"Good morning, Monsieur!" she said brightly. Her companion—husband, it must have been her husband— was slow to follow her gaze, and when he did, hesitated just a moment before touching the brim of his hat.

Erik returned the gesture with even more hesitation, and would have perhaps passed them by all together if her steps had not slowed just as his own had moments before.

"Good morning," he replied, "Madame."

She smiled at him—smiled!—and then they had passed.

As Erik's feet led him back to the Rue Scribe, he found himself thinking that he might sleep in a bit next Sunday. The change in routine might do him some good.