Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing.

A commenter on AO3 kindly commented that the name for Muslim used to be Mohammedan after the prophet Muhammed, so I edited it to fix it.

Note: I continued to have Ibrahim use Islam/Muslim as it is my understanding that Muslims do not/did not use "Mohammedan", and in fact find it offensive. Please correct me if my research is incorrect.

Enjoy!

Ibrahim

Chapter 49

The Vicomte

I felt immense guilt at the relief that coursed through me when Thursday arrived. Tonight was one of Comte Philippe de Chagny's dinners, in which he invited fifteen to twenty friends to his home for a social gathering. He did these weekly. All of the guests were invited by Philippe himself. Except for me - I was Raoul's only invitee. Supposedly, we'd bonded since the party, where the two of us had apparently connected, despite Raoul's rudeness at the theatre. Judging by the fact that my invitation had not been voiced by Comte Philippe, this story had been accepted.

I shouldn't have been so pleased when the coachman knocked on my apartment door to collect me. I had a niece. My sister needed help. But Nadir was here even now. She would be perfectly fine without me. Everyone was fine without me. But there, at the de Chagny estate, I could possibly make a difference.

"M. Ali," said the coachman at the door. I could feel Nadir's eyes like daggers on my back. He knew where I was going. Azizah, currently holding Dilara and talking to Reza, only knew that I was attending a dinner, just outside the city.

"Good evening," I told the coachman with a grin. "I am ready to depart. Six o'clock. Right on time, yes?"

"Yes, sir. Very good, sir." The coachman was expressionless. "Right this way."

I bid the people in my home goodbye, giving the frowning Nadir a wink, and followed the coachman out to the carriage. It was beautiful - all black, sleek and shining, with gently curving angles and red-lined windows, the scarlet curtains of which were down. He opened the door for me, and I stepped inside.

Raoul was already there, sitting with both arms and legs crossed. His sand-colored hair was styled perfectly, not a strand out of place. He was presently staring out the window of the door opposite the one I'd entered through. As the coachman closed that door and walked to his seat, Raoul glanced at me. Then he exhaled lengthily through his nose.

"Good evening, M. Ali," he said drily.

I raised a brow at him. "If we are to work together, then I insist you call me Ibrahim."

"Must I?"

I almost laughed. "Well, if you prefer to keep it that formal, then why not take it one step further? I refer to you as Vicomte, and you refer to me as simply Egyptian."

His eyes went to me fully then. Remained there. "Funny." The coach lurched forward gently and moved.

"I'm an excellent comedian."

"Hm."

"An even better spy." I flashed him a grin. "Even better than you, I'd wager."

He scoffed. "Please."

"You doubt that?"

Raoul sneered, but there was a flash of humor in his light brown eyes. "Entirely." He uncrossed his arms and legs, and then put his hands on the plush red velvet seat to lean forward. "You see, I possess skills as a spy. All you possess is the audacity."

I did laugh at that. After the nonstop looks of sympathy from Christine this week, and even Erik the last couple of days - after Nadir decided to start developing a heart - any sort of banter was enormously welcome.

This apparently surprised him. He leaned back again and stared out the window. "I suggest you merely follow my lead. Do not speak unless spoken to, and even then keep it brief. Your saving grace will be your foreignness, I think, so the guests may be more forgiving of you, but that doesn't make you immune from offending anyone."

I narrowed my eyes at him but kept my smile. "I think I can handle myself, Vicomte."

"Well, Egyptian." His gaze slid to mine again. "I can smell new money when it's near."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He sighed like I was a simple child and he a frustrated teacher. "The people in attendance are nobility. Aristocracy. The Duc Aurand. The Marquis Belaire. They are above my brother in rank, but like him enough to attend. The Baron and Baroness Vincelette. They are below us but he likes them. These are men and women who own titles and land passed down for generations. Men and women whose parents and grandparents faced the bloodshed of the revolution and survived to pass those titles along. And you? Were your parents wealthy? Your grandparents? Parents, likely. Grandparents, possibly. I'd venture they made money from some business, perhaps mining, perhaps a newfound invention. Maybe even a slave trade. I've no idea, but I do know that to fit in with the guests at this dinner, you will need to behave in ways that were bred into my kind. Mere money does not teach that."

How badly I wanted to proclaim that the Jahandir name had held power likely longer than the de Chagny name had. That my blood was just as precious and pure as his. I itched to say it. But I had to stay quiet. I'd changed my surname and nation of origin for a reason.

So I lied in a mutter, "Turquoise. My grandfather discovered a deposit of turquoise."

I wished to smack the self-satisfied smile off his face. I nearly smacked myself, too, when I felt tickled by his cocky pleasure. He was a cheeky and vain little bastard, but I'd be lying to myself if I said the quirk of his lip wasn't somewhat endearing.

The remainder of the ride passed relatively quietly, and we at last arrived at the estate. It was just as lovely and grand as I remembered, made of a gray stone and lit well by wrought iron oil lamps. Two attendants let us inside, where we were escorted by a man in a black and white suit to a small parlor, in which more than a dozen men and women were already gathered. Most had glasses of sparkling liquid in their gloved hands.

"My lords and ladies," said the man with a tight bow, "the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny and his guest, Ibrahim Ali."

A couple of ladies whispered to each other and smiled at me, to which the men close to them frowned. I flashed my teeth. Oh, yes. I knew I was handsome. Raoul rolled his eyes beside me.

"Raoul," said a middle-aged gentleman. Philippe. Comte de Chagny. "I regret to see that you are late." His smile was tight. "Again."

The surrounding guests chuckled like they'd just been discussing this. Something about it gave my own smile pause. Looking at Raoul, I could see that he was not included in this comment, but rather that it was made at his unwilling expense. His lips pursed lightly and diverted his eyes. If Nadir had said something similar to me, I'd have laughed it away, made a joke back. But Raoul was not me. And he, I think, didn't want to be here at all. His stiff posture and quick glance at the door told me as much.

So I spoke, intentionally making my accent more pronounced, drawing all eyes to me. "A thousand apologies, Comte de Chagny." I mutilated the pronunciation of his name, giving it a hard C and G. This coaxed out a couple more laughs, and even a slight smile from Philippe. So I'd play the Court Fool this evening. The Exotic Court Fool. All right. Might even endear me to the comte. "This is my fault that he is late. I could not decide if between I choose red or blue." A couple more laughs. I gestured to my clothes. "Eh. I choose blue. But I take a full hour to decision. My looks - they are important, yes?"

"Hm," mused Philippe amid the chuckles. "It's odd, M. Ali. I remember you being...so much more eloquent than this. Not to suggest, of course, that you do not speak well."

Playing politics - pretending at manners. I was familiar with this. Of course he thought my French was poor. I was intentionally making it so. What else could he have meant?

Raoul was staring at me with wide eyes of warning, but I said, "I thank you for this kind saying."

Philippe gave a silent chuckle as the guests hid their smiles at the poor idiot foreigner who didn't even realize he was being insulted. He offered, "Any wine, M. Ali?"

"He is Mohammedan," said Raoul swiftly, to which the guests went silent and shared glances. Surely they'd suspected my religion, but saying it aloud was another matter. "He does not drink." He gave me a look. "His faith doesn't tolerate altering the mind by becoming inebriated, isn't that right?"

"Bah!" I exclaimed, waving that away. "You French have much more fun. I will saying yes to the alcohol."

More sounds of amusement from the guests. A man to Philippe's right said, "Comte de Chagny, you must bring this man to your social affairs more often."

"Indeed?" He eyed me, and I could see the decision being made in real time. Already I was becoming to him what Erik was to the Shah. Entertainment. But it wasn't my deathly magic or face on display - it was my skin tone. My accent. My culture. My otherness. Did this feel oily and deeply not-right - did I feel myself compromising my dignity? Yes. Would I still do it for the sake of my job here? Absolutely.

"Perhaps I will invite him again," Philippe said, as though I were not here, as though I were a food he'd sampled. He addressed the servant by the door. "Felix, please fetch M. Ali a glass of champagne. The vicomte too, if he desires one."

"No need," said Raoul as Felix bowed. "I wanted to give M. Ali a tour of the first floor's public rooms. He has not yet seen the library. We can grab our wines ourselves on the way back. Excuse us. Please send Felix to tell us when dinner is ready."

There was some noise of disappointment, but we were otherwise permitted to leave. Raoul led me into the hall and said under his breath, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Rubbing elbows with the elite," I whispered back with a wink, accent back to its mildness.

"You're making an ass of yourself, is what you are doing - And this is my great-grandfather, Charles." He gestured to a painting on the wall. A servant girl walked past, carrying a feather duster. She nodded her head in greeting. Raoul continued in a whisper when she turned the corner behind us, "I told you to only speak when necessary. Now you're...doing the literal opposite, actually. Good Lord."

"And you heard your brother. He wants to invite me back."

Raoul didn't like that answer - or he didn't like that I was right. He opened a large white door into a tall room lined with shelves of books, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He closed the door, glancing around. When he found no one else, he looked at me. "You accepted alcohol, you absolute numbskull. We need to keep level heads."

"You told him I don't drink due to Islam."

"And?"

"I was drinking at the last party. He knows that's not true.."

His lips thinned. "Still."

"Agh." I threw my hands up. "Listen. I will not drink. All right? And I will only answer questions when spoken to directly, yes?"

And I was true to my word. To keep up the appearance, at the dinner, I did sip. But only sip. No one questioned the little amount I drank. After all, they'd just heard my religion - and though I could tell that most were quite put off by that, by a confirmed Muslim sitting at the table, they hid it well. With expert politeness.

I tried to remain quiet as well, but the questions poured about details of my Egyptian culture, or asking for French-to-Arabic translations. For the culture questions, I either answered with details of Persia or made up information entirely. As for language...well, I merely hoped no one knew Persian well enough to differentiate it from Arabic.

We learned nothing of value from this dinner, as all of the conversation was focused on me. Raoul declared tonight a pointless waste of time and sulked as he escorted me in the carriage back to my apartment - he'd claimed to his brother that, though I could get home alone just fine, he thought it good manners to give his foreign friend some companionship on the way home in this still-new country. The same reason, he said, he'd escorted me to the estate as well.

As Raoul pouted, staring out the window, I told him that the duc had a mustache like an obscene caterpillar.

Raoul's lips twitched.

I told him that the marquis wasn't fooling anyone with his wig.

Raoul's breathing hitched, and I could see that he was trying not to chuckle.

I grinned. I said that the baroness had a voice like a dying and drunk parrot.

Raoul broke into a hissing laughter that he hid behind his hand. The laughter continued as I proceeded to insult every member of the guest list. He, meanwhile, continued to try to hide it.

"And the comte," I said at last, "is an ugly version of you."

I hadn't necessarily intended to call him good-looking, but his eyes widened and his cheeks went pink. He looked away again, but the smile remained. Well, at least he was no longer so annoyingly sullen.

The coach pulled up to my building.

"I shall see you next time, Vicomte," I said, as the coachman opened the door.

"Unfortunately, Egyptian," he responded.

He did a very poor job of hiding the fact that the corners of his lips were still turned up. And that his eyes very pointedly did not meet mine.