Erik came into the sitting room bearing an armful of logs and knelt by the fireplace. He blew on his fingers to warm them. It was so chilly within the apartment these days. He'd better warm the rooms before Gracie woke up.

He dusted the fireplace. There were too many ashes to start a new fire. When he set the dustpan in place to gather them, a twitch in his left shoulder made him grunt. His old wound was bothering him again. The pain in his shoulder, which extended to his chest and his left arm, was surely the effect of the damp cold of winter.

Moving slowly, he crumbled some sheets of an old newspaper and put them on the grate. He put some logs on top of them. He then looked for the matches. Oh damn. They were on the mantelpiece. As he straightened up, the room swayed. Erik grasped the edge of the mantelpiece. He tried to take deep breaths. His chest was somehow tight, but after a minute he felt steadier.

He shouldn't stand up so fast, not when he was so tired and hadn't even had a cup of tea. His dreams had awakened him several times during the night.

He knelt by the fireplace once again, opened the matchbox and struck a match. It broke, and Erik watched as the head of the match, already burning, flew towards the fireplace. He heard it sizzle against the paper. A single strand of smoke rose from the grate. A minute later, he realized he was still staring at the crumpled paper.

He struck another match and carefully lit the edges of the newspapers. He waited until the paper was already burning before he stood up, slowly this time. The pain in his shoulder and left arm had now progressed into throbbing.

He put the matches on the mantelpiece and turned around, and the room was suddenly grey. He couldn't move. Time stopped, and then the edge of the coffee table approached at an astounding speed. And there was only blackness.

Gracie heard the loud thump in the sitting room. She had been dozing in bed for some time now, listening to Papa's movements. She had heard his steps as he had gone first into the kitchen and then into the sitting room. That loud noise must have been him. She waited for the muttered curses that would follow, but her ears were only met by silence. She cast the covers to one side, slid her feet into the warm slippers and went out to investigate.

"Papa?"

He was lying on the carpet, one arm under his body, the other above his head, as if he had fallen asleep on the floor. But Papa never slept on his stomach. She came closer, knelt by him.

"Papa?"

She shook him by the shoulder. He didn't stir.

"Papa? Papa!" She was crying now.

Using all her strength, she turned him around. His mask was broken. Half of it fell to the floor, beside his right ear. Gracie stared at the rivulet of crimson that ran across his forehead, along one of the deep furrows that crossed the right side of his face. There was a gash on his forehead, just above the ridge that marked the place where his right eyebrow should have been. It was bleeding.

"Papa? Papa?" Gracie kept calling him as she lifted the other half of the mask.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, bedazzled.

"Gracie?" his voice was a rasping whisper. "What? The fire. . ."

He closed his eyes. His image blurred, and Gracie swept the tears that overflowed her eyes. She shook him, called him, begged him to wake up, but he didn't open his eyes again.

She had to get Uncle Nadir. She darted towards the entrance, grabbed her cloak from the clothes rack and fumbled with the key. She managed to open the door and, still holding the key, slammed it behind her. She had gone down a flight of steps when she turned around and ran upstairs again. She locked the door. Otherwise evil men would come into the apartment and take him away, and lock him in a cage, and beat him.

She ran down the stairs and out of the building. The sludge on the sidewalk drenched her slippers and the hem of her nightgown, the freezing wind bit her bare legs, but she barely noticed.

Darius hurried down the hall, at the loud thumping on the front door. When he opened it, a sobbing Gracie fell into his arms.

"Darius! Papa, Papa! Uncle Nadir!" she screamed.

Nadir appeared at the entrance of his room, and she cast herself against him.

"Uncle Nadir!"

Nadir crouched in front of the hysterical child and held her by the shoulders.

"Slow down, Gracie. Hush. Come on, calm down."

She kept shuddering and crying, out of herself. Nadir shook her once, firmly.

"Calm down, Gracie," he repeated. "Tell me where your papa is."

"He's. . ." she hiccupped. "In the sitting room. He hit. . . his head. He won't. . . wake up."

At that, she started wailing again. Nadir hugged her. He lifted the child in his arms and looked at Darius.

"Go and get the doctor, Darius," he ordered curtly. "I'll go to Erik's. Meet me there."

Awkwardly, with one arm, he donned his scarf and his hat, cast his overcoat over Gracie and hurried downstairs. Darius helped him into a cab.