Erik:

Lunch was a substantial soup accompanied by sandwiches on crusty fresh bread, followed by a surprising blueberry pie. It was surprising in that the blueberries were not embedded in sweet glue colored with blue-black Indian ink, which had been my previous experience of blueberry pie, nor did the crust seem to be made of soggy cardboard. It was tasty, not too sweet, fresh, and the crust was delicate. I ate alone in my room, where I perused the train schedule provided by Nadir. I took only small portions, at least until the pie.

From the table by the window, I could see a pair of little brown wrens swooping back and forth from the garden to a bird house, beaks laden with insects. Every time one of them disappeared into the house, they were greeted with a chorus of cheeping. Someone else was having lunch at the same time I did. I tore a crust from my sandwich and shredded it, then tossed the crumbs out to them. My humble offering was acceptable; almost immediately, one of the wrens pecked up a morsel and flew with it to her nest of little ones. Wrens are tiny and humble looking, rather drab little birds, but they are blessed with sweet voices.

I turned back to the train schedule. Nadir did not intend that I should go to Lyons alone; that was clear to me. I was determined to make my trip unaccompanied, however, and to accomplish that, I would have to leave before he thought I was strong enough to do it.

That meant going tonight, and I was pleased to see that there was a nine o'clock train. The inhabitants of the kitchen house got up early and went to bed early, so I could listen to the boy play his violin, wait for darkness to fall completely, and then walk down to the train station. The ticket office would be closed, but that need not stop me, as I could purchase a ticket directly from the conductor. In two hours, I and my lock picks would be in Lyons.

If all went well and I could find out all I needed to, I would be back in time for a late breakfast in the morning. If not—if I had to wait until the offices were open and there were people about to answer questions, I would simply make sure to leave in time to be back for dinner and the ante-dinner concert.

I planned to visit the registry office and the offices of the law firm that managed this inn from a distance for the unknown owner. I hoped I could learn all I wanted to from the register of marriages and the legal files, but I was plagued by a morose premonition that it would not be as simple as that. Nothing concerning Anne and the boy was simple.

My plans required two masks, one of them a black mask, for the breaking and entering I planned to do, and the other, the most lifelike of my new masks, for traveling on the train and for dealing with people during the day, when and if necessary.

Since I anticipated having to deal with other people anyway, perhaps I would take care of another matter: my need for liquid funds. The remainder of my money would not hold out indefinitely, and the inn would want the cottage back eventually. I had one last treasure: Ayesha's diamond collar.

I took it from its hiding place, and turned it over in my hands. The diamonds were large, well-cut, and perfectly matched. They were of the first water; purest blue-white and they had no flaws evident to my unaided eye. My sight is exceptionally sharp. This little collar was worth a fortune. The brilliancy of the early afternoon sun upon the stones stabbed at my eyes, each stone a little assassin, and cast splinters of rainbow across the green walls.

I did not have it made for her; I had stolen it almost a lifetime ago, from around the neck of the Sultan's favorite pet cat. I was so much younger and brasher then, I had to smile at my own arrogance. Despite periods of need, I had never sold it, never pawned it—although what pawnbroker could have handled it? It was too valuable. I had meant to keep it forever—and so I might have, were it not for the boy, were it not for my son.

It might be worth a million francs; perhaps more. The nature of the market for diamonds—especially second-hand diamonds—was such that I would be lucky to realize a third of its value, but a third of a million francs would be more than enough to buy a house here in Evrondes, and to set myself up as an architect once more. I wanted, I needed to live where I could watch him grow up.

My first idea had been to buy the inn itself, but I rejected that, as in all probability it belonged to the Comte de Chagny. Not that that would make it undesirable, but I wanted to remain invisible. An offer from an anonymous buyer would arouse suspicion.

Yes, I would take the collar, and if the opportunity presented itself, I would sell it.

Ayesha would be no less beautiful without it.

It was almost the appointed hour for Madame Hussenot's visit. I was getting used to talking to new people, especially when I could do so from behind bed curtains. I had learned an important thing: people like to talk about themselves, and they like to show off how much they know. As long as I indulged them in those areas, they were very talkative. I merely had to direct the conversation now and then. I drew the curtains almost closed, checked the placement of the chair, adjusted it, and waited.

I could see Madame Hussenot quite well from my place in bed. She was about sixty, plump, and feminine, a fluttery woman with incongruously small hands and feet. She wore a light colored dress with a small floral print, trimmed with lace. I, with my newly acquired knowledge of lace, wondered if it were hand made or machine lace. I suspected the latter.

Her hair was fluffy, and continued to be brown with the aid of dye. She had not committed the fault most ageing women do, which is to dye the hair too dark and harsh a shade. That adds years to a woman's appearance rather than subtracting them.

"Good afternoon, Madame." I began.

"Good afternoon, M'sieu Makepeace."

"Thank you for taking the time to come and talk to me."

"It is no trouble at all, sir"

An awkward silence followed. I did not know how to begin. It was her age and sex that were the problem; had she lived, my mother would have been about the age of Madame Hussenot. That was what was causing this uncharacteristic paralysis of my tongue.

"Forgive me." I finally said. "I have always been reticent when speaking with ladies. Perhaps if you were to begin by telling me how inn keeping suits you?"

"Oh. Very well. It isn't what I had been expecting to do with what you might call my evening years, but…"

Her account was not so different from her husband's, but what interested me was her body language and her facial expressions, which conveyed as much as her tongue did. She hardly ever stopped moving—she spoke with her hands and even her feet. When she spoke of her granddaughters' mother, the corner of her mouth twisted and jagged downward in a manner that spoke of her deep disgust.

All in all, I gathered that she was content with her life as an innkeeper. She smiled widely when she told me how she chose and arranged the flowers that graced the inn; when she complained about the maids, she might have said, "I can hardly take my eyes off them for a minute, or they're shirking their duties!", but her tone of voice conveyed that she liked having a staff to terrorize, and she was proud of the cleanliness she imposed upon her domain.

"I send reports to the owner every month, and he's always gracious enough to reply through the lawyer's office, and he tells me how he appreciates my efforts." she told me.

"That's a law firm in Lyons, I believe? Which one is it that handles the inn's business? I know a lawyer there…" I asked. I needed to know in order to visit that evening.

"It's the firm of Alphonse Bontriomphe and Son." she answered.

"No, he's not the one." I said. "But do go on."

"As I was saying, the owner appreciates what I do. I think he must stop here every now and then, incognito, as it were, because sometimes he comments on things he could only know if he saw them himself. Such as, when we changed from heavy winter curtains and carpets over to summer sheers and grass-cloth rugs, he's said the green bindings I chose were very harmonious. That shows the very particular sort of attention he pays to things around here. It's quite flattering."

"Do you agree with your husband, in that the inn was bought to showcase the culinary talents of Madame Touchet?"

"Yes—but—," she paused. "M'sieu Hussenot is really such an innocent in some ways. He's willing to believe any story that comes from a pretty face."

"How so?"

She leaned forward and lowered her voice to tell me confidentially, "I know something about the world, and while I would never say anything against Madame Touchet—she's a fine woman, a good mother, and an excellent cook—I don't believe there is a Monsieur Touchet. I don't think there ever was one."

That seemed to call for a response from me. "Oh, dear."

"Yes. Now, while I only know a little about her past, I know she spent about a year, between the time she left the Comte de la Fere's, and the time she came here, in Paris! And we all know what Paris is like! They live such dissipated lives there—all for pleasure, nothing but pleasure. It's full of wolves and mashers and worse. Now when a gentleman who's truly a gentleman takes a respectable girl for a mistress, when he's bored with her, or if she gets in the family way, he doesn't just abandon her. He sets her up in business, a little hat shop, say, or something like that."

"And you think that may be the case with Madame Touchet? She is quite young to be discarded so."

"True. In her case, it must have been the child. You've seen him, of course. I think his father took one look at him and was appalled, then realized she was so dotty over the boy she'd never give him up, and packed them both off to the country here."

"Has she not said he looks like his father?"

"Oh, I don't believe that. I think that's just a blind, to throw off talk about who his father is. Of course, she has to account for that face somehow or other. It's a great shame that he should have to suffer with a face like that, but fix the name of Erik Touchet in your memory, sir—,"

I would have no difficulty doing that.

"—because he's going to be something in this world, just wait and see."

That was precisely what I intended to do.

She was still speaking. "All in all, I think Madame Touchet's done very well for herself, and the only place where we don't see eye-to-eye is over her kitchen maids."

"Why is that?"

"Well, you may not know it, but the one she has right now is simple-minded. Minna's rather sweet, and she's no problem at all, but the others! She's had up to three at one time. The worst of them left only two months ago. Her name was Lucille. She was fired outright after she stole half-a-dozen bottles of the best wine. We found her and her lover, who was a representative of a manufacturer of artificial essence of jasmine, passed out in a vacant bedroom of the inn. I think Madame Touchet would have been lenient with her—taken it out of Lucille's wages—except that Lucille said such things about her when she came around! Madame Touchet gets all her kitchen maids through a convent charity home. I think it's connected somehow to the hospital where she had the boy."

A hospital! I suspected it would turn out that Christine had spent time in that hospital, too, overlapping with Anne's stay there.

"She takes these girls as an act of charity, because most of them are unwed mothers who haven't a reference anymore—they're fired when their employers find out about the pregnancy, and the charity takes them in and sees to the adoptions. When they're well enough to work and they need jobs, some of them come here. They never stay long. Just long enough for Anne to be able to write them an honest reference. I've told her if she wants to be charitable, she should just send the convent something at Christmas and Easter, but she can be very close with her money in some ways. It's an odd way of fulfilling one's charitable obligations."

Charity? No, to me this smelled of recompense. A favor done for a favor received. Someone at that hospital must have looked the other way—someone might have helped when the boy was born, aided them with their plan… What form would Christine's recompense take? The patronage and sponsorship of a wealthy Countess would be a good thing for any charity.

While I considered that, Madame Hussenot continued to talk about Anne's difficulty in finding good employees. She concluded that in taking on young and malleable relatives, Anne was on to something that worked. I interrupted.

"What about her sister? Martine Norbert?" I inquired.

"She was a piece of work, that one! As different from Madame Touchet as two sisters could be—except in looks. The Norberts all have a strong family resemblance to each other. Martine ran through money like it was water—The oddest thing, though, was that she had this melancholy about her—If I didn't know better, I would have said it was that depression some women go through after they've had a baby."

That was the last significant piece of innuendo Madame Hussenot had to offer. Before long, she took her leave. I had not learned many actual facts from her, but what I had discovered was interesting. The convent hospital was far away—almost on the Swiss border. I would have bet money that Jules' letter, when it came, would divulge the information that the Chagny's eldest child was born there also.

Astonishingly Good Blueberry Pie:

This pie owes its uniqueness to the relatively small amount of sugar used in proportion to the berries, and to the nut-crumb crust, which is uncommon.

Crumb Crust/Topping:

1 cup (about 4 ounces) skinless slivered or sliced almonds

1 ½ teaspoons grated lemon peel (fresh is best, dried from the supermarket is fine)

2 cups all purpose flour

½ cup and 2 tablespoons granulated sugar

¾ cup (1 ½ sticks) very cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces—if you cut it up, wrap it in plastic wrap, and stick it in the freezer for half an hour, that will be ideal

Blueberry Filling:

½ cup granulated sugar

1 ½ tablespoons cornstarch

2 pints fresh blueberries

You will need an 8 or 9 inch tart pan to bake this in.

Begin by toasting the nuts in a small non-stick frying pan on top of the stove. Toasting the nuts brings out their flavor. Most recipes call for toasting the nuts in the oven, but I have found that method is imprecise and often results in overdone nuts. Heat the nuts over medium heat, stirring constantly, until they turn a light brown. This will happen suddenly. Remove them from the heat and allow them to cool.

When they are cool, grind them, along with two tablespoons of granulated sugar, in a food processor. Watch them carefully to make sure they are not over-ground, or they will become nut butter. Add the flour, the rest of the sugar for the topping, and the lemon peel, and pulse to combine. Add the cold butter, and process until the dough looks like coarse crumbs.

Using your fingers, press half the dough into the bottom and sides of the tart pan.

Refrigerate the pan and the other half of the dough while you complete the next step.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Rinse the berries and pick them over, removing all stems and all the spoiled berries. There are always some. Reject any that are moldy or funny-colored. Soft berries are marginally okay, mushy ones are not. Take out the unripe ones as well.

In a medium bowl, mix the cornstarch and the sugar for the filling. Gently stir in the berries. Get the pan and dough from the refrigerator, and spoon the filling into the tart pan, spreading it evenly.

Sprinkle the berry mixture with the remaining topping, crumbling it in your fingers if necessary.

Bake until topping is golden and the filling is bubbly, about 30 minutes. Remove from the oven. Cool on a wire rack for at least ten minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature.

A/N: I have gone back ad fine-tuned some things in earlier chapters. For example, in Chapter two, Breakfast, there is now a new section of dialog between Erik and Nadir, in which Nadir reveals that they are in the Grey Goose Inn, in the (fictional) town of Evrondes, in the (real) province of Picardy, details I had not come up with when I originally wrote it. I have made changes to the Author's notes in Chapters 1 and 17 which will have some bearing later on. Re-reading them is a good idea, as the denouement will hinge at least somewhat on these things. I have made no major changes, nor altered the main story in any way except to add the dialog I mentioned previously.

Sue Raven: As you can see, Erik is trying to prepare for the future. He will be surprised, however.

Emily: Wow! Welcome to FF net. What a compliment. Thanks.

Diana: Thanks. I don't like most OWs either.

Allegratree: I had been thinking that Meg got her information about Erik from gossip and rumor, not Christine, but I didn't put that in. Maybe I'll change that. I like leek-and-potato soup, too. I like practically all soups.

Lucia: I'll have look for that movie you mentioned. Even if it's depressing, it sounds interesting. Maybe we should start talking through e-mail.

HDKingsbury: I'm glowing—thanks!

ButterflyGuitar: I'll keep it up as long as I can—I will never explain everything.

An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin: Have you been taking your medication? If not, don't you think you should? If you have, I think you should talk to your doctor…. ;-)

Josette: Thanks! I always loved a good mystery, and now I have the fun of writing one.