Erik:

I had made all the preparations I could—money, lock picks, rope—for what ever purpose I might see fit to put it to—a slouch hat that partly hid my face, a black mask in my pocket and the life-like one on my face, a notebook and pencil, and Ayesha's diamond collar concealed in the trick heel of my half-boot. It was not an obvious place any robber would look for valuables.

Now I lay on the bed and waited for a little more time to pass. I was hoping that Nadir and Darius would be asleep when I left—but in any event, I was planning to slip off via my bedroom window. The aches and pains of the morning had gone, or at least diminished significantly—for the most part, anyway. I had a massive bruise over one hip that would take days to fade.

Ayesha made a circuit of the room, looked at me, and complained. I wadded a bit of paper into a ball and tossed it; she made a 'Brr-miaow!' sound and batted it energetically around the room until she knocked it under the closet door. Nothing would do but that I had to retrieve it for her. Then she whacked it under the bed and disappeared after it.

I checked my watch. 8:15—the train would leave at nine. Time to move. I put a note for Nadir on the mantle, in case I should not get back in time for breakfast, and then went out the window, cautiously and carefully. Ayesha got past me, but I caught her and put her back inside—then closed the latch with a piece of bent wire from the outside.

My route down to the train station took me through the kitchen garden and past the kitchen house. I could not look at the oak tree from which I had fallen without wincing, just as I could not look at the soft glow of light from a second floor window without longing to witness this evening's bedtime rituals. But I went on.

The inn's remaining restaurant customers were straggling out as I passed the main house. That was a stroke of luck—instead of being a solitary, suspicious loiterer, I was one of several guests who dispersed into the night.

Some of them were headed in the same direction I was, down the hill, whether to catch a train or to go home. I fell in among them, and wended my way through the streets of Evrondes. They were neatly cobble stoned, and the houses and buildings I passed were made of good brick or native stone, with slate roofs and wooden shutters. Many had window boxes filled to overflowing with fragrant flowers that trailed down in their flourishing.

A right turn took us down a row of trim, tidy shops. I recalled what M'sieu Hussenot had said, that some of these shops owed their existence to the popularity of Anne's cooking, and the tourist trade she attracted. I wondered which ones those were. Next to the post office, there was a book shop which also advertised that it had fine stationary, penny candy, and toys. I could imagine Anne and my son stopping there. Next to it was a shoemaker's, which put me in mind of Amelié, and her three pairs of shoes—two for everyday, and a good pair for Sundays. After that there was a pharmacist's shop, which proudly announced on its sign that they carried 'fine soaps and other toiletries for the discerning lady and gentleman.' Then I was walking by a combination florist-newsstand, which stood right by the train station.

As I had anticipated, the ticket window was closed, but there was a sheltering pavilion with benches for the weary travelers, lit by an electric light. Some bewildered moths swooped around it and beat their wings in vain; I knew just how they felt.

I took a seat in the most shadowy part of the pavilion, and fell into speculation. What would it be like to live here? Not, of course, as Monsieur Touchet, the architect, Anne's husband and Erik's father, but as a reclusive, mysterious man who lived in a secluded house—but who paid his bills promptly and in full.

Ought I to take architecture once more? Might it not 'blow my cover', as it were? Someone might connect the architect with Anne's purported husband. I could hardly be a musician who never played for anyone—or a music teacher with only one student—that being my son—or a composer who nobody ever heard of. None of those would bring in money.

How else might I make a living? An intriguing idea occurred to me. Might there be a demand for someone who could do what I was now doing—investigating backgrounds, delving into mysteries, coming up with answers? Wealthy families—the sort who could afford hand-made Alençon lace—with marriageable daughters might well need a discreet, thorough investigation made of a prospective bridegroom, for example…

My fanciful train of thought was derailed by a pair of men who took the seats near me in the pavilion. "And I say that the food in the Grey Goose Inn is by no stretch of the imagination haute cuisine. Except perhaps the mustard soup, which would not have been out of place in Paris. And if the baked fish had not had garlic in that—that soufflé-like crust, it would have been quite an elegant dish."

That had my attention. I wanted to hear what they thought of Anne's cooking. It was like listening to opera-goers analyzing the performance.

"You don't know what you're talking about." scoffed the other. "I didn't see you having any trouble shoveling that meal into your face. You spooned up every bit of that crust, garlic and all. You put away five courses without any difficulty. If that wasn't your idea of haute cuisine, what is?"

"Le Lyon d'Arcy." the first man stated. "Boisselot's sauces are miracles of delicacy and refinement. No single note stands out overwhelmingly—especially not garlic. All is in perfect balance."

"No single note stands out overwhelmingly." his companion said, jocund mockery in his voice. "You're right about that—including the flavor of whatever's under the sauce. I had a beefsteak a la Boisselot there three weeks ago—or at least they said it was beefsteak. It might have been horsemeat, for all I could tell. Or old leather. I suspect whatever meat it was, it was going bad, because it didn't rest well on my liver. I had indigestion for three days afterward."

He noticed I was paying close attention to their conversation. "We're restaurant critics for Le Soleil." he explained. "Look—you came down from the Grey Goose, didn't you? What did you have for supper?"

I was surprised at how natural it felt to join in their conversation. Perhaps spending two days talking to strangers had helped. "Meatball soup, turkey cutlets in sage butter, a salad, green beans and new potatoes—." I answered.

"I had the turkey cutlets myself." he interrupted. "What did you think of them?"

"I thought they were very good. It seemed to me to be a well-balanced dish." I ventured. "I'm not an authority on food, but all the ingredients were perfectly fresh and wholesome. I'd have them again, with pleasure."

"There you have it," said the second critic to his friend, then addressed me again. "And how could you tell they were fresh? You could taste them. The turkey cutlets consisted of turkey meat, a little Marsala, bell pepper, sage, butter, a slice of cheese, and a touch of salt and pepper. Mushrooms would have worked just as well in place of the bell pepper. Now when you eat at Le Lyon d'Arcy, you'll find that Boisselot prides himself on sauces with twenty-eight ingredients or more, not including salt, pepper, and whatever the sauce is concealing."

"I'm not saying it's not good food!" protested the first critic. "I'm saying it's not haute cuisine. You know who they've got running the kitchen at the Grey Goose?"

"A twenty-year-old girl." I put in.

"Exactly! What is she going to know about the traditions of grand cuisine? She's a country girl cooking country food, for the most part, with a smattering of fancier recipes to round out her repertoire. I don't deny that it's flavorful and wholesome, but it lacks sophistication. And the wine cellar was a disappointment. That Riesling was third-rate—and I'm being kind."

"The food lacks nothing." asserted the second man. "I'll tell you what it is. It's your snobbery. If that girl was a thirty-year-old man from Paris, you'd be hailing him as a great discovery, a new star in France's culinary firmament—is that our train? Nice chatting with you, sir, but we must run!"

That had been quite an amusing interval, but I was glad to have peace and quiet again. What had I been thinking of? Becoming a professional investigator, that was it. Perhaps I should wait until after I had brought my own investigation to a successful conclusion—if I did.

My train, the train to Lyons, pulled into the station, and I boarded a car that was nearly empty. I took a window seat, and, resting my chin on my hand, my arm on the window sill, I passed the two hours journey to Lyons. I stayed in that position almost the entire ride, stirring only to pay the conductor for my ticket. What was I doing? Remembering…

Afraid, perhaps, that afterward I would break my word and keep her with me, Christine had allowed me to come to her, one night, one hour, in the house where she lived with Madame Valerius. Of all the places for an assignation!

It had taken place, not in her room, but in an airless, crowded garret up in the attic. It usually served as a maid's bedroom, but the girl was away. Christine had let me in through the kitchen, a candle in her hand, and led me up three flights of stairs to that small, hard, lumpy bed where we had made a child together.

I remembered what she wore when she opened the door to that little room—a blue robe over a white nightgown, and her manner, which was both apprehensive and serene. I sat on the bed, and took off my mask. She gave me a long kiss on the lips before she closed the door and put out the candle, plunging the room into utter darkness. My night-sight is keen, but even I could see nothing. There was no window, no other source of light. I didn't need to see. I could hear. I could hear her moving around the room, the hiss of fabric as she removed her garments, the creak of the bed frame as she sat down beside me—and then I could feel her.

The preliminaries went well enough, I suppose. I was as new to it as she was. She was obviously of two minds about what she was doing—tense to the point of rigidity at first, but no sooner would she begin to respond with passion than she stiffened up again—or so it seemed to me. And she was so quiet…

At least I didn't hurt her too badly. She didn't start sobbing or clawing or pleading with me to stop.

It was all over very fast, which surprised her as much as it did me. All of that for something so brief, so quickly done with, for so little warmth.

She put her clothing back on, fumbling and groping around in the dark, before she lit the candle again. Her lovely face was so serious in the pool of light it shed.

"Did I hurt you?" I asked. Why does nature make sure the commencement for a woman is so difficult, so painful?

"Yes," she replied. "But not very much—and not for very long."

"I'm sorry," I said, desperately. I had thought that once we had accomplished that, it would have tied us together. Wasn't it half of what defined marriage?

The vows were one half, the act itself the other half. Either one alone was not binding.

"That's all right," she said, as if we were still unknown to each other.

If I had been able to make it wonderful for her, perhaps then…

"This was what you wanted, wasn't it?" she asked, anxiously.

"Yes," I said, with a heavy heart. I had been wrong—wrong to put so much hope behind this, wrong in what I had thought it would be, wrong in having done it at all.

"Then—I'm sorry, Erik, but you have to go now. You have to leave. Mama is a little deaf—but not completely. And she's not blind." She followed me down the stairs.

"Do you hate me?" I asked, at the door to the street.

"Oh, no!" she cried. She was happier now, relieved. Of course; I was leaving. "I could never hate you. And I'm glad—I'm glad I could give you what you wanted. But—" and she paused.

"But you're going to marry the boy." I didn't understand how she could be so unmoved, but perhaps she had steeled herself up to all this beforehand.

I was moved by it, though. How could I bear to be separated from her now? How could I just leave her—forever?

I had given my word.

I kept it.

Once again, I was prepared to wallow in the sure knowledge of how wretched and worthless I was—except that—from that act had come Erik, my son. I could not hold him and despair in my heart simultaneously. It was not possible.

He was going to do better than I had, I knew it already. Whatever happened to him, throughout his life, he would do better. His face resembled mine—but his nature was calmer, gentler, more even and tranquil—more like Christine, perhaps, but mostly like Anne.

That was something to puzzle over—how much of a person's nature is inherited, like the color of one's hair, and how much is shaped by one's upbringing and experiences?

Anne had left as indelible a mark on the boy as my mother had left on me, but Anne was as different from my mother as bread is different from stone. For that matter, Anne was as different from Christine as a hedge rose is from a hot-house orchid.

The train was pulling into the station at Lyons; I pulled myself together and prepared to disembark.

Turkey Cutlets in Sage Butter:

Turkey cutlets are readily available cut and packaged in most large supermarkets today; Anne would have had to hack the meat up herself. Lucky us…

1 large bell pepper, either red, orange, or yellow as you prefer, cut into four wedges

2 teaspoons olive oil

4 turkey breast cutlets, ½ inch thick, about one pound's worth

2 teaspoons AND 2 tablespoons chopped fresh sage

½ teaspoon salt—if you are using cooking wine, which is pre-salted so people don't drink it for fun, skip this.

¼ teaspoon black pepper

4 slices of part-skim mozzarella cheese

¼ cup Marsala or Madeira wine—you can find cooking wine in most big supermarkets

¼ chicken broth

2 tablespoons butter

Extra sage leaves for garnish (optional)

Preheat broiler.

Place pepper wedges, skin side up, on a foil-covered baking sheet, and flatten them with your hand. They won't be perfectly flat, but that's okay. Stick them under the broiler until their skins are black and bubbly in places. You may have to rotate the pan so they are evenly blackened. It'll take about 10 minutes.

Put the blackened pepper wedges in a zip-top plastic bag, and let them cool. The steam will loosen the skins. When cool, slip the skins off, and discard them. They won't come off perfectly, but again, that's okay. Just so they're mostly gone.

Heat oil in a non-stick skillet over medium heat. Sprinkle the cutlets with the salt (if used), the pepper, and 2 TEAspoons of the chopped sage. You'll be using the 2 tablespoons later. Sauté the turkey for about 2 ½ minutes on each side, or until browned.

Top each cutlet with a roasted, peeled pepper wedge and one slice of cheese/ Add the wine and the broth to the pan. Cover and cook until the cheese melts. Remove the turkey from the pan with a slotted spatula, and keep warm.

Bring the broth and Marsala mixture to a boil. Remove from the heat. Add the 2 tablespoons of chopped sage and the 2 tablespoons of butter to the pan, and stir or whisk until well blended. Pour the sauce over the cutlets before serving. Put a fresh sage leaf or two on each for pretty, if you like. Very simple and astonishingly good.

A/N: First of all, let me go around and virtual hug all my folk who've been away for weeks and weeks.

Ellen, here's a hug for you. (squish!) I'm glad you're back. Any interesting stories to tell?

And one for you, Lexi, (squeeze!)—yes, I did miss you!

And one for Pickledishkiller! (glomp!) I missed you, too.

BTW, Dear Professor Xavier isn't moved officially, yet. I am posting a bit of it under X-Men to see if it takes off. I think this is technically wrong, so please don't tell.

Sat-Isis: Actually, yes, Bella A. did a beautiful portrait of Anne. I'll look up your email and send it to you.

MetalMyersJason: I might be serious—or I might be messing with you. (heheh!)

HDKingsbury: That's one of the greatest things about the Internet—it makes research into things like plywood so simple and painless. I love it.

Allegratree: Thank you for the information—and for the e-mail help too. I'll keep that in mind as I write future chapters—and you've given me good ideas for the scene with the music-master from the church.

Bella: I hope this one has enough substance to tide you over until the next, which will be about how Erik Sr's investigation proceeds—expect some shocks!

SperryDee: I love your plan! How did it go off? I saw the movie, and I thought it was dumb but fun. Doom is better in the comics.

An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin: Yes! Here is your update! Please don't hurt me!

And of course, thank you to : Ilsa, Sue Raven, Sarah Crawford, Phantom Raver, and Erik for President!