Erik:

I was reading the newspapers before dinner, mainly to take my mind off Anne, and off what she knew. I had not a single idea what might come of it, nor did I know what I ought to do. Should I write to her, and if so, how much should I say? I was a bit afraid to speculate or imagine what might happen once we met.

As I read, I came across a headline which read Count and Countess Robbed at Gunpoint, and incredibly, discovered that it was about none other than Christine and Raoul De Chagny! It was also the source of much of Jules' information, as it gave every relevant detail about where they lived and about their children, as it told how, on the way back from a party in Geneva, their carriage was stopped by four thieves who held them up and robbed them of several hundred francs in cash, jewels worth as much as two million francs, and a sable cape belonging to the Countess.

It went on to describe the gems, 'the count's perfectly matched diamond shirt-studs and cuff links, each of which was no smaller than two carats apiece'—I always knew he was a dandy—and 'the countess's jewels, comprised of a pair of chased and jeweled bracelets, an enamel, diamond and gold corsage ornament'—whatever that might be—' a precious diamond circlet which the countess had worn on her beautiful blonde hair, and an exceptionally valuable diamond necklace, which is one of the notable De Chagny heirlooms.' The police of Geneva were on the case.

The article continued, saying that the Count and Countess were unharmed, although badly shaken, and that 'it is said that the Countess's nerves are badly disordered by the ordeal.' I could well imagine—she always was a fragile little thing. She must have looked very beautiful bedecked in all that finery. I could imagine the candlelight on her hair, and the diamonds in it.

That article made up my mind for me on one thing—whatever else happened, the diamond which I had Bontriomphe's jeweler remove from Ayesha's collar and reserve for me would go to Anne and not to Christine. Clearly, Christine had plenty of diamonds already.

Darius knocked on my door to tell me dinner had arrived. I followed him to the dining room, where the table was set and Nadir was waiting. "If you'll share the salmon with us, we have a chickpea stew that's well worth eating."

"By all means." I said. "Haven't you had that dish once before? I seem to recall you mentioning it."

"Of course." He replied. "That's how I know it's worth eating. I requested it again. There's a note for you." He pointed to an envelope that was leaning against my water glass.

It was addressed simply to 'Monsieur Makepeace', but I recognized the looping script as Anne's, both from the marriage register and from the documents in the files at the Bontriomphe offices. I regarded it warily for a long moment, while Darius loaded my plate for me. What would it contain? A warning, a plea, a threat? Until I opened it, I could not know.

I broke the seal, took out the single sheet of paper, and read: 'We got to sit down and talk about things. After he's gone off to sleep, I'll come back out to the cottage. Madame Anne Touchet.' The 'Touchet' was written very boldly, defiantly, although whether that assertion was for my benefit or her own, I could not tell.

"What is it?" Nadir asked.

"Anne will be coming here to talk after she puts him to bed." I answered. "Nadir—what do I do? What do I say?"

"Keep in mind whatever it is you want to accomplish, then speak and behave accordingly. And remember, she's more scared of you than you are of her."

I wasn't so sure about that.

What he meant, of course, was that I had to decide what was more important to me—possibly getting to see and teach my son, or gaining that slippery, elusive truth I had sought for what now seemed a lifetime, although it had only been three days.

On the other hand, there was a truth I had sought after for a lifetime, without really knowing it, until Anne had cast a light on it that threw it into sharp relief.

She loved the boy, and had made a home and a family for him. She had even made others accept him, despite his face.

Was it really just my face that had made me unlovable, unloved, or was there some other intrinsic quality about me, which I had and my son lacked, or vice versa?

I ate. Anne had not allowed her upset to affect the quality of her cooking, and the salmon in a honey lemon sauce was excellent, while the chickpea stew was indeed a rice dish of profundity.

Afterward, my son and I did indeed have our violin duet, rendered all the more poignant for me, not knowing whether this would be our first—or our last.

I waited in the sitting room—I could hardly receive her in my bedroom!— later, with my pocket watch in front of me, wondering what was going on over in the kitchen house. Was she now watching him brush his teeth? Was she reading to him about germ theory, and looking up what that strange word theory meant? Was she tucking him in, was she kissing him good night?

When would she come? I was dreading it and I was anticipating it eagerly, both at the same time.

After an eternity, I heard footsteps on the gravel walk, on the wooden porch, the door opening. I turned to see her slip inside, and rose to my feet.

She was pale, so pale her freckles drifted on her skin like cinnamon sprinklings on cream. Her eyes were enormous and wary. "Hallo?" she said, experimentally.

"Good-good evening." I managed to say. "Won't you sit down?" I gestured to an overstuffed chair, so that she could sit in the light where I could see her, and I in the shadows where she could not see me very well. I wanted to make this as easy as possible for her. I wanted her goodwill. I wanted to see my son.

"Thank you." she said, and we sat.

There was a long moment of silence when neither of us could think of what to say.

We simply looked at each other. She had wrapped herself against the slight chill of the night in a knitted shawl of deep purple that made me think of clematis flowers, and she must have only just washed her face, for strands of wet hair clung to her face like the tendrils of a vine. She was lovely. She was also—very real, which was an odd way of thinking of her, but Christine and my mother, who were very nearly identical, were ethereal creatures, delicately made, and fine-boned. I had fancied that I could see Christine's soul just underneath her skin.

Anne had very few visible bones, and she was very—sturdily built. Where Christine was slight, Anne was substantial, and where Christine was rounded, Anne was—embarrassingly voluptuous. It was disconcerting, despite the fact that she was fully covered.

"I don't know where to start." she admitted. "You been to Lyons."

"Yes."

"You been to the Registry Office?" she asked.

"Yes, I have. I know—everything. M'sieu Giscard told me."

"Oh." she said, unhappily.

"I've also been to the Bontriomphe law offices."

Her next "Oh." was even more subdued.

"I—" I paused, while I thought of what to say. "I want to thank you. For not—making him live down in the cellar. For not keeping him in a filthy cage. For not beating him when he lied about brushing his teeth." The words came pouring out of me, and I began to tremble with the force of the emotions that were wracking me. "For his room with those bright colors. For picking berries with him in the light of day. For bringing him up so he can not only bear to look at himself in a mirror, but make faces in it. For holding him—for nursing him—for loving him." I was shaking uncontrollably now, like a leaf in the wind.

"What's wrong?" In a flash she was across the room, kneeling at my feet and looking up into my face. "You come over ill again?" Her hand lifted to the forehead of my mask, paused, and she felt the back of my neck instead. "You haven't got a fever."

A sob escaped me. "No—I'm not ill. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." If I had cried the two nights before, it was as nothing to the torrent that escaped me at her gentle, caring touch. She stood up, only to sit right beside me on the sofa, where she slid her left arm around my shoulders, encouraging me to rest my head against her shoulder, which I began to flood with my weeping.

"There, dear, it's all right." she murmured, and began to sway us back and forth a little. "It's all right. You don't got to be sorry. It's all right." Her right hand slid up into my hair, where she fumbled with the mask's string, finally removing it, and I let her. I did not question why she should do such an extraordinary thing. I merely let her. I had been so starved for touch. I didn't need to know why. This was a moment of grace, and I could just let it happen, I could just let go…

The floodgates were breached now, the release more profound—though of a different nature—than that which had engendered the boy. The contact certainly lasted longer.

How long we sat like that, I do not know. She rocked me, stroked my hair, told me over and over that it was all right, until at last I was freed of a burden I had almost not known I carried, having grown accustomed to its weight. "If you're going to do much more of this, do you mind if I switch shoulders? Only, this one's soaked." she asked, tremulously.

"No—it's—I'm all right." I sat up. My face was wet.

I had no handkerchief, having no nose, but she produced a square of well-laundered cotton from her pocket. "Here you go, " she said, and dabbed at my eyes, as if I were her son, too. She looked into my face, and her face did not change. She wasn't shocked, or horrified, or disgusted.

"Thank you." I said, hoarsely. I could not possibly have seemed threatening to her at this point. Pathetic, yes, but hardly a threat.

"You're welcome. For that, and all them other things you said." She looked as if she had been doing some crying as well, but she looked much better—less strained—than when she came in. The color had returned to her face. The constraint between us had been broken, at least for the moment.

Then she bowed her head, her gaze dropping to her hands, and the handkerchief in them. She began to tie and untie knots in it as she spoke.

"I imagines you got a lot of questions as you want to be asking, and I can't go answering them all, cause I gave my word, and to more nor one person, too. But, seeing as how you've a right to the truth more nor any other but—but him, I'll write and ask if I can tell you. I made up my mind afore I come out here, as I was going to tell you the truth. I'm sick of lying. I want to stop lying. So you can go ahead and ask away. I'll answer what I can, and when I can't, I'll say as much."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable." I replied. "I think that I can wait to learn some of the things I want to know, if I know they will be answered someday."

"I can't promise nothing—."

"I understand. Well, to begin—when is his birthday?" I asked.

"June 21st—Midsummer's day."

"June 21st." I repeated. "Was he born in a convent-hospital near the Swiss border?"

She flinched a little, and was silent for a while. "Yes." she said, finally. "But I can't tell you more nor that, right now."

"I'm sorry—I won't ask for those sorts of details, now—How did you find out my full name?"

" I met a man on a train. He was a doctor, Doctor Bayre…"

TBC…

Chickpea Stew:

1 large onion

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 28 oz can diced tomatoes

1 teaspoon hot Madras curry powder, or 1 teaspoon regular/mild curry powder and 1/8 teaspoon hot pepper flakes

1 teaspoon sugar

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon turmeric

2 14 ½-15 oz cans chickpeas or garbanzo beans, rinsed and drained

½ teaspoon garam masala (a spice blend)

Chop the onion, and sauté it in the olive oil over medium heat until the onion is softened and translucent. Add the tomatoes, the curry powder, the hot pepper, if you are using it, the sugar, salt and turmeric. Simmer for about 8-10 minutes or until it is thickened, stirring occasionally. Add the chickpeas and the garam masala, stir well, and simmer for about 10 minutes more. Serve over peanut rice.

Peanut Rice:

1 cup long grain white rice, uncooked. Basmati is nice.

2 ½ cups cold water

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon turmeric

½ cup frozen petite peas

½ cup unsalted roasted peanuts

Bring water to a boil in a medium-sized sauce pan. Add the rice, the salt, and the turmeric. Reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes, without stirring. Stirring will agitate the cooking starches and produce tougher rice. Add the peas, putting them in on top of the rice, and not stirring them in. Cook an additional ten minutes, keeping an eye on the pan so the water does not boil away and the rice does not burn. When the rice is soft, remove from the heat and add the peanuts. Stir. Serve with chickpea stew.

This meal is vegetarian, very quick and easy to make, and very good for you, being low in fat and full of protein. It is also delicious.

A/N: It's midnight. I can either post or write shout-outs, not both. Rest assured I appreciate every one of you—getting reviews makes me very happy.