A/N: Thanks very much to my reviewers. I see you had no trouble guessing the identity of the dancer—I guess I wasn't going too much for suspense there. PhantomOCD—love the name, btw—I have complied and given you a slightly longer chapter. Thanks again, MJ-Skywalker. Please keep reading.

Disclaimer: Lyrics from the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Chapter 3

Faces Change

Even Smiles grow strange

Nadir followed Erik's gaze to the table. The woman was clad in a red halter and long gauzy skirt, both trimmed in gold sequins that matched her jingling anklets and finger cymbals. His eyes traveled up her thin, well-toned form. When he reached the long, dark curls and sapphire eyes, he recognized her.

The Persian glanced back to Erik, who now looked furious, and then followed his narrowed eyes once more to observe just how many of the diners were middle-aged men who appeared to be enjoying the performance a bit too much. Nadir placed a very tentative hand on one of Erik's clenched fists as a reminder to remain calm, knowing its chances of being effective were virtually nonexistent.

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How could she? Sweet, innocent Christine. The girl he knew would never have dreamed of being caught in such a position—on display to be leered at by brutish men…

"Kindly explain to me the cultural significance here," Erik said in a dangerously cool voice.

"Erik—" Nadir began.

"No, really," he interrupted. "I'm quite interested. Precisely how does the Moroccan tradition of catering to animal lust differ from that of every other country in the world?"

"Try not to get upset--" Nadir began again, as the music and dancing finally stopped. Thank Allah. Raucous cheering and applause quickly interrupted the welcome quiet. Damn. The situation grew worse. Another song began to play, and the dancing continued.

"Is it the attire?" Erik ventured on. "Dress the burlesque dancers in scraps of the native garb and it becomes tasteful?"

"Perhaps we should step outside for a moment," Nadir suggested.

"And miss the cultural enlightenment?" Erik's voice was now dripping with sarcasm. "Because really, I feel quite in tune with African ethnology, watching a Swedish girl gyrating for the French masses!"

Giving up the persuasion, Nadir took hold of Erik's wrist. Erik reluctantly allowed himself to be led out the front door without causing a riot.

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And we all have so many faces

The real self often erases

"I understand this must be very upsetting for you," said Nadir.

Erik was pacing along the side of the building and didn't seem to hear him.

"After all this time, you finally muster the strength to be among people again, and immediately run into her."

Erik stopped in his tracks. "I have no problem running into her," he said through clenched teeth. "It just shouldn't be here."

"It's perfectly natural to be upset by seeing her," said Nadir. "There's no need to blame the circumstances."

"Blame the circumstances?" he chuckled. "Of course. Clearly I am displacing suppressed emotion by overreacting to this perfectly harmless situation!"

"You are overreacting," Nadir responded. "Consider it, Erik. This is a perfectly respectable establishment—hardly a brothel. I see no shame in her career, and I don't believe she does. She looked happy, don't you agree? Or is that exactly what is bothering you?"

"She wasn't happy," Erik murmured.

"And what makes you think that?" Nadir challenged.

"I oversaw her theatrical career," Erik said. "I can differentiate between what she deliberately expresses and what she sincerely feels. In there, she was acting."

Nadir suppressed a groan. "It's really not our concern anymore," he said gently. "Listen, this has been a difficult night. It would probably be best to get you home so you can recover. Wait here while I go pay the bill, all right?"

Nadir walked back around to the front of the building. Erik resumed pacing. Nearing the back of the restaurant, he heard a door close. Someone was exiting. Instinctively he braced himself against the wall and nervously waited for the footsteps to walk off.

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Enticing lies

Flicker through our eyes

Christine left the Marrakesh rather tired. She had only danced for about ten minutes, but was now rushing over to the cabaret for a longer and more demanding shift. The day's progression until that point had been strenuous as well.

She felt the shame especially strongly today. The gnawing feeling had never entirely subsided, but overtime she had learned to grow numb to it. Often though, at the slightest prompting—the slightest visitation of memory—the feeling renewed.

He was haunting her today. Not for the first time, Christine wondered what Erik would think of her now. Raoul didn't matter; he had condemned her long before she sank to this level. The memory of her father and her foster mother made her cringe. She of course felt horribly guilty for the example she was setting for Adelle.

And yet Erik's was the opinion that agitated her conscience above all others. When she danced, Christine always tried to observe her audience as little as possible—she had no desire to know who was watching or what kind of reception she was eliciting. Occasional glimpses, however, were unavoidable, and today she could have sworn she saw a masked face in the crowd.

She shook her head and walked on. Don't think of it.

"Christine!" she heard a voice call. She froze. It was his voice.

Oh dear. Apparently I'm still thinking of it. She slowly turned in the direction of the voice, just to confirm it was only her imagination.

She saw him step out of the dark alley. Her eyes widened. Had she regressed so far as hallucinations? He looked so real. She stepped forward and nervously reached out to touch him on the shoulder. Her fingers met with a solid surface.

"Oh God," she murmured, raising her eyes to his.

"You're not dreaming," he said firmly.

"But you're…" "Not dead," he assured her.

She staggered backwards and leaned against the wall. This night was becoming more exhausting by the minute.