Author's Notes: So yeah, wrote all day to finish this chapter. At first I wasn't happy with it, but I think I've hammered it out enough. Now I'm quite pleased. R:&R, tell me what you think, as always, hugs and kisses. Your obedient friend, Reves.

Chapter 13 – How Long Two Wait

Francois hurriedly climbed the stairs. He slipped the bullets into his revolver, loading every slot, and clicked the safety off. His boots padded on the thin carpet as he carefully stalked down the hall. He had the coat of his blue uniform back on, and he tucked the revolver into it, his fingers resting on the trigger.

They had slipped right through his fingers. He had watched the opera from the back of the theater, only realizing that Don Juan was the man he had been hunting for months on end as she pulled off his mask. And Mademoiselle Danielle was willingly playing into his hands. He had watched in horror as she wrapped her arms around him, and that despicable monster held her tight, and just as he had begun frantically formulating a plan, the curtain had dropped.

Their bags were gone from the dressing rooms, a window left open in his, and footsteps disappearing beneath the falling snow.

He had searched for the past hour and a half, looking through hotels near the opera, until he had found the one. The owner had been almost grateful to admit to the presence of a strange man wearing mask renting one of his rooms. When Nereaux had explained that the man could be a thief and a murderer, the owner had quickly handed over the second key to the room. Francois pulled it out of his pocket now, and fit it swiftly into the lock.

Erik sighed and leaned back against the propped up pillows on the bed, folding his hands behind his head. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth across the room. Their bags sat near the chair by it, the damp cloaks drying on the back. He felt a sense of triumph looking over the normalcy of it all, as if he had simply taken a short vacation, returning from a night at the theater with his…

His thoughts strayed to the little gold ring, again. It was still around his neck, turned so that it hung at his back. His thoughts wandered as he fingered the chain idly, staring at the fire through his mask.

Danielle quietly stepped out of the bathroom. An old red, satin shift clung to her, the long skirt brushing the floor and hiding her bare feet. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, falling over her ear as she smiled at him and pushed it back. He could see the thoughts in her hazel eyes as she watched him, the sense of longing for the familiarity of this scene. She looked beautiful in the firelight. Erik sat up from the pillows and patted the sheets beside him, holding out an inviting hand.

"Come, you'll catch cold with your bare feet." She smiled and padded across the thick carpet to climb into the bed. He leaned back into the pillows as she kissed him, her hand placed tenderly on his chest. "You hands are so cold," he murmured against her lips, smiling faintly. Danielle gasped and her hand flinched back.

"I'm sorry," she said with an apologetic smile. She started to get off the bed to warm her hands by the fire. "I don't know why they're always cold…" Erik's hand grabbed hers before she could leave his side. He turned her face back to his with a brush of her cheek, gently gathering her cold hands within his own. Danielle looked at him as the warmth from his palms slowly seeped into her own, his white mask painted a faint orange from the fire.

"I know why. They're always so cold when you play, or write. It's like your body takes the warmth to fuel the fire beneath your breast. Your passion." One hand slowly slipped from his. The old instinct in him tried to convince him to move away, escape her grasp, but his trust in her had grown so great that he did not move as she took his mask off. She wanted to see him. Him. A faint smile crossed his lips as she brushed strands of his hair out of his eyes, unreservedly looking over his face as she set the mask aside.

"You really don't care, do you?"

"No," she said with a small smile, "I care all too much." The months apart seemed to be melting away. Erik's arm wrapped around her as she laid down beside him. She fit so perfectly by his side, molded against him as if they had been made for each other. He leaned his temple against her silky hair, pillowed with a comfortable weight on his shoulder.

If I were to die right now, I'd die a happy man. He shut his eyes to the dancing fire, to the night outside the window. All that existed was Danielle's steady breath beside him, her cool fingers splayed across his chest as he caressed her palm. He could breathe again. He realized that he had been holding his breath this whole time. The very air tasted sweeter.

"If only we had some hot chocolate," Danielle laughed contentedly.

"The one thing I don't have," he replied lightly. "The stars, the moon, the music of the night…and you ask for chocolate." He laughed, and Danielle smiled as it tickled her ear still pressed to his chest. "But then I suppose you don't need me to give you the stars or the moon, do you, Angel?"

"No, but I have all the music I need."

"That's right. I didn't get to hear your score." He touched her arm gently. Danielle sighed happily and shrugged her shoulder, letting Erik slip the robe's sleeve down. He gently pushed it past her elbow, trailing his fingers over her soft skin. "Does it hurt you ever?"

Danielle opened her eyes and slowly raised herself on her elbow. She could still feel Erik's heart beating beneath her palm, unchanged from the night he had first taken her hand to his chest. Her other hand moved to hold Erik's over the small scars in her arm. "No, Erik," she said softly. "And you don't need to hear it. It's in here." Her hand traced up his chest adoringly. "This is where it comes from. This is our music." She took his hand and placed it over her own heart, and Erik opened his pale blue eyes to stare into her hazel ones. The whole world was composed of their single pulse, then: the beat of the birds' wings outside the window, the horses' hooves on the road, the motion of the tides, even their breathing was as one. The fine chain around his neck gleamed as he guided Danielle's hand toward it, his grip slipping to lie on her forearm.

"Danielle," he said, so softly in that silent world. The ring hanging at his back obeyed her gentle beckon, easing over his shoulder as she pulled at the chain. His arm around her held her closer. "Danielle, would you…"

The light was cruel and merciless on their eyes as it fell through the suddenly opened doorway. They both squinted, turning their heads away. Erik's hand tightened on Danielle's arm.

"Let go of her," Nereaux growled. Dropping it off the doorknob, he put his hand back in his pocket. The key still stuck out of the lock. The way he held his coat out a bit, his hand stuck in the fabric in an unsettling way, left no room to imagine what he could be pointing at them. At Erik.

Danielle gaped at him as she realized with horror just how far his misconceptions ran. Erik's arm tight around her, her robe fallen from her shoulders to show the top of her corset and bare shoulders, both of them entangled on the bed sheets, couldn't have looked more incriminating to that misled gendarme. With an outraged cry she leapt from the bed to place herself between him and Erik. Again.

"What do you think you're doing?" she snapped. Nereaux's revolver dropped as he removed his hand from the pocket. He tried to avert his eyes from her nightgown-clad form, but Danielle was beyond caring; she left her robe hanging low on her back in the crook of her elbows, placing her hands formidably on her hips.

"I'm here to take you home, mademoiselle. This is no company for a woman such as yourself." The scorn he barely concealed in his voice abruptly sent her over the edge. He thought Erik was a danger, a monster. It was just his luck that he had the sense enough not to say it aloud.

"How dare you," she hissed caustically. "How dare you? To think you have a right to interfere with our lives. To assume you know better." She would have launched into a series of terrible curses supplied by a lifetime of backstage workers if Erik's gentle hand hadn't touched her shoulder. Nereaux dipped his hand back into his pocket.

"I said don't," he threatened, but Danielle moved to shield Erik again. Her hair swayed as she shot a heated glare over her shoulder, putting her hand almost protectively on Erik's waist. When she turned back to him he wore a sad smile, putting his strong hands beneath her hair and onto her shoulders, tracing her neck lovingly. He was amazed at her fierceness. With the glare she had shot at the boy he was surprised Nereaux hadn't yelped from a third-degree burn yet. Her stiff shoulders loosened as he gently lifted her chin to meet his eye.

"Vendettas are bad for the soul," he said gently. She smiled and dropped her head as if embarrassed, and then her breath caught in a soft gasp. Erik looked down at the ring, hanging from its chain in the middle of his chest. It shone so innocently, so…longingly, in the firelight. Danielle's eyes gleamed wetly as she looked up at him.

"Erik…" Say yes, a voice in her mind whispered urgently. Just say yes.

"Don't, my Angel," he soothed as she vainly tried to form the word on her tongue, blinking fiercely at the heat in her eyes. "I never even dared to dream that this could happen. Don't regret." He pressed his brow to hers. "This will not be forever," he confided. "I promise you."

Danielle shut her eyes with her brow pressed against his. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't damn fair. Her hand reached up to wrap around his neck, now more for support than protection. "What will you do, M Nereaux," she said, not turning to him, her voice quavering faintly, "if I do not agree to come?"

The guard shifted, his hand still resting in his pocket. "I will take the midnight train for Paris, mademoiselle. If the train set out and you were no there…" he let it hang, "…then I would know who to come after."

"It's already eleven o'clock. You didn't leave yourself much time," she said condescendingly. She sighed and drew back from Erik to glance over her shoulder at Nereaux. "Am I allowed to change, or am I to walk through Russia dressed like this?"

Francois blushed above his tightened jaw. "You both slipped away at the opera. If you would use the bathroom, please."

"It's alright," Erik murmured in her ear. "He can't hurt me." Danielle looked between them anxiously, and Erik could see her steeling herself as she gathered her dress. As she threw the garment over her arm, her palm was suddenly thrust insistently in Nereaux's direction.

"Give me your pistol," she ordered calmly. Francois nearly laughed before shaking his head firmly. He would have spoken, but Danielle flexed her fingers, her spine stiffening. "M Nereaux, if you expect me to cooperate I must have some assurance. I cannot trust you after such a short meeting." Francois eyed her unwavering hand doubtfully.

Very slowly, almost ceremoniously, he took the revolver from his pocket and placed its grip in her palm. A brief look of frustration and profound sadness flashed across her face before she spun around and shut the bath's door.

Erik shot a side-long glance at Nereaux that would have been a formidable glare head on. "You are a very foolish man to inflict a woman's wrath," he said before turning away to gather his own clothes.

"What are you doing?" the boy snapped warily. Erik didn't pause in buttoning up his shirt and pulling on his tailcoat. He was probably leading himself to his own execution, but Erik refused to be forced anywhere bound, not when he had just been freed of his chains.

"Escorting Danielle to the train station." Francois looked like he was going to stop him. Folding his cravat, Erik murmured over his shoulder. "A very foolish man, indeed." The guard started and spun around, searching for the source of the voice in his ear.

There were definitely advantages to having 'Opera Ghost' on one's résumé.

Realizing he was the object of some trick of his voice, Nereaux stopped searching and sneered at Erik. "She should hate you," he said quite bluntly. No eloquence at all. Erik supposed it wasn't a trait most police needed, although he had always admired it in Nadir. He calmly straightened his jacket as he stood from lacing his polished dress shoes. It was painfully obvious that Erik looked much more distinguished than Nereaux with his fine clothes and confident stance. He turned to the chair by the fire.

"On that," he said quietly, "I agree with you." His hand paused a moment on the cloak before he picked it up and swung it around his shoulders. "But she does hate you. And who are we to convince her otherwise?" I should kill him, he thought. I could kill him. It had been so long since he had felt that compulsion. But they couldn't run forever. He didn't want to run forever. Killing the boy would surely seal them to the fate of fugitives, when at least Danielle deserved to grace the stage back in Paris for years to come.

When he turned back, he froze as stiff as a corpse. Francois was holding the mask, turning it over uneasily in his hands. "I just can't see it," he muttered. Erik held out his hand.

"Give that to me," he growled darkly. Francois looked up at him.

"You seduced her, and yet she defends you." His jaw was tight again in what he believe was righteous indignation. Erik paused.

"Were you watching the opera, tonight?"

"Yes, how else would I know you were here?" Erik reached out and snatched the mask from the boy's hands.

"Have you heard Danielle play her composition? On the piano?"

Francois hesitated, watching as Erik silently pressed the mask against his cheek. The boy sighed audibly as he did in unveiled relief before shaking his head. "No, I have never heard her play it."

"You should ask her, when you return to Paris. Fenris' Cry. Ask her to play it for you." The bathroom door opened softly. Danielle stood in a black dress with a loose skirt, her hair pinned up in a comb that left stray tendrils curling at her neck and along her cheek. She held the pistol at her side. The look she cast about the room was pained, as if she were desperately searching for something to stop this madness. But there was nothing there to find. She handed the pistol back to Nereaux and packed the robe back into her suitcase. As she turned to take her cloak, Erik was there first, placing it around her shoulders affectionately. She looked up at him longingly over her shoulder, sadly, and he leaned forward to kiss her temple.

Nereaux thought that Erik may have whispered something in her ear, but he couldn't hear what. He turned and opened the door, waiting in the hall, and silently led the way down the stairs.

Danielle insisted on waiting for Erik to get his horse out of the stable. Francois watched her sadly as she stood in the cold. Why did she love him? What had that monster ever done to earn such unending compassion?

"M Nereaux," she asked, her arms crossed, "what are you going to do with Erik?"

He blinked. She wouldn't look at him for a long moment, but when she did her eyes were full of worry. He hesitated and swallowed hard. "Bring him back to Paris," he said. He realized that he couldn't fulfill his promise to the Gypsy woman. The gendarmes would never let it slide if he let some vigilante woman with a grudge take care of a murderer in his custody. Francois might as well have turned himself in for assisted homicide when he got back if he handed the man over to her. He watched as Danielle nodded and turned back to the night, her breath forming a small cloud before her. When Erik appeared, the reins of a magnificent black mare in his hands, he put his arm around her shoulder and hers around his middle. Francois sighed and began walking through the streets to the train station.

"Erik," Danielle murmured, the two of them trailing behind the gendarme. Her other arm slipped around him as she lifted her hazel eyes to his face. "We could still get away." He looked down at her from behind his white mask. At that moment, he knew that if he asked, she would run away with him. She would abandon everything and escape with him. All they would have was each other. His steps slowed, and the two of them stood still in the dark street. She looked up at him, pressed close to his warmth as he held her against him.

Was there anything more he could want? They could get away. They could escape the stares, the hardships, this world of cruel survival and persecution where differences were shunned and despised. He need only say one word, take one step back.He opened his mouth to speak, glancing towards Nereaux. Athena bobbed her head as he readjusted his grip on her reins, and suddenly she whickered and reared back.

"Going somewhere, Don Juan?" Erik's arm tightened around Danielle, and her entire body tensed. Words abandoned him. Francois started and drew to a halt. A woman and three men stood in the dim light of a streetlamp, the woman smiling smugly with her arms crossed. Silks and sheer scarves were draped around her, an elegant cloak with fur at the collar pulled over her shoulders. As Danielle frowned at her, she thought that the fur had an orange color to it.

"Mariana," Erik growled, holding Danielle near him defensively. She glanced up at him, looked at his anxious, hunted expression. The woman laughed coldly.

"Hello, Don Juan." Her gaze flicked contemptuously over Danielle. "Enjoying the fresh air?" Francois blinked and held up a forestalling hand.

"Madame, what are you doing here? I have everything under control—"

"Of course you do, dear boy," she said dismissively, her gaze never wavering from Danielle and Erik, like a predator's on its chosen prey. The men behind her shifted, one of them cracking his knuckles. "But we've decided to take things into our own hands. You've been of great help to us."

Francois frowned and looked back at them. He held out a hand to Danielle. "Then, Mlle, would you come with me?" He looked slightly worried, as if he had failed in one aspect of his plan. Danielle, discreetly reaching over Athena's saddle behind Erik's back, hesitated.

"That won't be necessary, Monsieur." Francois blinked again and looked back at Mariana, his hand still outstretched to Danielle.

"But you said—"

"I will take care of mademoiselle myself."

"You can't," Erik suddenly snapped, his arm lifted defensively before her. His stance was the same as that night in the cellars after Faust, but hot rage had replaced the cold fury in his eyes that night. Danielle started as he began to turn to her, putting her hand on his shoulder.

"Don't turn around," she whispered hurriedly. Her hand froze on Athena's saddle, bare inches away from the silver hilt of a sword. "What do you need?"

For you to get away, he wanted to say. Now he knew how Christine had felt while he watched Raoul, conceiving how to get to her through him. How to break her. He could only imagine what Mariana was thinking as she watched Danielle, a cold malicious grin twisting her lips. "The rope," he murmured softly instead, his lips barely moving.

"Madame, please," Francois said, "she has nothing to do with this."

"Oh, but she has everything to do with this," Mariana argued, both oblivious to her softly pulling the coil of rope from the mare's saddle. Erik's gloved hand closed on it as she pressed it against his palm, reaching once more for the hilt.

"But you said that you would let me take her back to Paris," Francois suddenly said.

"But was it not you who agreed to hand Don Juan over to me? You, who just said that you would take him back to Paris? To a jail cell? That is a paradise compared to what he deserves. With me, he will face justice." She held her chin up a bit, smiling triumphantly. "No better than an animal."

The sound of a blade sliding free of its sheath suddenly filled the air. Athena sidestepped as Danielle pushed past her, her hand tight around the skull-shaped hilt of the sword as she lifted it over the saddle. Erik grabbed her wrist, stopping her from moving forward. "Never," she hissed, staring at the Gypsy. "You will never put him back in that cage, you beast." Erik sighed.

"Who is the beast, mademoiselle?" Danielle's hand tightened into a fist as Erik pulled her back. He pushed her against Athena, meeting her heated gaze.

"Don't, Danielle," he said quietly, firmly. "This is not your place. You don't have to do this."

"Neither should you," she said simply. He paused, staring at her from behind his mask. The anger in her eyes dissolved into frustrated anguish. "You shouldn't have to do this anymore."

Curses, would irony never leave him be? For years he had had no one to tell him he need not kill, that it was all for nothing in the courts at Mazanderan, the catwalks of the Opera. And now that he had no choice, he had Danielle's eyes pleading that he spill no more blood on his hands. But she knew he had no choice. One slender hand reached out to clasp his around the rope, still hidden beneath his cloak.

"You said that we wouldn't have to run anymore."

The thick thud of a punch suddenly reached their ears. Danielle flinched and looked past him to see Francois staggering, one hand lifting his pistol while the other went to his neck. His assailant knocked it from him easily, and suddenly the two were at each others throats. The other two men with Mariana advanced on Erik and Danielle. She tightened her grip on the hilt as Erik turned.

The lasso had tightened around the first man's neck before anyone could blink an eye, and he fell without a sound. They Gypsy's smile slipped, and Alfonse paused, eyeing Erik warily. With an angry gesture, Mariana threw her fur-line cloak over her shoulders and pulled a long knife from her belt. "Fine," she snapped vehemently, "have it your way, Devil's child. Hold the girl for me, Alfonse."

She stalked forward gracefully, like a cobra winding across the cobblestones. Erik flicked his wrist, calling the Punjab lasso back easily. Two cobras. As he did, Mariana rose her other hand to her eyes, grinning at him knowingly. The blade spun in her hand as she flourished it, slinking every closer.

"Do you like me new cloak, Devil's child?" she asked. In the weak light of the distant streetlamps, she almost looked to have fangs. Erik sneered and hefted the rope.

"Do you have no respect for anything living? For innocence?"

"There is no such thing as innocence, Devil's child. There never was." Her voice was almost hypnotic as she came closer. Every word was punctuated by the soft ring of bells tied about her ankle, by the sting of a whip on his side. "Innocence is just something you created a long time ago, a fantasy you could cling to in your own dark behind that mask. But it never existed." His grip slipped on the rope a bit. "It was all in your mind. It never existed."

No, it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. But you were never innocent, her eyes taunted him. If a babe cannot be innocent, then what can be? The knife gleamed as she stepped closer, held almost like a gift to him.

The lily. The poor little white flower she had plucked from life so long ago. Surely that was innocence. "Cat of Nine Tails," he murmured.

Mariana suddenly thrust the knife at his side, but Erik was too quick for her. He spun and looped the rope over her wrist, yanking her around. The Gypsy gave a feral growl and twisted away, landing her heel in the back of his knee. He fell to one knee, but not before he had twisted the knife from her grip. His cloak flourished as he leapt back to his feet, throwing her off balance.

They must have danced like that for an eternity, both reaching for the rope, the knife. Erik grabbed at the lasso, still knotted around Mariana's one wrist. She cried as he pulled it, dragging her close for him to loop the rest of the rope over her neck. Her foot twined around his ankle, and with a desperate shove she threw them both backwards.

There was a sickening pop as Erik landed on his shoulder, and his hands let go of the rope as he gasped in pain.

"Erik!" Danielle cried out. He forced his eyes open, one hand clasped to his dislocated shoulder. She was caught in Alfonse's arms, struggling against him as she stared down at him fearfully, a small cut giving her a vivid blush across her pale cheeks. The sword lay at the man's feet. Mariana crouched near Erik, pulling the lasso away from her arm. Her gaze flew from Danielle to him, and she smiled cruelly.

"Erik," she cooed, leaning over him. Her fingers pulled at his mask, tearing it away to bare him to the night. "So that is your name, Devil's child?" Her words dripped with honey, like poison from a viper's fangs. She threw the mask away, shattering it against the cobblestones, and traced a hand across his face. Erik growled, glaring up at her, but she reached out her other hand to place it on his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, but he could not stop the groan that escaped him as she pressed it down.

"I was willing to give you everything, Erik," she said, tasting the name on her lips. "I was willing to be reasonable. But now you've shut that door yourself." Her hand weighed painfully on his dislocated shoulder, and Danielle struggled against her captor as he groaned in pain again. Mariana's eyes flashed wildly as she turned her head to the woman. "Alfonse, silence her." His fist caught her in the middle, so hard that she doubled over, blood flecking her lips as she gasped for breath. Mariana watched pitilessly as she rose from Erik's side, Alfonse drawing back from the girl. She caught the young noblewoman as her knees gave way.

Her hand brushed Danielle's cheek so that she looked up at her, her hazel eyes fierce but clouded with pain. "A hard fate," she said quietly, leaning down to whisper in her ear. Danielle's face was pallid as she tore her gaze away from Erik. "A hard fate, when all you did was fall in love." She smiled as her fingers dug into the girl's arm, and heard the whistle of the Punjab lasso too late. Alfonse fell very slowly as the rope fell loose of its master's hand, cast for the last time. Mariana's eyes went wide as she watched him crumple to the ground, like no more than a rag doll. The hand she had on Danielle's cheek turned into a claw, and she struck her so hard that she fell back to the cobblestones.

"How dare you!" she shrieked, turning to Erik furiously. He was panting, gripping his arm after throwing the lasso. Pain shot through the joint, as if it were on fire, and when Mariana's boot fell on it he actually cried out. "You will pay for that, you lifeless corpse!" The Gypsy snatched up the knife, spinning back to Danielle. She was raising herself slowly to all fours, her cloak in tatters and her hair falling raggedly around her face, breathing hard. Mariana bent down to catch her by the arm and haul her up, the knife diving for her flesh.

The sword point met her just between the ribs. The hand on Danielle's arm pulled the cloak off as she stared in shock at the skull hilt gripped tight in that pale, slender hand. The knife fell from her hands as Danielle staggered back against the wall, taking the stained blade with her. Mariana collapsed without a sound, only the faint whisper of gold bells ringing her death knell.

The world was deathly silent after that. The metallic clash of the sword slipping from Danielle's shaking hand could have shattered the world, it was so loud. She slid down the wall, holding her side as she breathed raggedly. Exhausted, she leaned her head against the wall and shut her eyes, her breath slowing.

"Danielle," Erik called, wincing as he rose to his feet. He stepped over the Gypsy's body and knelt beside her, holding his wounded arm close to him as he touched her cheek with his other. "Danielle, look at me." She barely flicked an eyelash. Fear overcoming him, he cupped her cheek in his palm. "I won't sing your requiem, Danielle. Now look at me!"

"I wouldn't have you sing my requiem," she said softly, lifting one hand to lace her fingers through his. He sighed in relief as she opened her eyes. "Erik, what have I done?"

He pulled her close, resting her head on his opposite shoulder. "What you had to, Danielle," he said. She shivered slightly, pressing her hand against his chest, and Erik wrapped his cloak around them both. Every shred of adrenaline-forced tension suddenly loosened in him, and he dropped his head onto her shoulder.

"You're hurt," she said, drawing back to look at him. Her hand fleetingly touched his shoulder, so lightly that he felt no pain from it. Instead of answering, he wiped away the thin trail of blood from the corner of her lips.

"So are you." She smiled and shook her head, laughing weakly. He gathered her close again, both of them shrouded in his thick cloak.

Neither of them wanted to turn to see whose footsteps were drawing closer. Francois watched them both for a minute, nursing a gash near his ear. His eyes flicked over the Gypsy, the shattered mask. He bent to pick up his pistol and slip it back into his coat pocket. When Danielle and Erik finally looked up at him, he held out a hand.

"We can still make the train." Danielle frowned, but then looked around at the scene surrounding them. Francois helped her to stand, and they both helped Erik keep his balance as he stood, holding his arm near his chest. He bent down again, though, and silently pulled the black cloak from the Gypsy woman's body. Danielle slipped an arm around his waist as he draped it over her shoulders. The tiger's fur brushed her neck as he smoothed it out reverently.

"Athena," he suddenly said, looking around. He whistled softly, and after a moment the mare trotted to his side, whickering as she nosed his cheek. Danielle smiled. Francois gestured for them to hurry, and turned to stride down the street. "My mask," Erik said after a minute, touching his cheek. Danielle held Athena's reins in her hand, Erik's good arm wrapped around her shoulders as they supported one another. She glanced around, and suddenly snatched a black wool hat with an angled brim off a store front.

Walking beside them now, Francois frowned. "Mademoiselle, we shouldn't—"

"Then leave some coins. This one's old anyway." And she snugged it low over Erik's brow, hiding nearly the whole half of his face. She paused, a wistful smile crossing her lips. Erik frowned.

"What?'

"That hat suits you." Erik managed a debonair grin, standing a little straighter. When they reached the train, the first flakes of a fresh snow were just beginning to fall. Erik secreted Athena in a freight car, and the three of them climbed into the last car on the train.

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