Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for Ze'ev Borochov. He's mine…mine…

Side Notes:

Thank you so much to Chat and Random for betaing! Their own work can be found here at FFN: Chat is under "Chatastic", and Random is under "Random-Battlecry". They are both wonderfully witty authoresses, take a look.

Squishmich – kick You're a darlin' monkey :) Thanks for reading.

Phantomy-cookies (la fantomie-biscuits, ha!) – you are evil, I say, evil. I am holding to that, even after chatting with you mwah I couldn't find a way to work a "cookies" cameo in, so consider yourself the sweetbread that was consumed for breakfast. You are officially the first Frat!Packer to be eaten in the story.

Mom and Dad – Happy Anniversary! Here's to hoping you're out on the town instead of reading this.

I sense that some of the readers are concerned about various circumstances ruining our dear couple's happiness. Should you be? My lips are sealed. Read on, read on.

Thank you to all of the Frat!Packers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement, and hanging in there through the extra-long wait for another chapter. This writer is vacationed and cracking her knuckles again!

An Idyllic Existence

Madame Reinard stretched indulgently in her bed, the extra hour's sleep doing wonders for her countenance. The golden light of Jerusalem spilled through her bedroom windows and drove away the last few clouds of the previous night's storms.

Erik had risen at dawn when the adhan had sounded, quietly slipping from her embrace and replacing his clothing before the rest of the household made their way to the roof. In her half-conscious state, she had felt his eyes upon her for a long while, then heard him move about the room as quietly as possible before gently shutting the door.

Christine wondered if her new husband had even slept after their early morning return to her bedroom from the underground cistern. Both had been loath to waste hours dreaming, when there was so much to discover in their newfound familiarity. They made love again, and afterwards, fell into hushed conversation, reminiscing over their lives at the opera—the various productions, characters, and performers. The young singer found it rather odd and exhilarating to be discussing Wagner's operas while lying naked in a man's embrace. And yet, with Erik, it seemed perfectly natural.

He had stroked her back while passionately asserting that the Paris debut of Tannhäuser had been a fiasco in every sense of the word; Wagner had been foolish; the opera was simply too grandiose a work to be produced upon the incompetent Rue Lepeletier stage.

Pressing her mouth to his neck, she had gently reminded him that the work itself was beautiful; it was not Wagner's fault that the opera house had lacked the resources and enthusiasm to realize the vision that was Tannhäuser.

Erik had scoffed at her kind support of the composer, retorting that ultimately, it had rested upon Wagner's shoulders to ensure that his work was staged properly. He could have done a much better job, he declared. Besides, he smirked while burying his fingers in her curls, she had been an infant when the opera premiered, and could hardly be expected to offer a knowledgeable opinion on the matter.

And she had playfully reminded him that he was living in Persia at the time of Tannhäuser's debut, and had not seen it, either. Furthermore, the fact that he had been of an age to form such firm opinions when the "Wagner disaster" occurred, implied that he was old enough to be her father.

Her teacher mumbled something incoherent about the beast he had created, kissing her soundly for her impertinence.

Christine certainly never had any such discussions with Raoul; usually, afterwards, they had found their respective sides and had drifted off to sleep. Their bed had been pleasant enough, as had their conversation. And while it was unkind to make comparisons between her first husband and her second, she could not help but notice the marked difference.

Marriage to Erik would be anything but conventional—she knew as much, already. Who else but her angel would use his music to seduce her mind before he even touched her body? Oh, how his voice of velvet had wrapped around her like a warm cloak, pulling her into the frightful comfort of its beauty. When he sang, even quietly as he had last night, everything that was dark and powerful had possessed her …

"Erik," she had murmured, "do you miss it, ever?"

"Miss what?"

"The opera house. Are you sad to have left it behind?"

He chuckled softly. "Which should I miss more, my angel—La Carlotta's incessant shrieking, or those two buffoons that call themselves managers, groveling at her feet?" His laughter stilled as he seriously thought over her question.

"I suppose I regret leaving behind the security of my lair. My organ, of course…"

"The Persian monkey?" she smiled against his chest.

"Ah yes," he exclaimed. "The poor fellow is most diligently awaiting my return, I am sure." He kissed her temple. "Truthfully, Christine, I lost interest in the opera house after you left. You were, are, my music. I am not quite sure when the two became inextricably entwined, but I could never be content in the solitary life I had lead before you set foot in the Opéra Populaire. Resigned, perhaps, but never content."

He paused in reflection.

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on," he spoke quietly, as if to himself. "Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it…do you remember that proverb, from the Rubaiyat?"

Christine nodded. "You said it means that the past cannot be erased, no matter how hard we wish for it." She sighed contentedly. "I find, though, that I no longer wish to erase the past. I have regrets… the fear, jealousy, pain that we all suffered. However, they have brought me to you, to this point."

"Christine," he replied solemnly, "there were many tragic coincidences that brought us to this point. It would have been better to have found each other under different circumstances."

"Yes," she whispered. An image of Raoul's wasted, pain-ridden face flashed before her. She shook it away. "I do not believe in coincidences, though, Erik. For hope to exist, something good must come from the bad."

Her teacher sighed indulgently, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I had forgotten how refreshing your young ideals could be, Christine. Yes, hope is a blessed thing, for those who have it. For those who do not, life is a curse."

"You do not have it?" She sat up, her eyes searching his.

He reassuringly touched a finger to her face, memorizing every fine distinction.

"I do now…"

OOOOO

"Maaammmaaan!"

Jean-Paul's frantic cry broke into her reverie. Leaping from her bed, the mother quickly wrapped her dressing gown tightly about her, cinching the tie at her waist. She pushed back the bolt to her child's door and crouched down to his level, letting the sobbing boy fall into her open arms.

"Whatever is the matter, mon petit? Did you have a bad dream?" She gently stroked his silky curls, pressing her lips to the top of his head.

The boy stuck his fingers in his mouth and peered up at his entire world through watery eyes. He waggled his head and buried his wet, tearful face between her breasts.

"Ma-a-man," he hiccupped, clutching his mother's robe as if she would vanish into thin air.

Christine smiled and scooped up her child, pacing back and forth until his wails were reduced to breathless hitches. If anyone upon the fourth floor had still been asleep, they would most likely be venturing from their rooms now, after her son's cries of despair.

"Would you like to go outside for breakfast, little man? The sisters will have sweet breads for you this morning, as well as fig preserves. And Papa is here…"

I hope, she silently added as the boy suddenly lost interest in her comforting arms and toddled towards the door. She hurriedly stepped into her tiny bathroom and slipped on her undergarments, plain gray dress and slippers, then checked her appearance in the small square mirror to make certain that her hair was not a mass of tangles. Smoothing a hand over the curls and tying them back with a ribbon, she nervously smiled at her reflection, took her boy's hand, and led him onto the roof.

The sky was magnificent; still a rosy hue in the early hours of morning. The sun had just crested over the Mount of Olives and bathed the old city in its gentle golden glow, casting long shadows across the veranda.

Nadir and Norry were already up as well, engaged in quiet conversation over Arab coffee and flatbreads. And Erik was there, she saw with relief. He stood at the far corner of the roof with the air of a king surveying his land; back straight and dignified, hands clasped behind him, dark head held high. His very demeanor exuded a calm elegance that caused Christine's breath to catch.

He had not seen her yet. She watched, spellbound, as he closed his eyes and turned his masked face to the sun, drawing strength from its rays.

How long has it been since he has simply basked in the light of day? the woman thought sadly. She doubted that he had ever taken comfort in its warmth, before; as long as she had known her angel, he had relentlessly shunned it with a hard cruelty that usually left both of them cold. This morning, however…

This morning, there was nothing cruel in the peaceful lines of his face.

Jean-Paul pulled his tiny hand from his mother's grip and toddled over to the man. With a small cry, he grabbed a fist-full of Erik's cotton thob and tugged, demanding complete attention.

"Papa!"

The masked man's eyes flew to the child at his side, his spine stiffening in shock.

Christine anxiously bit her lip, remembering belatedly that Erik did not yet know of her decision to delay telling Jean-Paul the truth. She could only pray that it wouldn't matter, now that they were married.

"Papa! Biscuit, sil' plais. "

Not knowing what else to do, "Papa" scooped up the boy and set him in a chair next to Nadir. Glancing over the foods at the table, he placed a few breakfast items on a plate for the boy, guessing at what he might like.

"There are no biscuits, Jean-Paul—not for breakfast. Will you eat these, instead?"

The child bobbed his head enthusiastically, anxious to please the man.

Christine covered the smile upon her lips as her son poked at the slimy boiled egg, then passed it by for the large piece of honeyed flatbread. He studied it in confusion, trying to decide how best to eat the thing. At last, he picked it up between his tiny fingers and struggled to stuff it into his mouth, smearing honey across his cheeks as he did so.

Erik grimaced as he watched the boy eat and handed him a cloth napkin to wipe his face. Jean-Paul stared at it, then went back to his sweetbread.

"You have to tear the bread into smaller pieces," the mother explained, stepping away from the doorframe. "He still needs help with certain foods."

Her husband whirled around and spotted her hovering just behind him. In an instant, the familiar etches of resentment settled into his features once more; he opened his mouth to speak, and Christine braced herself for his sharp tongue. Instead, however, he shook his head and strode to her side, firmly grasped her hand.

"We will discuss this 'Papa' situation later, my angel," he murmured, his soft words laced with an unmistakable tone of authority.

A sudden burst of laughter from the two men conversing at the table broke through the tension. Both peered at the uneasy masked man and small boy with alacrity, struggling to hide the grins spreading across their faces. She felt Erik's hand tighten upon hers.

"What is the matter, my friend? In your hurry to acquire a wife yesterday, did you forget that you were also acquiring a son?" the Persian called, his eyes twinkling amusedly. "You must learn these things sometime, if you are to be a Papa."

Norry slapped his knee heartily. "I'd say by his expression, it clean slipped his mind—the mess he was gettin' himself into." He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the masked man again, oblivious to the new husband's clenched jaw. "You watch these two, Monsieur—they are a handful, to be sure! This little scamp, especially. The Comtesse, now—"

"She is no longer a Comtesse!" Erik hissed, his eyes glittering with anger. "And I am not that child's—"

"Erik!"

Christine quickly glanced at Jean-Paul to see if he had heard the man's angry words. Thankfully, he was too engrossed in sliding the boiled egg about his plate to pay any attention to the conversation. She shot her husband an accusatory look, and motioned for him to follow her to their bedroom.

He crossed his arms and straightened to his full, imposing height, returning her glare with one that implied he would not be going anywhere. A well-known smirk settled upon his mouth, and Christine had to suppress the urge to whirl away in childish frustration. Before she had the chance to, however, a desperate cry rang through the breezeway.

"You unholy bastard!"

Henri David stumbled onto the roof, waving a condemning finger at the masked man. His clothing and hair were uncharacteristically rumpled; fine stubble covered his cheeks, and his eyes were bloodshot and darkly circled. He wore the same libas with his expensive dress shoes, but the hem of the left leg was tucked into the heel of his shoe, lending his overall look an air of insanity.

Erik watched the man approach with glittering eyes.

"You! You roped my door shut last night, then stole Christine away! What did you do to her, you son-of-a-bitch?"

"Remember Jean-Paul," Christine hissed, though neither man heeded her. Erik took a step back from the lawyer, holding up his hands in mock penitence. She had to give him credit for stifling his anger—she saw his jaw grinding harshly, though the others did not.

"While I would have relished such an action, Monsieur," Erik sneered, his face darkening, "I can assure you that I did not lock you in your room. And as for Madame—she was a most willing accomplice last night."

The avocat growled and started towards the man, but then thought twice about it, his eyes filling with fear. It was obvious he was remembering his time spent in the London cellar. He glanced towards Christine as if hoping she would back him in some way or another, or at least deny the man's claim.

The Persian cleared his throat. "I believe there may be some confusion on your part, M. David," he said solemnly. "I know that my friend would seem to be the most likely culprit for your, ah, detention last night. However, you must not blame him—I was the one that roped your door shut."

All eyes immediately turned to the daroga in surprise. He cleared his throat again, amused by the shock that suffused his masked friend's features.

"Roped?" Christine asked in confusion.

"The doors open out," the daroga explained. "Just a thin rope looped several times around the handle and the breezeway railing, next to his room." He turned back to the lawyer. "I apologize for it, but I felt it was indeed necessary, after your unfortunate disclosure to the sister in your rather panicked state." Nadir shrugged. "It was better to keep you tucked away, than to have you face the wrath of my friend."

Henri shivered delicately, his eyes wide with fright. "You locked me away because of what I told the sisters? Someone had to explain his presence here, and you seemed to be in no hurry." He turned to Christine, weakly holding out his hands. "I was trying to save your reputation – I swear, that was all I intended to do. I didn't even know that you had married this…monster, until Papi came running into the parlor, crying! Thank goodness Sister Marie had left by then, or we would all be sunk—"

"Enough!" Erik bellowed, effectively silencing the trembling avocat. His fist clenched and unclenched at his side, fingers itching for his punjab lasso. He turned cold eyes upon the lawyer, his words now threateningly low.

"Pray, Monsieur," he spat, "spare us your tirade and come to the point. What exactly did you tell Sister Marie?"

M. David choked in fear, his adam's apple moving up and down his dry throat. The air was oppressively thick as he searched the faces about him for some sort of aid, but no one dared to rise to the occasion.

"Tell him, Monsieur," the Persian said quietly, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement.

"I—I told the sisters you were her uncle—my uncle. They prepared a room for you down the hall, just to the right. I had to tell them something, so M. Nitot's younger bro—"

With a great roar, Erik launched himself at the quaking lawyer before he had a chance to escape, and sent him sprawling across the stone floor at Christine's feet. The woman leapt away in surprise, making a beeline for her child.

Norry motioned to the worried mother to stay put. "It's gettin' late, it is," the old caretaker exclaimed over the shouts, leaping up from his chair. "Not used to piddlin' around in the mornin'. I'd best be off to see to my girlie at the orphanage." Never one to stick his nose in other's business, he picked up the captivated two-year-old and winked at a concerned Christine, making as hasty a retreat as possible.

The masked man wrapped his fingers around Henri's neck, the exposed side of his face turning red with anger.

"You have been a bane to me for a good many weeks, Monsieur!" he hissed through bared teeth. "I should have killed you in London—"

"Please," the avocat croaked, "air! Christine—"

The woman stepped forward in worry, reaching out hesitantly to her fallen friend. A firm hand at her elbow stilled her, and she glanced up at the Persian in bewilderment.

He shook his head. "This is between your husband and M. David."

She looked at him as if her were mad. "But Erik could kill him…this isn't the first time they have fought each other."

"I know." The daroga sighed, and called to his friend. "Erik! Be careful not to strangle the life out of the boy. I would hate to have to find a different convent."

The masked man abruptly looked up at the sound of his name, and nodded.

M. David, taking advantage of his opponent's brief lapse in attention, let loose a shriek and swung out from under his attacker's grip, soundly connecting his fist with the man's nose and mask. A brittle cracking noise filled their ears, and Christine saw with horror that a small portion of her husband's porcelain mask had broken away.

Nadir winced. "That will not be pleasant tomorrow," he murmured. "Thank goodness he has a collection of those things with him. Perhaps next time he chooses to fight with Henri David, he should wear a leather one, instead—it is sturdier."

"This is not amusing, M. Khan," she snapped.

He smiled and wrapped a reassuring arm around the skittish woman's shoulders. "This doesn't bode well for your avocat, Madame. Do not worry about Erik. Let them fight—it will be better this way, believe me."

Christine's face paled as blood gushed from her angel's mottled nose. It was obviously broken. She wrung her hands in helpless frustration, every cell in her body calling for her to run to his side and help him from the ground. My poor Erik—

The lawyerstared at the masked man, his limbs trembling in terror. "My God! Y-your nose—half of it—what is wrong with—Christine, what in hell have you married?"

Her "poor" Erik hurled his shoulder against the avocat to throw him off balance and brutally returned the favor upon his nose. Grabbing the cloth of his rival's abaya, he shoved him against the stone roof edge, fighting to ignore the fire that shot through his face and stung his eyes.

"Hell? Precisely, Monsieur! Leave her be, or I swear I will make your face resemble mine!" he cried, his wild eyes inches from the quaking lawyer's. "She is MY wife, you damned boy—Mine! Not yours!" He released the man in disgust.

M. David fell against the wall in pain and covered his nose with his hands, blood seeping through his fingers. He watched as the fuming man grabbed Christine's wrist and escaped down the hallway to freedom. His eyes fluttered shut, and he let his head fall back in despair.

The Persian hovered above him, frown lines etched upon his brow. Holding out a hand to the defeated avocat, he carefully helped him to his feet.

"You would think that after being bested four times by this man, Monsieur, you would learn not to provoke him so."

Henri pinched his nose to ease the blood-flow. "I only spoke the truth, M. Khan. He is a monster—did you see his nose?" He whimpered nasally. "Why on earth did she choose him?"

The daroga took the man's elbow and helped him down the hallway, fighting the impulse to let him fall back to the ground. "I would tell you why, M. David, but you already know. The truth has been before you since your arrival in London, yet you have refused to see it. Speaking the words aloud would not make any difference."

"I know," the young man sighed, falling into his bed with a weariness of body and soul. "I saw it when she was in the cellar, that night. I saw it aboard the H.M.S. Inflexible, when she discovered he had followed us. Every day, she looked for him from the rooftop, in the streets…"

He watched the Persian dampen a towel; gratefully taking it from his hands, he dabbed it to his tender nose.

"I have loved her since Raoul brought her to her first dinner party. But I would never, ever—" He shook his head, choked. "I was waiting for her to finish grieving for her husband. But then that devil swooped in like a vulture…"

His words fell away, the pain in his face too great to continue.

Nadir studied the man—a boy, really, in many ways. "I imagine it would be hard to see someone you care for pine after another, day after day. The fact is, though, that Christine has not chosen you. If you care for her, you will abide by her wishes."

Henri said nothing. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, a few stray tears trickling down his face.

The daroga was not sure if they were tears of physical pain, or simply tears of turmoil. Whichever they were, it was obvious that the man wished to be left alone. Pushing the door open, he stepped out into the empty hallway to leave the man in peace. An amusing thought struck him, and he turned back on impulse, a grin spreading across his face.

"Indulge me in one more question, M. David, then I shall let you be," he said. "What possessed you to tell Sister Marie that Erik was Christine's uncle?"

The avocat simpered under the bloody towel, then grimaced as his nose throbbed even harder. "At the time, it was the only way I could think of to get even with him for coming back. Of course, Papi's disclosure quickly stifled any brief triumph I received from it. Still, it has brought me some small amount of satisfaction."

"I could not have invented anything better, myself." Nadir chuckled. "The fact that the entire convent now believes Christine's uncle has come to visit his nieces and nephew should be sweet enough revenge for you. Let it end there, M. David."

"I shall think on it," Henri murmured, and turned his face away from the Persian.

OOOOO

Christine glared at the infirm man bustling about the small room.

Erik held a wad of cloth to his nose with one hand; with the other, he rifled through his satchel and pulled out a small jar of ointment and another, sturdier, mask. Ignoring the daggers she was shooting at him, he ducked around her angry form and strode into the bathroom, pulling the curtain closed.

The woman had clearly seen that the porcelain upon his face had almost cracked completely through, most likely cutting him in several places where it had shattered about his nose. Fortunately, upon immediate inspection, he ascertained that his nose had not been broken—the mask had halted the blow, somewhat. He is still going to have a horribly swollen mess on his hands, she thought.

"Christine, isn't there something else you could be doing, besides burning holes through the curtain with your heated looks? If you must have someone to tend to, you could see to your fool of an avocat; I am quite certain I broke his nose."

Christine winced, remembering the sickening snap she had heard when Erik's fist connected with Henri's perfect visage. She shook her head. He was obviously trying to get rid of her, while he tended to his face alone; Christine knew as much. The man was as stubborn as anything when it came to his face.

"The least you could do is let me help you," she muttered, plopping down upon the bed and tucking her knees up under her chin. "I have seen your face, before, after all. Last night, for that matter—you recall it, perchance?"

The only response was the sound of sloshing water and a hiss of pain.

"If nothing else, you could tell me what has been bothering you since early this morning," she huffed indignantly.

Erik poked his head around the curtain, his face covered by a wet towel. "I cannot say, Christine. Perhaps it is the fact that my mask was pounded into what precious little nose I have," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or it could be that you promised to tell your son I wasn't his father, and never did so. Maybe I am troubled because I found out that I have a make-believe family. Now I cannot even stay with my wife at night, because the entire gaggle of nuns believes that I am your uncle!"

The woman stifled a laugh. "My dear Uncle Hades, your Persephone shall not turn you away from her door, I assure you!"

Erik lifted the bloody towel just barely and peered at her from its shadows. Sighing, he dropped it back into place and ducked behind the curtain again. "While the ancient Greeks were not averse to such…goings-on, my wife, I am sure that the sisters of Notre Dame de Sion might find offense in such a union. There really is nothing to be done about it."

"Well, we could tell Sister Marie the truth, I suppose."

"No! Say nothing, Christine. Not a word, do you hear?"

"But Erik, it is just a simple—"

"I said no!" he barked, then sucked in his breath as pain shot through his face.

Christine stared at the striped curtain where his head had been, bewildered by the sudden forcefulness of his words. Something nettled her again, as if she were missing a concern that ran deeper than the morning's confusion.

"Erik," she said softly, "please tell me what is wrong."

A long pause, and then his voice, now calm.

"In my anger yesterday, I am afraid I made a grievous error. I was careless—should have been on my guard, when I wasn't."

"You can't mean our marriage." Fear began to stir within her.

He pulled back the curtain again, his mask now loosely situated over his freshly-bandaged nose. "No no; not the marriage itself, Christine." A ghost of a smile manifested, despite his bruised, swollen features. "Believe me, angel, I am perfectly content in our union—more so than I deserve to be." Kneeling over his satchel, he pulled out her bank ledger and opened it, removing a piece of paper. He handed it to her.

"Read this."

It was their marriage certificate. She skimmed over it in confusion, not quite sure what to look for.

"I don't understand."

"The witnesses – look at their names."

"They are in different languages."

"Yes." He leaned over her shoulder and pointed to the entries. "The first is Arabic—the boy. The second is the Jewish man. It is written in Russian."

"And?"

"It says 'Sergei Degaev'."

Christine whirled around in surprise. "But…this is wonderful news! You have found him. Or rather, he has found you."

"He found me, Christine," he said, his voice grim. "Not only me, but you, as well…our real names, where we are living, that we came from Paris... And he knows that I murdered the priest." He ran his hands through his black hair. "How could I have been so foolhardy? So completely and utterly reckless?"

She shook her head in protest. "But Erik, we also know what he looks like, who he is…"

"We have no idea if he really is the Russian—that is the problem. He could have found out about my hunt for Degaev, and used the name as bait. These people, this organization—it is not beyond their means to do so. Who's to say they haven't already found us here, Christine?"

There was fear in his eyes. It was not often that she saw it there, but when it manifested, it frightened her; she did not like to think of her guardian angel as being afraid.

Erik must have glimpsed something of his troubled look reflected in her own eyes; wrapping his long fingers around the back of her neck, he pulled her closer, thumb skimming over the light scars upon her throat.

"This is why I wish for you not to go to the sisters with the truth, Christine." He released her neck, his fingers just grazing her collarbone. "As much as I would like to tout my lovely wife at every given opportunity, it would raise far too many questions—more than I am willing to answer. I certainly never should have come into the convent with you last night, but nothing can be done about that now. It is vital to protect whatever anonymity you have left."

"Very well," she murmured, trying not to think about what would happen if Mas Quennell's cronies did happen to find them in Jerusalem. Tossing her head back, she braved a bit of a smile. "What is our next move, then? Do we meet with Sergei Degaev?"

"I—not we—shall return to the bookstore, and see what I can find out. Ah, no protesting." He held up a finger to silence her retort. "Even if he is the man we are looking for, he is also a former People's Will radical; I am not inclined to trust him, just yet, and I'd rather not have you along when I meet him. If I feel it is safe, then I shall bring you."

Taking the certificate from her hand, he returned it to the ledger and tucked it into his satchel. "Which reminds me—do you have your punjab lasso here, or is it in the cistern?"

Christine watched his nervous fingers with growing curiosity. "It is in my bureau."

"First thing tomorrow morning, I am going to teach you how to use it. Despite your original sordid intentions in acquiring the thing, I have decided that you should learn how to protect yourself."

"You will actually teach me to use the lasso, then?" she asked incredulously.

Erik leaned against the bedpost, crossing his arms to hide his shaking hands from her. "Yes: the lasso, daggers, pistols, whatever my angel desires, God help us. Perhaps I will even give you lessons in breaking a man's nose. Would you like that, my dear wife?"

She laughed merrily. "If by breaking a man's nose you mean waiting until he hits you first, I'd rather pass that lesson by! Any of the other lessons would be more than acceptable." Sauntering over to the man, she lightly brushed a fingertip along his forearm. "However, I will only allow you to teach me, Maestro, on one condition."

His eyebrow quirked up. "Yes?"

"Resume Jean-Paul's music lessons," she rushed on. "He misses them; he misses you."

"Christine—"

She stomped her foot. "Do not shut out my son because you are afraid of him."

Her eyes pleaded, begged him for his indulgence. The man sighed wearily. He had a difficult time refusing her; it had become a gratingly pronounced weakness over the years.

"Very well, my angel. Your son shall have his music, and you, your weapons." He placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead and turned to leave.

"Erik?" Christine said softly, catching his hand in hers. "Thank you."

He glanced back and nodded, his painfully swollen features causing her heart to ache.

OOOOO

Ze'ev Borochov was a well-respected, average man. He was the proprietor of the Ma'ase SheHaya Bookstore, a moderately-successful shop nestled in the heart of the old city's Jewish quarter.

He had fled the Russian Empire several years ago, not long after the Czar's assassination, like hundreds of his brethren had done to escape the blood libels in their hometowns. Finding comfort next to the ancient, craggy wall of the Temple Mount, he settled into an idyllic life amongst other Jewish traders: cobblers, tailors, old furniture sellers, grocers, tobacconists, peddlers, goldsmiths, bakers, musicians, potters and painters. All conducted business with one another during the Shaot Avodah. At night, they feasted together; on the Sabbath, studied their Talmud and Torah.

For a good portion of his young life, Ze'ev had put aside his Jewish roots and dedicated himself to the modern causes of the Zemyla i Volya, or Land and Liberty. His mother had cried when he shaved away his temple locks; his father had driven him from their home in Russian Georgia.

Flourishing St. Petersburg had called to him, the glorious capital city with her bridges and canals, palaces, squares and statues. There, he met with his fellow revolutionaries to discuss the future society they were endeavoring to build. The forward thinkers inspired him; it was difficult not to be drawn in by their zeal. The utopians preached equality for all people—both peasants and princes alike.

After several years of devotion to the clandestine revolution, however, disillusionment began to set in. Political reform was slow in coming—too slow, for many of the youthful, impatient members. A good portion of them took up the slogan "Now or Never," printing it in leaflets and tattooing it upon their bodies. A core group of radicals had also begun to advocate systematic terror as a means to success in their causes, and whispers of a planned assassination circulated through the ranks.

The final straw for Ze'ev was the anti-semitism taking root amongst his so-called friends. Many members saw the Jewish population as a good scapegoat for their violent plans. Russia was already a hot-bed of hatred for that particular race; turning the country's focus upon the Jews and away from Zemyla i Volya seemed an excellent diversionary tactic to most of the radicals.

Ze'ev could not think of a better time to cut his ties with the organization. However, it was not to be.

Many of the other revolutionaries felt as Ze'ev had, and decided to break away from Land and Liberty. The organization split into two: the Black Repartition, who opposed violence, and the People's Will, who encouraged it.

It was at this time that the young Ze'ev was approached by the Okhrana to serve as a spy within the thriving Narodnaya Volya branch. At first he had refused, desiring nothing more than to slip into oblivion, away from his radical ties. When news reached him of his family's brutal murder, however, and the late-night raid upon his Georgian hometown, the broken man immediately agreed to help the police. The raiders, he discovered, had been members of the People's Will.

And so, for several years, he served as a spy for the Okhrana, within the organization he had helped to build. It was Ze'ev that had warned the police of seven different assassination attempts being planned. Unfortunately, they had not been able to prevent all of them, and a People's Will bomb killed Czar Alexander II in 1881. Failure to save the life of the emperor only drove him on in his personal quest for vengeance; he helped the Okhrana ruthlessly bring down the organization, person-by-person.

His last act for Russia was to serve as a key witness during the Trial of the Fourteen. After he testified against his fellow revolutionaries and saw his former friends executed, he fled St. Petersburg for good, cutting every familiar tie. All that he wanted was peace; a chance to mourn his family, start a new one of his own, and re-devote himself to the religion that had nourished him as a child.

In Jerusalem, in his little bookstore, he had found everything he desired. Growing out his temple locks again, he once more took up the faith of his parents. He had a wife, a family, friends, and a belief in something greater than himself.

And the masked man browsing the aisles of his Ma'ase SheHaya Bookstore could take away his perfect world in a heartbeat.

This Erik—the same strange man he had followed yesterday, all the way to the Church of the Flagellation—had entered his bookstore just before he had closed the doors for the evening. He was not sure if the man recognized him as the wedding witness or not. Surely, he had seen the name upon the certificate by now; for reasons apparent only to him, though, he did not approach Jewish proprietor at the counter.

"Shalom Aleichem. Can I help you find something, sir?" Ze'ev called.

The odd man pulled his black keffiyeh across the masked side of his face and approached the counter, setting a ledger of some kind upon the surface.

"I am searching for a book on French investments and banking, by a certain Russian author. Would you happen to have anything of the sort?"

The bookseller cleared his throat. He had played this game many times before, in his past life. "I believe the author you are looking for is Degaev. I may be able to answer some questions for you."

Erik stared at him, his gold gaze unwavering in its intensity. "How can I know that the information you will give me is correct?" A bit of the keffiyeh cloth fell back, and the Russian saw that under the man's white mask, his nose was bandaged.

"You wish for proof?"

Ze'ev reached under the counter and pulled out a bottle of olive oil-based polish and a rag, trying to hide his anxiety over the man's injury. This person would mean trouble for his family—he knew it yesterday, and he knew it today. Numerous times since he signed "Sergei Degaev" to the certificate, he had questioned his decision, torn between the desire to slip back to his new life and forget about running into the Comtesse de Chagny. And yet, some shred of allegiance from the past called to him; he found that he could not turn away from his obligation to help the widow of the man who had helped him.

Dampening the cloth, he made a show of polishing the wooden surface. At length, he spoke.

"Yes, I suppose we are in the same boat, Monsieur—I was just wondering the same thing about you. It would not be enough for me to tell you that I knew Raoul de Chagny well, would it?"

The man smirked. "A lot of men knew Chagny well, and they ended up killing him."

Ze'ev nodded. "This ledger—it is Chagny's?" He examined the cover. "Yes, I see the bank seal. I would imagine that there is a record of a transaction to one Sergei Degaev, via the Doveritelny i Investitsionny Bank in St. Petersburg, Russia. But again, this bit of information does not tell you whether I can be trusted."

"No, it doesn't."

The bookseller thought for a moment, then smiled. "If I had wanted to kill you and the Comtesse, I could have done so, you know. I had plenty of opportunities yesterday, as I followed you around the city. I could have murdered you after your wedding and dragged you into the underground tunnels, leaving behind no trace. If I had wanted to."

The masked man paled a bit; Ze'ev could not be sure whether it was in anger or shock. He decided to try his luck.

"Tomorrow night, bring the Comtesse—or should I say, Madame Reinard—to the bookstore, and I shall tell you what I know."

Erik abruptly shook his head. "No. It seems we are at an impasse, Mr. Degaev." He snatched up the ledger and turned to go.

"Her husband wanted her to know his secrets, believe me. I will tell no one, but her."

"I am her husband now," he snapped, pulling the store door open. "Good day."

The Russian scrambled around the counter, not quite sure why he did so. Just a moment ago, hadn't he wished never to see this person again?

"What if I told you that there is no such person as Sergei Degaev?"

The masked man halted in his retreat, his back to the bookseller. At last, he turned around.

"I am listening."

"There were three of us—three trial witnesses to use that particular alias. I am the only one of the three that is still alive; the other two men are dead. One was killed after the Trial of the Fourteen was over. The other, before it even began."

The masked man said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"The first man was named Jaros Stanek."

"And the second?"

Ze'ev took a deep breath, praying that God would protect him and his family, should this man prove false.

"Raoul de Chagny."

A/N

Ma'ase SheHaya (Hebrew): Once Upon a Time

Shaot Avodah (Hebrew): The times during which employees are meant to honestly earn their wages.

Shalom Aleichem (Hebrew): Peace be with you. A common Jewish greeting.

Okhrana: The Russian secret police; equivalent of the French Sûreté