The end of the summer camps meant starting the mad scramble to prepare for after school programs, incoming preschoolers, and adult classes. Preparations included a top to bottom cleaning, completely rearranging nearly every room, packing up music, costumes, and equipment and getting out other music, costumes, and equipment. Only the staff remaining to teach at the preschool were allowed a break, given that they were about to spend hours a day coordinating piles of three-to-five year olds. The rest of the staff was in all-hands-on-deck mode to be ready for the beginning of the regular school year.

Except for Erik. Most of his work was curriculum and program design and, besides that, his rooms were currently exposed to the studs in places and hidden behind heavy plastic sheets. The first week had begun in a dusty tribute to the longevity of industrial carpet, and then the plastic had gone up. Apparently, the old acoustic foam was a nastier foe than anticipated.

Dr. Allen closed his notes from the contractor and carefully arranged his desk accessories to be at right angles. "Erik, I'm sorry to say this, but it looks like it might take a few extra weeks but they assure me that your rooms will be ready in time to start the full rehearsals for your Christmas program." He avoided eye contact and nervously tapped papers into tidy stacks and fussed with the mismatched edges. "If need be, I'm sure we can coordinate with the high school. I'm on good terms with the fine arts director there and they've got a nice theater. Or even the university if you prefer. I'm very sorry for all the inconvenience."

Erik smiled. "Thanks for letting me know. All that sounds good. Whichever plan comes together faster is fine by me."

Allen glanced up and tilted his head. "Well, thank you for your flexibility. I swear, if I'd known how difficult this renovation was going to be I would never have insisted on it."

"It'll be a great space when it's done. In the meantime, I can do some of the arranging and composing work from home, if that's alright by you?" Erik gestured loosely towards the mask. "The dust, you know."

"Of course, of course. Take all the time you need, just keep me up to date."

"You got it, Dr. A."

...

The smell of onion gravy lingered in Reyer's recital room and Erik quashed the sudden urge to strip off his mask and bleach the place. Instead, he found the sticky cardboard box of salisbury steak in the trash can and tossed the lot into the hallway.

Singers may be resilient, but there was no need to test them. Though, to be fair, Piangi could probably sing in a hurricane if asked, and would do it well.

"Maestro! How is this day?"

Erik pulled out a folder and set music on the piano. "Allen says the renovations are going past the expected date, but it'll be okay. Sorry about the smell."

Piangi waved a dismissal. "I work with the boys choir. This is nothing." He clapped his hands together and flipped open his folder. "So, we work, yes?"

"Sure. Oh, did you have any input on the Christmas program? I hear you and Carlotta usually perform a duet and if you have a piece picked out, I'm happy to accomodate."

Piangi had a few pieces to offer, and the Christmas program was off to a good start.

...

Later, after a light day of sight reading through possible audition pieces, Erik ran restless fingers over Christine's hair and breathed before turning his attention back to his work. He could not recall when he'd last felt so calm.

"How many did you call?" he asked. His living room was finally dimming after an afternoon at home. They'd come directly from the school and it was nice to be on his own couch at home and not be tired. It felt… promising.

"Four. I might pass on the symphony choir for now for the flexiblity. You know, stick with the smaller ones."

Erik kissed behind her ear. "Do they provide accompaniment?"

"All but one, though not as good as you," she said with a little smile. "I was going to ask-"

"Of course," he smiled as Christine leaned to look at his work, snuggling up at his side. There was no padding to be found there, but he could certainly hold her up, and it gave him access to that neck of hers. Before he could make use of it, she turned and peered at the pages, stretching.

"What's this? Must be holiday music. I see a lot of major keys," she teased, and kissed his cheek.

"Gotta plan ahead."

"What, you don't just default to Handel and call it a day?"

Erik grimaced. "We might do the chorus, but I like to think the world has more to offer." He flipped through his notes and leaned back. "I think we should start traditional and then branch out. I can modify the Messiah for the school, but what about the whole idea of community? Relevance?"

She leaned her face on his shoulder. "I like that. Most programs use the same set every year, and it just happens to be the same as every other school."

"I can't wander too far from the standards. We can do a sing a long, but I want to let the staff have a chance to do something besides just lead their classes, too."

"You're brilliant," Christine said as she raised a leg to stretch. "You're going to arrange something completely amazing and everyone will love it."

Erik completely missed the compliments and stared. "What are you doing?"

"I drilled today with Madame Giry. Just a little tight."

He may be a little slow at this, but he wasn't going to let an opportunity pass him by. Erik set his notes to the side and tried to look casual and relaxed. He probably managed 'not panicking'.

"Do you think maybe I could help you loosen up?"

"Stretches?" she said brightly, and hopped up from the couch. "That would be great."

"I, uh… okay." Erik was about to haul himself up when Christine laughed and knelt close for a kiss.

"You're a genius but you're also a big dummy," she said against his lips. She had her hands on his thighs, scratching against the weave of his trousers. The feeling skittered upwards.

"Huge dummy," he agreed. It was hard not to agree when she made such a compelling argument.

The softening light outside was turning pink. The dark green trees deepened and set a stark horizon, carved out by summer-baked leaves. The leaves crackled the sunset into orange and pink, and would soon serve to blend the horizon like a watercolor, blurring the edges of reality. Reality was hard drives, deadlines, dance recitals and depositions. It was rehab and recovery. It was the past and maybe the future but not the now. Now was the way her hands tugged him down the hall and kissed him near the mask's edge.

Christine was rosy and sweet. She softened edges.

"Take it off?" Reality was under a mask and if Christine wanted it, it was hers. If she pushed his shirt off and pressed her hot mouth down his neck, drenching his thirsty scars with sensation and scratched his chest with her fingernails, he would arch into it and beg for more.

The tremors only stopped when she was in his hands, when he was in hers. Strength had rounded curves and sleek angles that flexed as she wrapped parts of herself around him like a vine- strong enough to hold him up, flexible enough to bend.

Christine slung her shirt away and pulled him close. The bed protested for a moment as they tumbled down. More clothes followed and, in the cool breeze from the fan, her skin shivered and rippled against Erik with a delicious chill.

There was just this. She'd said that once. Just this. There was only the filtered light and her moans in his ears and the feel of her tender breasts in his mouth. The way she twitched and shook when he slid his fingers just so. He'd been happy to let her ride him, happy to let her take control of sensations he was distantly familiar with but had shelved for too long.

But now. Now he wanted to see it, watch her climax before she went boneless under him. Was that wrong? Was he was acting like the man he was before?

Erik looked up at her undulating horizons. No. There was only this. It wasn't wrong because he only wanted her. A cry, trilling and musical, filled the room when he dropped his mouth to her and God help him, it was just this. She gripped his head and pulled him up, directing him into her plush sex. He propped her lovely legs on his shoulders as he reared up and felt the shock of her down to his bones.

"Oh my god, Erik, yeah," she whimpered, and clutched at his hand, pushing it between her legs once again.

This needed to last, so he tried to go slow, keeping his attention on the rhythm she set and the deep blush spreading over her. It worked well enough until her breath caught, shattering all thoughts into a kaleidoscope. Grace notes broke into fractals and shaking breaths and Erik shuddered as every nerve crackled with life.

Just this. Just this. Only ever this and this life, the third life please god let him have this. Not a distraction, not a way to end an otherwise dull evening but a beautiful way to spend his life.

Erik dropped her legs, unable to hold them any longer, and fell at her side, hauling the fluffy duvet up, but abandoning it in favor of her arms.

"I'm sorry, Christine," he muttered.

"Oh my god, what for?" she panted as she wrapped her limbs around him. He'd never been so happy to be caught.

"I think you loosened me up."

She laughed and smoothed a hand over his flank. "You big dummy."

"Huge dummy." When she slapped his thigh lightly, he suckled her lip and pulled her tighter. She'd need extra rest before her next session with Madame Giry if he had anything to do with it.

…

Erik took to eating oranges before practice. He paced the room slowly as he peeled them, pulling the peel off in bits so the oil could mist out and freshen the room as he walked. By the time Piangi showed up, he was just finishing the last slices and went to rinse his hands.

"Very nice Maestro. Smells better than zap food."

"And a riser full of sweaty teens."

"Without saying, Maestro."

They began with scales and drills. Umbaldo was a professional and went through his proper warm ups without complaint. With his and Carlotta's side gigs at local museums and Italian restaurants, it was a good chance to check for strains.

"How was the Saturday show?" Erik asked after Umbaldo took a break for water. He heard a catch and some threadiness he didn't like.

"Good, good. Carlotta sang Casta Diva and was a radiant Norma. I sang Nessun Dorma again."

Erik chuckled over his coffee. "You'd think people would have imagination but alas."

"People and people and they like what they like. If an ordinary man likes pretty arias, who am I to argue, eh?"

A knock interrupted their chat and Erik raised an irritated eyebrow at the door. Before he could reach the handle, it opened a few inches and Christine popped her head in.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, but Carlotta said to bring you this?" She handed a folder to Piangi. "I bet it's for the Christmas concert! Oh, hey Erik."

He swallowed and spoke at the same moment so he sounded a little like he was choking before trying again.

"Hi Christine. How are you?"

"Great, thanks. Madame Giry is annoyed though."

"Oh?" Erik unbuttoned his cuffs and prepared to look over Piangi's music. "Why is that?"

"Something about not having recovered from my last drills quickly enough, but what can you do?"

Erik's voice caught and he nearly tripped. The little minx was pranking him. Him. Oh, he was going to get her.

"Well, I know it's hard, but you should try to take it easy. You never know when you might need a little extra flexibility." He was pleased when her mouth fell open. "Are we still on for Friday?"

"Yep," she said. She recovered fast, he had to admit. "See you then, Erik."

Piangi blew a kiss. "Give that to mio amore!"

Christine shook her head. "Absolutely not. But I will say you said thank you." She spun on a toe and leaned in a graceful arc. "See you Friday… Dr. B."

She was gone before he could think of a response. Erik was stuck conceding the round and he couldn't have been happier.

When Piangi chuckled deep in his chest, Erik realized he'd been smiling at the door.

"I don't recall the Christmas concert being discussed at a staff meeting, Maestro. Are you struck by the thunderbolt?" He laughed and the vibration bounced a friendly percussion off Erik's bones.

Erik rushed for excuses. "Well, I-"

"Ah, she is lovely, with a voice to match. Don't think I haven't noticed." Piangi tapped his ear. "I have an ear too, yes?" He sighed wistfully. "Dio sopra, I know what it is to be bewitched by a woman's voice… Mamma mia Maestro, my little Carlotta once sang the house down in Genoa-"

Piangi's story spanned more than fifteen years and was broken by descriptions of Carlotta's virtues, his favorite works that she sang, and frequent interjections and exclamations to heavenly bodies, various venerable locations, and the sainted heart of his own mother. An understudy tenor had fallen for the rising ingenue, was cast aside for folly, and eventually achieved the love of his life. They'd snuck away to Boston after eloping and, a few years later, had settled here to help anchor a struggling music school.

It was a story fit for an opera, born in an opera. It took half an hour. It was just as well; Erik was going to suggest cutting the session short due to the strain in Piangi's voice.

Umbaldo Piangi was a fool in love, and saw only a gorgeous, rising star with a silver bell in her throat. He cared nothing for the rest. Ordinary people who had done extraordinary things for love and a chance at a life together. He finished his story and glanced at his watch.

"Apologies! I must get back to my diva! She will never forgive her polpetto if he is not on time, no?"

"Vocal rest, Umbaldo. Tell Carlotta to go easy, too. You need to recover after bringing down the house on the weekends."

Piangi winked. "Rest like your dancer, yes?" His hearty laugh echoed through the door as he left.

Erik sat in stunned silence. He stared at the door and hung on to the last giggle and sigh from the hallway. Something monumental had just happened and he needed a moment to process it. Piangi had shared something very personal with such joy that it was hard not to imagine Carlotta as something other than the fussing, demanding woman he knew. She was a woman who was adored, and by Piangi, a colleague and… friend.

Piangi was in love- was still in love- with a woman he'd fallen for years ago. How wonderful it must be to look at someone and see only the very best of them.

That Christine was single meant there were a lot of blind fools out there.

Erik imagined where the hard drive was, and touched the curving edge of the mask. The world may see him one way now. It may see him differently soon. Nadir and Chistine may see something new soon, too.

He was suddenly a bit ill, and blamed it on the rapidly returning smell of old grease and indeterminately spiced meat.

…

Before dinner, Nadir insisted on taking a look at Erik's face. Specifically, his mouth.

"You know you should be careful with acidic foods," he said, probing a slightly raw spot on Erik's delicate lip. "Are you eating pineapple in big chunks? At least cut it up so it doesn't get on your skin, yes?"

Erik eased the mask back into place. "It's just oranges."

Nadir waved a hand as he sipped his tea and returned to the chessboard. "Acid. How many?"

"At least two a day."

"Not terrible. Just wipe your face with tap water afterwards and this will clear in a week or so. Take care, my friend," he teased. "Your lady deserves kissing and this could severely set you back if you don't, eh?" Nadir chuckled and began setting up the board. The color that flushed Erik's face told Nadir everything he needed to know.

It took Erik a moment to continue stirring some roasted broccoli. "Very funny."

"Why so much citrus? I don't recall that being a big part of your diet before."

"Reyer and his microwavable burritos."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Reyer and his entire practice room reek of frozen dinners. I peel the oranges in his room before I give my lessons so it doesn't stink and it would be a waste to not eat the oranges."

"Maybe you should ask Christine to join you. You get the nice smell, less acid, and a snack with your muse." At Erik's silence, Nadir laughed again and left the chessboard. "I can read music, Erik," he said, gesturing to the papers by the piano. "Don't think I can't tell a love song when I see it."

Erik closed the oven and set the timer for another ten minutes, then perched on a stool. Years of experience told Nadir that this uneasy stillness signalled a change in topic, and Nadir readied himself. It was a challenge to keep pace with Erik's stream of consciousness; it required patience and preparation.

"My lawyer says the case has been elevated. They turned over the entire hard drive and it's in the hands of the government now."

Nadir leaned on the counter and wrapped his hands around his teacup. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? If what you think is in there, there may be a very serious set of charges coming."

"Yes, exactly," Erik mumbled, then slashed open a loaf of bread. He slapped butter onto it and spread it roughly in silence. Nadir imagined a hoard of sharp eyed, hoodie wearing techs digging through files. Amusing thought, that. It would be terrible to peek into other people's minds through their file organization.

Erik swirled a dash of seasoning onto the bread. As he was pushing it into the butter, the knife paused mid-stroke. "How many lives does a man get to live, Nadir?"

Nadir lifted his gaze from the counter. "Wrong religion," he joked, acutely aware that Erik was not so dense. It never hurt to get people to hear their own words, though. "I'm sure I can find you some information."

"No, not like that." Erik turned away and watched the oven timer. "Maybe I meant… movements. Phases. Nevermind. Forget I said anything."

"Ah," Nadir sighed, relieved. He'd always wondered if this was the real reason Erik had not progressed further. Erik had overseen nearly everything. Should have known everything. It was the 'should' that he tripped over every time. It was a sad thing, to see your friend locked in a strange loop of ego and resentment. In order to move forward, to get unstuck, you have to have something, a reason, to want to move. Heavens above, Nadir could not wait to meet Christine.

Nadir gathered his thoughts from the swirl of tea leaves. "My friend, some say a man is measured and judged after his death, and only a life of love and good deeds can cancel the weight of his sins."

"Is that what you believe?"

"It is what I have come to believe." The years since that day had taught him lessons he'd no choice but to learn. Nadir had pushed through his own grief and reclaimed a life- different, but his own. "You may have been a shit once, but I think your sins are not as great as you may think, and you have life yet to fill with goodness."

The timer went off, ignored.

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do, and I am never wrong about these things."

…

It was a strange day by any measure.

It started with coffee and Paganini before Erik opened his laptop to make the final selections for the school's holiday concerts. By the time he was halfway through a particularly wild recording of the Caprices, he was flipping through the folder from Umbaldo and Carlotta. Three sips into his third cup of coffee, he was struck by an idea and began furiously scribbling notes to the inventive strains of baroque. The coffee was cold when he started making phone calls.

First, he left messages with the dean of the school of music and his favorite faculty members at the university. Then the heads of two choruses and the artistic director of a modern opera corp. Then the young man who he'd given his six stringed violin to, and finally Dr. Allen. The sun was beating down by the time he finished his calls, and he sat back on his couch to await the callbacks.

It was definitely time for Led Zeppelin.

The first callback was nearly lost to the hot winds and pulsing bass of Kashmir. The dean was in. He thought it was ambitious, but he was in, which meant the other professors were in. The next call was the ludicrous artistic director, but he was just crazy enough to agree. Another hour passed and he had a call from one of the chorale leaders.

She'd called him 'cheeky'. More the fool her; he barely had any.

If Erik was lucky, he might have as much as a fifty-strong choir and a full orchestra, and that was before the lead vocals were set. He'd led bigger projects, but that was for his doctorate and had taken more than a year to assemble. This was going to be thrown together in less than four months, and on top of everyone's other holiday engagements. It would be cobbled together, mismatched in places, and probably profoundly out of balance, but it would do exactly what a school that belonged to the community should do.

It was time for something more ridiculous. Kiss. Maybe Slade. There was a certain appeal to a band that was exuberantly loud and had the guts to pair electric guitars with violins like a derivative bagpipe. Erik indulged in music somehow equal parts inspired and stupid until his phone rang once again.

"Dr. Brodeur?"

Erik cut the music and snapped to attention. "Yes. What have you heard?"

"The government ordered a full investigation. My assistant has already sent you and Dr. Khan some dates. We'll meet to go over details and arrange to prepare any statements."

A chill swept the fun right out of the room and left Erik deflated as his phone cheerily announced delivery of the calendar attachments.

"Got it. Thanks, I'll be in touch."

"Take care, Dr. Brodeur. We're all pulling for you."

He certainly hoped so. They'd been on retainer for seven years. "Thanks. See you soon."

Erik ended the call and pulled up the calendar. The Christmas concert was suddenly too far away. There was a lifetime's worth of dates filled before the concert. Time would tight. He'd have less time for dinners with Nadir and his weekends would be full of rehearsals and…

Christine. He had to tell her now. You didn't just start spending time in meetings with lawyers and in court without telling your… what? Friend? Nadir and Piangi were his friends. Partner? His lawyers were partners. Girlfriend felt wrong. Muse was probably insulting.

Lover.

His breath caught. Archaic, yes, but Erik felt he was entitled to a little pomp. He'd climbed from hell, emerged from the flames maimed and half demented, learned to channel his brains into the geometry of music, and taken a lover.

Though, if history was to be trusted, Paganini's face was actually rotting off and Chopin was a consumptive drama queen and they both managed to just die of other illnesses before the syphilis managed to drive them mad. If anything, Erik was probably far behind the power curve.

The sound of his phone hitting the floor jolted Erik from his navelgazing and brought his eyes back to the window. It was dusk. Evening. Christine was coming.

He had to tell her. Not just about the lawyers and court and calendar but Nadir, the accident and… and…

The deaths. That he might be responsible for.

It was one thing to be okay with his face. Could she be okay with the rest? How could anyone?

You can't unsee negligence and death.

Erik picked up his phone and walked to the kitchen. On the way, he absently pressed 'play' to resume the music.

He hastily shut off the bluetooth pairing when jaunty, drum-driven party themes blasted from the speakers. The black brushstrokes of leaves against the bruised sky outside set the right tone, and Erik started dinner in uncharacteristic silence.

By any measure, it was a strange day.

…

"Are you alright?"

Erik inhaled. "I'm fine. Of course." His smile happened so quickly that he felt his skin pull. "How was your day?"

"Good. I think you're going to like what I've done with the audition pieces. This is my last weekend to focus on them before I'm back in the classroom." Christine set down her fork and took his hand. "I know we're seeing more of each other in the evenings, but I miss seeing you at work for coffee. Even if I'm not thrilled about teaching preschool, I'm looking forward to that."

She stood and cleared their plates and started the kettle for tea. He rose to follow and rolled up his cuffs to wash dishes. Before he could get the basin half filled, Christine hugged him from behind and Erik felt his joints soften.

"Would you like to play? I can take care of this," she said.

"You shouldn't. I've got it."

She turned him gently and peered up. "Something's bothering you and you think better when you play. Scoot. Talk when you're ready." Then she raised up for a kiss, then shooed him out of the kitchen like she owned the place.

Erik cracked his shoulder. If only.

The song began hesitantly. Measures tripped and stumbled into melody as if seeking their own origins. It built, incremental and without resolution like he was asking himself how to proceed and failed to provide answers. A lot of songs started like that, rooting themselves firmly in symphonic poetry. Like sonnets that laid out their observation and inquiry phases prettily.

But all proper sonnets grow. There's conflict, and rightly so. Every good story has some, so Erik's hands plucked out discordant notes, like the scraped emotions he'd felt this afternoon. When your good mood hits reality's hard walls and you can't get it back. Melodies laid out in the first movement were cut off and diverted, unsatisfied. When everything that brings you joy has to step back for the shitstorm and you can't be sure you'll get clean on the other side.

Then you find yourself the supplicant. When you drag yourself back home, wrecked and ruined, to ask if you'll be let back in. A bit like the beginning, but rounder, fuller, experienced. Warmer, and yet it carried the ache of a minor key and unresolved questions. It pleaded and it begged, but it had hope. The only thing worth hanging onto and the only thing that made the pain worth it. It took so many forms and it wasn't always enough but sometimes, sometimes, it was.

It was dark when he opened his eyes, holding the sustain as long as the note trembled over his skin. The lights were all off except one in the kitchen. It glowed against the darkness, and illuminated her outline, sitting quietly on the couch.

"How many lives do we have, Christine?"

It was strange, her silence. It was more strange than if she'd asked what he meant.

"Do you want my answer, or the answer my therapist once gave me?"

"Yours," he said immediately. "It's the only one that matters."

"Three," she replied. "The one you're given, the one you give away, and the one you keep."

"And," Erik said hesitantly, "which do you think you're on?"

She stood, all swaying hair and soft dance clothes. "I didn't tell you much about my father, did I?"

"He was a musician, got sick, and you took care of him until he died. Not much beyond that."

"Tell me why you're asking and I'll tell you which life I think I'm on."

Erik took a deep breath. She made it easy. Maybe that was why he loved her.

He stilled. He loved her.

"I wasn't always this, you know. I was an architect before," he waved a hand near his face. "My big project, the one that would put me on track to be a full partner, was completed. I'd worked more than a year to design and plan it, then another year of contracts and construction. The grand opening was a huge event and we had catering, flowers, and… music."

His voice pitched up. "A mother and son duet on cello and violin. I had them seated in this gorgeous grotto near a service wall. They were so good." God, he hated thinking about it. The last strains in his ears. Even now, a decade later and uncountable testimonies. "I went out to see the lights. They were the last things installed and I hadn't seen it after dark yet."

He paused. It was strange; he'd described the timeline, the events, and his injures, but he'd never described the music. Nadir had known, and it wasn't something you discussed. Not even now.

"They started with Haydn. Beethoven. Then Glass. More. Something new, too. Something original. It was hypnotic. It bounced off the stones and sang up the stairs. They were so good, Christine. I wish… I wish I had listened more."

"Shhhh… it's okay."

"They were so good. Then Nadir went to get the flowers. Rook loved lillies and tulips but he'd run late and got the best available. I took my portfolio with me back to the grotto and... "

There was a moment when he caught sight of Nadir's son. He looked like an angel, a serene face showing nothing of the speed and work in his hands. Rook was the anchor of everything she ever played, and that night was no different. Her strings bellowed, sang, and cried.

"What happened?"

Christine was next to him. He had not seen her approach, he was so lost in his own mind.. "What?"

"What happened?"

Erik hauled in breath. "Nadir went for the flowers, and I had my portfolio. There was a click, then another. I went to find the sound but-"

Christine waited. When it was clear the gap in his memory was not going to answer the obvious question, Erik went to the closet of his office and hauled out the portfolio case. One side was deceptively intact, and Christine looked at him curiously when he presented it to her.

"Is this the portfolio?"

He nodded. "Turn it around."

Her eyes widened as she saw the cracked, blackened leather. Erik sat back at the piano and tapped out a few haunting notes. "The explosion ripped a hole in the building right by the grotto. I was just outside of the worst of it, though…"

"You held up the portfolio," she whispered, tracing the deepest fissure in the seared leather.

"The flash fire curled around it and got my side. The other was protected by the air pocket." The notes were familiar, like a dream, and more loosened from his hands as he repeated them. "I couldn't get rid of it."

"Wait," Christine said, her hands shaking. " The musicians. You said they were in the grotto."

Erik shook himself and began playing her song. He needed Christine's song to balance the sound of a crying cello in his mind.

"Erik?"

"They played as a favor. It was a school night and he had to be up the next day and she had at least two more shows that week. I could have hired someone but they were happy to do it." Erik looked away from the keys. "Nadir's wife and son were doing me a favor and he went to get their flowers that's why he lived and they died."

He cupped his forehead and felt the tension quiver in his muscles. "There's an investigation. Soon, I hope to learn which life I get to keep," Erik paused and turned, "because I just learned how to live again."

The portfolio hit the floor, and flakes of blackened leather scattered away. Christine was close, warm and soft. She brushed her fingertips over his chin.

"The third, Erik. This is my third life, and I want to keep it."

There was time to learn more about the first and second, but for now this was enough. She said it differently, but it was all the same and all he needed. It was everything he'd ever needed.

The portfolio was abandoned to its slow disintegration in favor of tender embraces and the forgiving darkness of a warm bed that did not feel the first hints of autumn chill.

...