"Erik!" Christine yelped. "What are you doing?" He lowered his hands, letting the sparkler shower its light on the ground instead of his hand. The firework still fizzled and spat, as if angry. "Doesn't it- doesn't it hurt?" She swallowed hard. In spite of the cold, a sweat had broken out over her skin.

"Not a bit," he said. Then he tipped his head to the side as if reconsidering. It was very hard to decipher his thoughts with his whole face covered. It was so much easier without the mask… The mask was not the primary issue in her mind, however. After a second, Erik's shoulders went up and down in an uncharacteristic shrug. "Well, it does hurt a bit, but not enough to injure. Look-" he held out his hand to her. "I remain unscathed."

Tentatively, Christine leaned forward just far enough to see. It was true; his skin was just as pale and dry as before, with no red splotches or any sign of burning. "You see, Christine," he said softly, "fire is only as dangerous as you allow it to be."

Her eyes filled with tears. A lesser man would have left her to her fears, but Erik had gone out of his way to help her. The least I can do is cooperate. I don't want to be afraid forever. Once again, she found herself incredibly grateful. He had done his best to heal her body, and now he had taken on the task of healing her mind. She could have leapt up and hugged him, except he still held the sparking stick in his hand.

"Christine- shall I put it out?"

"Oh, it's not that," she sniffled behind her scarf and veil. "I- thank you, Erik. Again," she added with a watery smile.

"For this?" He held up the sparkler, which was now burned about halfway through.

"For knowing what I need." She reached for the little stick, shaking somewhat. It won't hurt me, she chanted to herself. It's just a little light. A child's toy. He still looked uncertain. "I won't drop it, if that's what you're worried about," she said, not half as sure of herself as she sounded. "And I won't faint, either." This time her voice trembled.

Erik very carefully passed the hissing, spitting firework into her hands. She did not remove her gloves, instead letting the miniature stars glance off the fabric and fizzle out. Gradually, just as the lit part approached her fingertips, the fire guttered and went out, having reached the end of its fuel. Christine surprised herself with her own disappointment. It was so pretty when lit. Now all that remained was a blackened stick.

She set the burnt on the bench beside her. For the first time in a month, she felt as if she could breathe again. "That was…nice," she decided, searching for the right word. Her companion, who had been holding his breath, let it out in an audible sigh.

"Did you know these come in several colors, dependent on their composition of metals and salts?"

"Really? May I see?"

By the time Christine had viewed all the colors, she found her hands no longer shook holding either matches or sparklers, no matter how brightly they burned. If Erik could become a conjurer and tame fire, she could certainly learn from him. The crowning achievement, however, was when she ventured to strike a match herself and did so without dropping either matchbox or match.

If she hadn't been holding fire, she'd have thrown her arms around Erik in celebration. He'll have to settle for a kiss when we get home, she thought. It's been such a good day.

…

Ugh. It's been a terrible day. Nadir leaned forward and rested his goatee on his palms, eyes heavy. He'd gone to work early that morning hoping to finish by mid-afternoon and spend the rest of the day with Biyu, perhaps exploring the nearby open-air market or skating on the newly frozen pond in the park. However, his boss had taken his early arrival as 'initiative' and slapped three whole stacks of documents in front of him to read, copy, and file away- never mind that half of them were in a language not his own. I only got this job because he assumed I was Turkish, not Persian, he mentally groaned. I suppose it's a good thing I learned the basics following Erik and his mischief.

Over the top of his piles of work, he could see Biyu, who had been chosen to work the front information desk that day. With the assistant manager stalking about on the floor, he'd been unable to get up and talk to her without risking a reprimand. So, he was forced to look and not speak as he scribbled and typed and tried to get everything done as fast as possible. She looks exquisite today and I haven't been able to tell her, he complained to himself. Biyu had dressed in a more traditional Chinese top today, which complimented her long, flowing skirt and even matched the flowered comb in her hair- not to mention her more demure pink lip color as opposed to the usual bright red.

Ah, she looks like springtime in this dismally cold winter, he sighed. Hoping no one would notice if he let his hands rest, he continued to watch his lover as she worked, signing off on visitors to the embassy, collecting signatures, answering questions in her adorably accented (but grammatically correct) French. Oh, what's this?

A woman in a tailored suit and heavy coat entered and approached the desk. Biyu greeted her, as was custom, and took her signature for records. It wasn't every day a woman visited the embassy. Normally there were visits from politicians and various government officials. Perhaps this woman is married to some higher-up. Biyu and the lady seemed to be having a conversation. Then she pointed him out. Nadir sat up straight as the woman strode over to speak with him.

"How may I be of service, miss?" he asked, as was customary. The woman tucked a strand of dark, curled hair behind one ear, which had become dislodged with the removal of her hat. "You are the bookkeeper, correct? I'd like to see all available records about…" she leafed through the folder she held in hand and pulled out a news clipping. "This incident, the assassination of a Russian ambassador to Persia in 1900."

Nadir felt his gut clench as he scanned the article. There was no photograph included, since foreign disputes attracted little attention, but he knew exactly what she was looking for. Yes, he remembered that incident very well- it was the one that had pushed Erik to breaking point, the one that made him long for a home in Paris. The memory alone almost made him ill. He swallowed, then cleared his throat as if he'd intended to. "Let me see… yes, I think some files are available, but only to those with a signature from a government office," he said apologetically. What is this woman looking for? Anyone snooping about a decade-old murder scene can't be good news- and this one involves Erik.

"Oh, that's all right, I've got a signature. Will this do?" She took a sheet of paper from her envelope and held it out for him to see and smiled. "I work for the Comte de Chagny, you see." He swore mentally. This was a private detective's contract, and if this woman was looking for Erik he had to stall- but he couldn't. There, on the bottom line of the contract, was a flamboyant scribble of letters: the official signature of Philippe de Chagny, rich, powerful, and blue-blooded.

Nadir felt his hands grow clammy. "That does nicely, yes," he muttered. "Well, follow me- though I don't think there's much information, we're not the Persian embassy, you know." It's a good thing the Persian embassy is in Marseille, not Paris. With any luck she'll be waiting for records to be mailed in. That will give Erik enough time to flee. He made his way to the back room where all records were sorted by date and topic. Yes, that's it- tonight I'll just pay him a visit and let him know the Comte has employed a detective to look for him. I'll tell him to get out, fast.

"Oh, that's all right," she said cheerily. "I've already sent them an official request via radiotelegraph."

Damn these modern devices! Now the delivery will be a few days at most, not weeks. Attempting to stall even further, Nadir pretended he did not know exactly where the needed documents were. He did know, though; he'd known where those particular records were since his first day on the job. Numerous times he'd been tempted to destroy those papers. They incriminated his best friend, drawing too many similarities between the opera ghost and the Shahanshah's assassin. No one would really notice, not unless they were really clever and paid attention to the past year's news, but after a lifetime of covering for Erik, Nadir had learned to employ the utmost caution.

"Let's see, where… Ah, I'll try by date first. What year was it again?"

"1900."

"Right, so…" He paced along the shelves, tracing dates with one finger until he reached a section tagged with 1900 and subdivided by month.

"The article was published on the ninth of October," the woman said very helpfully.

"Ah, yes," Nadir acknowledged, masking his growing irritation. I remember. "Here we go, all records regarding activities in…"

"Persia." He noticed with some smugness that the woman was growing somewhat annoyed as well. Then he reached for the folder labelled after the country, humming, and paged through the first few documents. The lady's mouth twitched. The folder was hundreds, if not thousands of pages thick.

"That's…January…February…" She looked away, apparently quite bored with his very slow counting of months. He persisted still. Maybe if I bore her enough she'll go away.

There was no such luck, however. Nadir counted through the months as he flipped through, then through each date from August onward. "Eleventh of September…thirteenth of September…" he droned on, all the while struggling to keep his breathing steady. He got the impression that if anything slipped, the papers would be found. When he reached October, the woman gave an exaggerated yawn, as if to show her weariness of his counting.

"Seventh of October…tenth of October… Oh, dear- I'm afraid there's nothing for the ninth of October." He made one last attempt to shake her dogged hunt.

"Maybe you've just missed it. Here, let me look." She grabbed at the file. He let go of it- but was not defeated yet. With a not-so-accidental flip of his wrist, the stack was upended. Papers fluttered up into the air and down again, shuffling themselves on the way. A moment later both persons in the room stared down at the pile of hopelessly mixed certificates and reports with a mixture of chagrin and resignation. The lady gave a very loud, unladylike swear.

"I am so sorry, here, let me-" Nadir hemmed and hawed as he knelt to pick up the papers. "Pardon, could you hold this? And this?" He retrieved each document and handed them up to her in order. Eventually her arms were so full of paper she could hardly see the floor. "Now, I think I have it."

"You'd better," she grumbled. I really am very sorry to obstruct your work. You're probably a good investigator and a decent person, but I simply cannot allow Erik to fall into your hands! Nadir eased a slip of paper out of the tall stack and presented it rather victoriously.

"This is it, I'm certain. Now, if you'll just hand the rest of those off to me- oof!" She pushed the messy stack into his chest, obviously glad to be done with all the mucking about.

"Thank you," she muttered. "I'll just have this copied." She scanned the paper, and, satisfied with its date and content, adjusted her scarf and tucked her hat under her arm.

"I can do that for you," he volunteered. "It is my job, after all." He grinned.

"No!" the detective said a little too forcefully, "Thank you, you've been more than enough help." She turned, papers in hand, and exited the filing room in a huff.

"Have a good day," Nadir called after her. He waited until she was gone to settle down and re-sort the great stack. Once everything was in order, he reached under the shelf where he'd scooted the last few pages. Ha! The joke is on you now, my nosy friend. You can't possibly know where your quarry headed without the second half of the report. He tucked the papers into their allotted place, shoved the whole stack into its folder, and replaced it on the shelf.

That should stall her enough. She'll never find him in time- she'd have to go through every murder report in Europe for the last ten years. Now all I have to do is persuade Erik to flee…

…

Christine's recovered confidence had several startling effects on life in the hole she and Erik called home. First, because she preferred ambient warmth rather than wrapping herself in three quilts, she lit a fire in the hearth without hesitation. It was rather nice to watch her distribute the small flames under tinder and warm her hands by the dancing light she once feared. Second, once she had persuaded him that she was quite well enough to cook a whole meal by herself, thank you very much, he tasted proper Swedish pea soup for the first time. He had to admit it was far better than the dainty, monotone French cuisine he was used to.

Thirdly, once they settled on the settee for a bit of reading with dinner (in mugs, since soup bowls spilled too much), Christine had no need of extra blankets, and settled for a light nightgown she'd found in her closet. She curled up under his arm as he read aloud, gulping down more of the ärtsoppa between paragraphs (it really was quite delicious). The reading for that night started out innocently enough, and Erik had no qualms about simply reading Christine to sleep as he'd done many times.

It just happened that the libretto she'd chosen from his stash was Bizet's Carmen. He thought it was an odd selection for the sort of reading that lulled a mind to sleep, but when he stole a glance at her, she seemed entirely alert even with her head resting against his shoulder. Perhaps she is nostalgic for her days in the spotlight. The role of Carmen would have been a bit awkward for her then, being so shy, but I must admit- hearing her sultry lower range might be very appealing. He shook himself from his rumination, scolding himself. Carmen was a seductive opera, much like his Don Juan Triumphant- and thinking of Christine all dressed up as Aminta would only torture his imagination. But oh, what sweet torture it was!

"I've always loved the role of Carmen," Christine sighed, staring into the fire. "She is quite charming, you know. She just uses it the wrong way." Then she hummed a few of the lyrics, the very lines he'd been reading a moment ago.

Erik started. Music without their usual teacher-student dynamic left him unprepared to deal with the lovely low notes he'd just been fantasizing about. He moistened his mouth with another mouthful of soup before speaking. "Yes, her seductive tendencies eventually lead to her grisly death." Now is a good time to change the subject.

"Oh, I don't know about that." He turned to her and saw an expression on her face reminiscent of Carmen herself; flirtatious, flushed with the heat of the fireplace, eyelids lowered slightly- utterly beautiful despite the vicious claws of scar tissue wrapped over her face. "It was Don José's obsession with her." She left the sentence at that.

What does she mean, 'obsession'? Is she referring to my obsession for her? Thoughts spinning, Erik cleared his throat and attempted to return to the libretto, reading out in Don José's voice: "Do not talk to me anymore! Do you hear me? Say no more, I forbid it!" Unfortunately for his ruffled composure, Christine knew the next lines. With a mischievous glint in her blue eyes, she sang out Carmen's conversation with herself, eyes locked on his.

"I am going to my friend Lillas Pastia's! Yes, but all alone one gets bored, and real pleasures are for two."

He huffed. Damnation! She knows what she does to me- but I can't touch her, I mustn't. Still, he let her sing Carmen's teasing. She sounded too bewitching for him to stop her, even as she reached the second stanza. I'll just let her have her fun- "Christine, what…" His question died on his lips as she withdrew from his hold with all the grace of a former dancer and turned a very pretty twirl just a few feet away.

She moved to the song's playful tempo, silhouette in stark contrast against the light that glowed through her nightgown. He saw the outline of her lithe figure, muscle memory keeping her in perfect form. Between pirouettes, like a good ballerina, she 'spotted,' keeping her gaze on him to keep balance so her head was last to turn. She's doing that on purpose, he realized. She could have chosen any spot in the room as her reference, but she chose to keep that captivating gaze on him. At this point Erik found himself unable to look away. She told me she was not afraid. Dare I hope…?

In that moment, he was her helpless Don José, hopelessly lost in her spell and loving every moment. Christine held her arms out towards him as the sensual, undulating notes flowed from her lips.

"Who wants to love me? I will love him! Who wants my heart? It's for the taking!"