"On arrive à Bruxelles! Bruxelles, Mesdames et Messieurs! Bruxelles!" The notoriously rainy Belgian weather was trying to live up to its reputation, but it seemed that the clouds couldn't even get together a good showing. It sputtered and spat between spurts of sunshine, and Cecily could hear the wind whistling around the train car. It was early morning, and Nicholai was still sleeping on his bunk.

She looked down at the piece of paper in her hand. It had been given to her just as Nicholai had arrived to get her. It was the most recent report regarding her sister's case. Unfortunately, there was no mention of a breakthrough. Nothing spectacular had been found, and as of yet they could not divulge case information.

She felt Nicholai's hand on her shoulder and she rested her own on top of it. "You need to leave memories of Sophie in Paris. You can't be breaking into tears each time you pass a millenary."

She smiled sadly and shook her head, wiping away the collecting tears. "No, I'm fine. Really, I am. Go back to sleep." He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly and climbed back into his bunk. In a few moments, his heavy breathing let her know he dreamt again. She let her mind drift away. To anything and everything other than the letter in her hand. She thought of the day that Linnea had brought her the package from Erik, the second one. It had been a splendid day. The actual only day she had held the role as prima mezzo-soprano. It had been a beautiful day, except for all the wretched Italian words she couldn't pronounce. And the night before…

She shook her head, she wouldn't think of Erik or his music. Of him teaching her to sing, and her teaching him to dance. Of writing for Don Juan years later. Of kissing him…

No, she wouldn't think of it. She would think of Nicholai. He was so good to her. He honestly wanted her to be happy after her sister's death. He had said so. He had said, 'You need to leave memories of Sophie in Paris. You can't be breaking into tears each time you pass a millenary.' Her head shot up. "I never said that."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, effectively waking him. "I never talked about her."

Groggily, he rubbed his eyes. "Someday you'll be able to."

"No, you said her name. I haven't spoken her name to anyone."

"You must have mentioned it." He was sitting up straight in bed, staring at her concernedly.

"Perhaps, but never that she worked in a millenary." His gaze fixed on her, as if trying to calculate what she was thinking. Her hand reached out to his face. "The scratch on your chin at the Masquerade…"

"Looks like she put up quite a fight against her attacker, but just wasn't strong enough. Probably gave him a few bruises, though. A bit scratched up too, I would think." The police officer was trying to be tactful, but it wasn't his forte.

"And you were late…" She brought her hand back to her lap. "And your handkerchief was missing…"

"They found this at the scene." The officer laid a handkerchief with red lining on the desk. "Mean anything to you?" Cecily shook her head. "Didn't think you would. Some of the guys think it might be the murder weapon. I suppose, if you held it just right."

Cecily stood up and backed away. "Oh my God. You killed her!"

Her stood up quickly and moved toward her at the window. "Don't be silly, Cecily," he soothed.

She pushed him back. "No! You killed her! And she fought back! When I told you, you said, 'I didn't know…' I thought you meant you didn't know that I had a sister, which was part of it. You meant you didn't know that the woman you had killed before coming to the Masquerade had been my sister! You killed an innocent girl! You murdered my sister!"

Calmly, Nicholai Tchikevsky drew the drapes over the window. "Well, if you're so sure…"

---

Stacks of paper surrounded him. Some of them were torn and water stained, but most were salvageable. The mob had at least been kind in that. He had spent the better part of the time since his return trying to repair the damages they caused. The statue of Christine he had disposed of in a sort of mock funeral, drowning it, along with all his demented dreams, in the Seine. The kitchen had been a disaster. Nothing was in a good enough condition to waste the time. He walked across to the step, pushing the remaining papers out of his way. One fluttered out in front of him. It was charred badly, but still recognizable.

He knelt down and lifted it from the debris. He ran a hand over the lines he knew so well, each curve familiar to his hands. Even the wisp of her hair was painfully well-known. "She loved me," he whispered to himself. "She loved me."

The sound of someone descending by one of his secret ways caused him to hide. He slipped into a locked room and closed the door. "Erik!" The voice belonged to Giry. He didn't reply. "Erik! I know you're here!" She huffed and glared down at a stack of papers. "Fine! If your stubborn silence is more important to you than Cecily's life!"

Suddenly Erik couldn't leave the locked room fast enough. "What?"

She glared at him for a moment before her gaze softened into fear. "They've found something more in Cecily's sister's case."

"Sophie."

She looked at him suspiciously, but carried on. "They came by to see if it meant something to her, but she was gone, so they asked me…Oh God Erik!"

"Are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to pry it out of you?"

"They reexamined the handkerchief at the scene. There were initials. H.T."

"H.T.? Is that supposed to mean something?"

"Think Erik! Think! It was you who taught Cecily Russian in the first place!"

"H.T….the H symbol is similar to…Nicholai!"

"Is he in custody then?"

"No, you dolt! He's with Cecily on a train to Russia! If I know that girl, it won't take her very long to find out, and when she does," Giry shuddered.

"I'm going."

She looked at him like a proud mother. "I thought you might." She produced a paper from her pocket. "It's Cecily's itinerary, Paris to Moscow. And the bottom is the trains leaving Paris for any of the destination cities. They should be in Belgium by now. How are you going to catch up?"

Erik fixed his cape and dug a mask out from a pile of junk. Snatching the paper and fixing the hood into place, he growled, "Never question the Opera Ghost."

---

Nicholai looked at Cecily's panicked expression in the dim lamplight. "So you've figured it out. I always knew you were a brilliant girl." His eyes held hers fixed, and Cecily recognized with dread the dark passion that she knew meant murder. "I suppose the game is up then, isn't it? Can't have you running off and telling them. You know far too much."

He moved toward her, but Cecily pushed past him. He grabbed her wrist and forced her back into the corner. "No where to go, Cecily. Although I expect your sister might be happy to see you."