In Blood by LovetheScottishAngel

Author's Note: Thanks to littlegirl94, liebedero, IAmTheMaskYouWear, and The Duelist's Heiress for reviewing! Your feedback is really greatly appreciated. Additional thanks goes to BelleAstrum for adding this story to her favorites.

Disclaimer: I don't own the song Tonight I Wanna Cry by Keith Urban. I just made it that Erik was the original composer of it. I also changed some of the lyrics to make the song suit the time period. (The original lyrics mention a TV, something which obviously wasn't around in the early 1900s.)

Anyway, without further ado…

~ o ~

Several days later, Marielle exited the Guildhall Art Gallery. She'd first come into the Gallery because she'd found it to be the fifth building she'd discovered for whose construction her father was, in one way or another, responsible for—something which she'd known because, just as it had been with the other four buildings she'd had a particular interest in during her stay in London, the Gallery's building design matched one of Erik's building designs that she had. Upon entering the Gallery, she'd gone about asking most everyone whether he or she knew Erik, but none of them had.

Although she'd been discouraged to yet again find one of her father's buildings only to discover that no one within that building even knew of him, she'd been rather enthralled by the paintings which the Gallery contained—she'd even spent several pounds in order to view a particular exhibition, which was an additional cost because it was only showing for a short time, just so she would see all the art. Thus she'd stayed far longer than she'd intended, and upon glancing at the rather inexpensive watch she'd purchased a few days before, she saw that it was already 7:00 in the evening.

Marielle knew that her next move ought to be having dinner somewhere, seeing as how she'd consumed a rather small, and early, lunch. But she wasn't even hungry—and at that moment, all she really wanted to do was return to the tavern which was the first building of Erik's that she'd discovered. She'd been going on a nightly basis, asking anyone and everyone if they'd ever even heard of a masked man living in London. No one had given her an answer in the affirmative, and maybe no one ever would, but she was determined to frequent the buildings her father had built for as long as she could afford to stay in London so her odds of finding someone who knew of Erik's whereabouts would be rather better than if she merely wandered about the city.

Deciding that she would indeed head for the tavern and then have dinner at some later hour, she cleared her throat a bit, then straightened herself as she began walking in the direction of the tavern. And as she traveled toward the tavern, she pondered upon just how much longer, exactly, she would be able to remain in London.

In the five days that Marielle had been in London, including the day that she'd first arrived, she'd spent about two hundred and sixty-five pounds. That meant she'd been spending about fifty-three pounds a day. The three thousand francs she'd taken from Erik's chest had been converted into approximately three hundred and ninety-three pounds, meaning that she had about one hundred and twenty-eight pounds left. Upon doing a quick calculation in her head, she discovered that such meant that she only had enough money to get through two more whole days—get through two more whole days and then, in all likelihood, not have enough money for a return trip to Paris.

She frowned in a rather anxious fashion, having not really realized that she was so close to no longer being able to afford staying in London until that moment. She didn't want to have to go back to Paris to retrieve more money… she wasn't having much success finding Erik in London, but considering that she'd found one of his building designs actually constructed every day that she'd been there, she had started feeling as if she wasn't too far away from finding him—or, at least, finding someone who knew where she could find him. And more than that, she'd enjoyed being in London. She thought the city was a particularly lovely one, and thus the concept of leaving bothered her.

But I have to, she thought to herself, letting out a rather disappointed sigh. I have to go back to the Opera Populaire, and back to my father's underground home, and get some more money. Otherwise I won't be able to afford looking for him any longer… it's because of that money that I was even able to make it here in the first place. And you know, just because I'm leaving here and going back to Paris doesn't mean that I can't come back once I've gotten more money. I can come back and see if more of my father's buildings are here; I can see if he's actually shown up in the course of my time back in Paris.

Marielle felt satisfied with this line of thinking, and she therefore came up with a plan—after she went to the tavern one more time, she would spend her last evening in London. The next day, she would begin her return trip to Paris, and upon arriving back at the Opera Populaire, she would retrieve more money from Erik's chest in his underground home. Then she would come back to London and spend several more days searching for more of her father's buildings and inquiring about him at those buildings which she'd already discovered. If, after those several more days, she found no more answers as to Erik's whereabouts, she would go to the next city which was on the list she'd discovered in her father's home. And the process would continue until she found him or she ran entirely out of money, whichever came first.

Upon deciding that this was indeed a good plan, she continued on to the tavern in silence—and when it came into her line of vision, she gave a little bit of a smile. Although she still had a strong dislike of any and all things pertaining to alcohol, she enjoyed coming into this tavern, for she felt a connection to it—a connection which she knew to come from the fact that her father had been at least partially responsible for its creation. She also liked the friendly people she'd met when she had come into the tavern, inquiring about Erik—though she knew most of them were only friendly because they were rather the worse for drink.

As Marielle stepped inside the tavern, she glanced toward the bar and saw that the woman who she'd spoken to upon entering the tavern for the first time—whose name, she had learned, was Louisa—was working, just as she'd been every night since Marielle had first come into the tavern four evenings previously.

She raised a hand to Louisa in greeting, also giving her a brief smile—something Louisa didn't see because Marielle was wearing her hood over her head, as she did every time she ventured outside her hotel room. Louisa seemed to sense her smile, however, for she smiled herself as she gave Marielle a brief wave.

Marielle then glanced around the tavern for several moments, doing a brief survey of the evening's patrons and trying to determine who she might first approach in order to ask whether or not he or she had ever heard of a man named Erik Tourneau. There was something of a problem with this plan, however, because there were only about fifteen people in the entire tavern, Louisa and herself included, and the majority of them were regulars—something she'd surmised through having seen them every evening.

Once her eyes fell upon a man who she hadn't seen before, a brief smile of satisfaction flickered across her features. She then cleared her throat, straightened herself, and walked over to the man, unpinning the wad of her father's building designs that she'd been carrying around with her every day as she did so.

For several moments following, Louisa watched the hooded young woman as she crossed the tavern and approached one of the customers, pulling out the building design which was that of the tavern itself and beginning to speak to the man. And despite the grim feeling beginning to rise within Louisa, she couldn't help but smile a bit; she had to admire the girl's tenacity. For the four consecutive evenings that she'd been coming into the tavern, she'd always been told that none of the customers knew of the French gentleman who had constructed the building they were occupying… and yet she'd still come every evening, not wanting to give up, so determined to locate him.

Admittedly, Louisa felt rather bad for having lied to the young woman the first and only time she'd ever asked her whether or not she knew Erik Tourneau, for the fact that the girl continuously came into the tavern, inquiring about him to customers, indicated that for whatever reason, she really wanted to know where he was. If only she knew that he was so close—just over thirty kilometers away, comfortably residing in an executive suite at Claridge's!

But Louisa wasn't permitted to give away her employer in that fashion. For reasons that had never been explained to her, reasons she felt rather certain she didn't really want to know, Monsieur Tourneau didn't want to be found—by anyone. And she knew that if she told the young woman where she could find her quarry, she would lose her job—or worse, for all she knew. She'd only met Erik Tourneau one time upon first being hired to work in the tavern, but that one meeting had been enough to convince her that the Frenchman wasn't someone one wanted to antagonize if he valued his life.

So in order to keep her employment and her head, she had to follow Monsieur Tourneau's instructions—tell no one of his whereabouts, if ever she was asked, and inform him of every time that someone came looking for him. And now that the hooded young woman had come into the tavern once again, it was her job to send another message to her employer and tell him that the girl had returned and was still in pursuit of him. The biggest regret she had regarding this arrangement was that she knew nothing good ever became of those who came around and asked about Erik Tourneau persistently—once they'd come to the tavern and inquired about him five times or so, they never showed up again. And once again, she was certain that she didn't want to know what exactly transpired in order to make them stop appearing. She felt bad for whatever fate was soon to befall the girl.

Keeping an eye on the huntress, who had moved from the customer she'd first approached to another man, she picked up a nearby sheet of paper and pen and proceeded to write a brief note informing Monsieur Tourneau that the hooded girl was still looking for him.

After placing the note in an envelope and sealing it up, she glanced at her twelve-year-old son, Henry, who was sitting in a nearby corner, twiddling his thumbs and waiting to be given something more interesting to do.

"'Ey, Henry," she addressed him, and he lifted his head and looked at her. She motioned him forward. "Com'ere; I've got somethin' for ya."

Henry's face brightened upon receiving this news, and he rose to his feet and loped over to his mother enthusiastically.

"I need ya t' take this to Claridge's," she informed him, holding out the envelope to him. "Room two 'undred an' eighty-four. And quickly."

With a single silent nod, Henry took the envelope and exited the tavern without any hesitation whatsoever. She looked after him for several moments, then turned her attention to the hooded young woman, silently hoping that her employer would receive her message before the girl left.

~ o ~

About ten minutes later, Erik was seated at the piano in his executive suite, composing a new piece—or, rather, finally writing it down. For the music for both the accompaniment and the vocal had been in his head for some time; he merely needed to put both portions of the music on paper and find lyrics that would match the vocalist's notes.

Upon spending several moments studying the music and lyrics he'd already put down, he started playing the song from the beginning, playing as far as he'd gotten with the lyrics.

Alone in this house again tonight…
I've got a record on, the sound turned down,
And a bottle of wine…
There's pictures of you and I on the walls around me,
The way that it was and could have been surrounds me;
I'll never get over you
Walking away…

I've never been the kind
To ever let my feelings show
And I thought that being strong
Meant never losing your self-control,
But I'm just drunk enough
To let go of my pain—
To hell with my pride;
Let it fall like rain
From my eyes…
Tonight I wanna cry…

"That's a rather sad song, Monsieur," a voice commented from behind him, and he glanced backward to see Cameron entering the room.

"Yes," Erik replied with a slight sigh, turning his attention back to the music and lyrics before him. "It's sad indeed."

"Is it going to be part of a new opera?" Cameron inquired as he seated himself on the nearby sofa, keeping his gaze focused on his employer.

"Probably not. I can't think of any opera plot that I'd enjoy writing out that would involve a song such as this one." Erik paused. "No… this is merely a song that's been on my mind for a while; I'm just trying to get it out."

Cameron nodded. "I see. I… I presume it's rather personal?"

Erik stiffened with slight annoyance; he didn't like it when the young man asked too many questions about his past. After all, he was a very private man… he hadn't even come close to telling Cameron about the happiest twenty-four hour period of his life, a period when Christine had been his, a period during which he'd begun to hope once more. Nor had he told him of the incredible pain he'd gone through upon discovering that she'd merely been telling him pretty lies…

"I fail to see where that's any of your concern," he therefore responded after several moments, giving Cameron a somewhat stern look.

"My apologies," Cameron murmured, his face turning a light shade of pink as he bowed his head just slightly. "I didn't mean to pry."

Shrugging, Erik turned his attention back to the music once more, playing the piano accompaniment as he hummed the vocalist's notes that had yet to receive lyrics. All the while he thought about the memories which were responsible for this song's creation; he thought about the way he had excitedly paced about the Paris train station one afternoon twenty-one years earlier, waiting for his Christine to join him, and the way his heart had shattered into millions of tiny pieces upon realizing that in fact, Christine wasn't his—and maybe she never had been, nor would she ever be.

The hurt he'd felt after Christine's second abandonment filled his heart once more, and he took a deep breath in an attempt to keep his emotions from showing. After all, Cameron was sitting right behind him—and as far as Cameron knew, Erik Tourneau wasn't much of an emotional man. What a lie that was.

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Cameron rose from the sofa and went to answer it while Erik continued playing, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the verbal exchange occurring between Cameron and whoever had come to the door. He instead began to get lost in the music, thinking about how it had felt to hold Christine in his arms, how it had felt to believe that she finally belonged to him, how it had felt to come to the realization that she'd played him for a fool once again…

"Here, Monsieur," Cameron then said as he returned to the parlor, holding an envelope and Erik's letter-opener out to his employer.

Erik stopped playing, hitting a few wrong notes on the piano in the process, and turned his attention to the two items which were being extended to him. All the while he felt a double-dose of aggravation, one for Cameron having interrupted his playing and the other at the sight of yet another blasted envelope. Ever since he'd first received a message from Louisa four days earlier, he'd been getting notes every single day—one from Louisa and others from those who ran other buildings that were his current source of income… and the messages contained within the notes had been very much the same.

"Who is it from now?" he grumbled slightly, rather roughly taking the envelope and letter-opener and beginning to open the envelope.

"It's from Peter," Cameron replied, a bit of a frown upon his face, for he felt reasonably certain that he knew what message the masked man would find within the envelope.

Erik got the envelope open and then pulled out the piece of paper within, unfolding it and then running his eyes across the paper. Just as he'd suspected, the message on the paper was the same as other notes he'd received for the past few days—an announcement that a young Frenchwoman, who wore a hood on her head in order to conceal her identity, had come around, making inquiries about him, and had had possession of yet another one of his building designs.

When Erik said and did nothing to indicate what the note had said, Cameron cleared his throat and ventured, "Is it…?"

"Yes," Erik muttered irritably, ripping the note and envelope apart. Then he stood up, going over to the fireplace and placing the ripped-up papers in the fire. "That girl is still looking for me. She went to the Gallery today."

"Well…" Cameron shrugged and let out a little bit of a sigh. "She's been finding a building every day for the past five days… which is only encouraging her, apparently."

"How does she have any inkling that I'm here?" Erik demanded. "And how does she have all these building designs?"

Cameron shrugged once more. "I don't know, sir. I don't know."

"This doesn't make sense to me," Erik said with a sigh, beginning to pace in front of the fire. "It's not as if I just left all those building designs lying about in some public place. I can't imagine where she would have gotten hold of them, since besides having them here with me, I've only got copies—"

Then, all of a sudden, he stopped dead in his tracks, his body stiffening. A lump of anxiety rose in Cameron's throat; the fact that his employer had just stopped the way he had meant that he'd come to some realization—one that probably wasn't very pleasant.

"Cameron?" Erik inquired then, and the sudden softness of his tone made Cameron feel even more nervous. There were times when Erik's quiet tone of voice was more intimidating than his shouting.

Swallowing rather hard, Cameron responded, "Sir?"

For a moment or two, the masked man remained still, and then he rather slowly turned toward his young employee. There was a certain look in his eyes, one which made Cameron's heart begin to race, one which told Cameron that the thoughts running through Erik's mind were probably rather dangerous.

"We have to get rid of this girl as soon as possible," Erik then informed Cameron in a rather solemn fashion, his voice still quiet. "She knows… she knows that I used to live underneath the Opera Populaire. And in some way or another, she gained access to my home. That's how she got hold of the building designs. She knows I'm Le Fantôme."

"Oh," Cameron murmured, his forehead creasing in anxiety. "That really isn't good."

Erik nodded. "She knows too much—far, far, too much for a mere stranger to know. If we let her carry on as she is, going about and asking questions about me, she could bring me some serious trouble."

"Yes," Cameron agreed, his voice rather soft. "What… what do you think her intent is, Monsieur?"

"I was thinking that perhaps she was merely interested in my architecture, but now…" Erik turned toward the fire, staring into the flames in order to conceal the anxiety which was beginning to well within him. "Now I'm starting to think she's part of La Sûreté."

Cameron raised his eyebrows in surprise. "A woman on the French police force? I didn't think women were permitted in law enforcement in France."

"They weren't, last time I was there," Erik replied, frowning a little as he shook his head. "But then again, that was twenty-one years ago… I'm sure there have been many changes as far as women's rights are concerned. If she's part of La Sûreté, however, I daresay she's one of the first of her kind."

"But..." Cameron scratched his head a bit. "If it's been twenty-one years since you were even in France, why are the police trying to find you now?"

"She's probably the overly ambitious type, this woman," Erik said, some annoyance toward this woman, who he was now suspecting of being a police officer, showing in his tone. "She's new to La Sûreté and is trying to prove herself. She thinks that she'll earn the respect of her male peers and prove herself worthy of being in law enforcement if she brings the Opera Ghost to justice after he's eluded the authorities for so long…"

"Well, if such is her intent, she's doing a rather good job of getting it done," Cameron admitted with a little bit of a shrug. "I mean, she got into your underground home, got hold of your building designs, and has somehow discovered that you were, at one point or another, here in London—and apparently thinks that you're here now. She's obviously rather intelligent."

Erik gave the young man a rather dark look. "If you're done admiring the person who's trying to put me in jail, Cameron, I'll continue."

"Sorry," Cameron mumbled, his face reddening a bit. "Please go ahead."

"This girl is too much of a threat, especially since I'm really becoming convinced that she's in law enforcement," Erik then went on. He cleared his throat, straightening himself a bit. "We're going to have to track her down and let her know that her poking and prodding about isn't welcome."

At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and Erik and Cameron briefly shared a look. Then, with a little frown, Cameron went over to the door and opened it to see Henry, Louisa's son. He had an envelope in his hand.

Upon seeing the envelope and feeling certain that he knew what the envelope contained, Cameron wanted to yell at Henry to get lost and take his damned envelope with him—just like his employer, he was tired of these notes which told of a mysterious young Frenchwoman who was in search of the masked man. But he couldn't do that, seeing as how Erik was now determined to locate the woman and inform her that she ought to make herself scarce.

Letting out a light sigh and muttering a "Thank you" to Henry, Cameron took the envelope and walked back over to Erik, closing the door as he went. He held the envelope out to the older man, noting with slight unease that Erik's mouth had suddenly set itself in a hard line.

Erik snatched the envelope out of Cameron's hand, opening it with his bare hands instead of bothering with the letter-opener, and pulled out the folded piece of paper within. A look of frustration came into his grey-green eyes as he opened up the note and read what it had to say.

"Well, then," he said after a moment, ripping up the note and envelope and tossing them into the fire as he had with the note he'd received earlier. He then turned his attention to Cameron. "Louisa says the girl is at the tavern at this very moment. So I want you to go now, keep an eye on the girl while she's still in the tavern, and then follow her for a bit once she departs… and whenever you feel the time is right, corner her and tell her that she would do well to leave London immediately."

"Yes, sir," Cameron replied with a nod, quickly turning and picking up his nearby trenchcoat and hat. He put them on. "How should I threaten her? I mean, I'm sure you want me to do something physical in order to further get the point across that she should go away…"

At that, Erik walked over to the nearby desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a revolver. After checking that it had bullets and ensuring that the hammer wasn't pulled back so the gun wouldn't accidentally go off, he tossed it to Cameron. Cameron caught it with ease.

"Use your imagination."

Cameron examined the revolver in his hands for several moments, a sense of dread beginning to rise within him. He wasn't a man of violence, and he especially didn't want to hurt a woman. After all, if she really was a police officer, she was only doing her job…

Erik saw the uneasy expression which came to the young man's face and sighed. "Come now, Cameron. You know I'm not asking you to actually harm the girl; I no longer get any kind of satisfaction from shedding blood. Don't fire unless you deem it absolutely necessary."

Letting out a sigh of relief, Cameron nodded, placing the gun in his pocket and then looking at his employer.

"Go now," Erik ordered then, making a somewhat dismissive gesture toward the door. "You don't want to show up at the tavern only to find that she's already gone."

"Right," Cameron agreed, suddenly being spurred into action, and headed toward the door. "I'll be back."

And then, without waiting for Erik to speak another word, he left the suite, closing the door behind him as he went. Then he headed out of Claridge's quickly, walking toward the tavern with quick, purposeful steps.

Despite his hurried pace, however, he wasn't particularly looking forward to what he had to do. By his very nature, Cameron MacAlister was not a hostile man—nor was he confrontational. He liked to think that he was a friendly sort of person—and indeed, he was; he preferred positive interaction with his fellow man and he liked getting along with those around him. He disliked having to be too overly serious or too harsh with people. Unfortunately, more often than not, being in Erik Tourneau's employ required that he do both.

It wasn't that Cameron didn't enjoy his job—far from it. Cameron liked Monsieur Tourneau, even if his employer's love of privacy prevented him from actually knowing much of anything about the masked man personally. Although he knew Erik had committed many past wrongdoings, he'd gathered that most of those actions had been performed out of some kind of necessity and that Erik had largely moved past that dark stage, only reverting to it whenever there was some kind of imminent danger to his life of peaceful seclusion. And despite the fact that his employer was generally a very staid person, Cameron knew that there were many admirable qualities to be found within Erik if one was patient enough to wait a while in order to discover them—in the five years during which he had been employed by the Frenchman, he'd learned that Erik had a sizable capacity for kindness and generosity, a dry and quick-witted sense of humor, and a sense of familial responsibility to those who proved themselves to be loyal employees. Truly, though Cameron likely wouldn't admit it aloud, he had come to see Erik as the father he'd never really had—always looking out for him, really asking very little of him in exchange for all that he was given.

The job itself wasn't difficult, either, for the most part. Cameron supposed he could call himself Erik's "jack-of-all-trades" or "right-hand man" and be correct in it. For although Erik had several other men that he occasionally gave assignments, he gave the vast majority of the responsibility to Cameron, and if there was some instance where Erik required that a group of his employees undertake some task, he put Cameron at the head of the operation. And being the "jack-of-all-trades" or "right-hand man" required doing anything and everything his employer asked of him, most of which didn't really require a lot of thought or effort—go pick up this and that, go give all the other employees their salaries, be the middleman in most business dealings, and so on. It was only the inglorious tasks Cameron was occasionally given that bothered him—such as the one which he was setting out to perform right then, which was going to threaten some stranger who was sniffing about too much for Erik's liking.

But he said you don't have to actually use the gun, he thought to himself, trying to tell himself that there was no real need to feel uncomfortable with the assignment he'd been given. Just let her know you're armed whenever you're telling her to get lost; that ought to scare her off sufficiently…

His thought trailed off as he caught sight of the tavern, and then he cleared his throat and straightened himself, picking up his pace just a bit. And in the few moments before he entered the tavern, he put himself into a serious and determined mindset, knowing that it was time to play the role of Erik Tourneau's solemn right-hand man.

Then Cameron stepped inside the establishment, his eyes meeting Louisa's as the door closed behind him. He gave her a short nod of acknowledgment, one which she returned, and then briefly swept his gaze over the tavern so he might see whether or not Monsieur Tourneau's hooded pursuer was still around.

After he didn't see anyone wearing a hood, he turned his attention back to Louisa, walking over to the bar and removing his hat.

"'Ere," she said to him, taking hold of a nearby clean glass and filling it with draft beer. She set it atop the counter, pushing it over to him. "On the house."

"Oh, no, I won't do that," he replied with a shake of his head, reaching inside his pocket and producing two pound notes. He set them on top of the counter, tapping them, before picking up the glass with that same hand. "He wouldn't accept a free drink if he came in, so I won't, either."

She nodded, knowing that "he" had been referring to Erik and Cameron had called him "he" just in case someone nearby overhead their conversation. Then she took the notes, sticking them in some unseen repository underneath the counter.

For several moments, there was a silence between them as he took a sip of the beer. Once he'd finished with that sip, he let out a sigh and set the glass down, then made his query, a serious expression on his face.

"Is she still here?"

"Mmm-hmm," she murmured, nodding once more. She then inclined her head forward slightly, breaking their eye contact and looking straight ahead. "Back lef' corner."

Clearing his throat, he somewhat slowly turned toward the back left corner of the tavern, trying to be subtle about it in case his quarry happened to be in such a position that she could see him. After all, when he made his threat to her, he wanted to remain anonymous; he didn't want her to know that they had, in fact, been in the tavern together.

After several moments, he caught sight of her—and he knew that she had to be his target because she was wearing a hood. He couldn't see much more of her because her back was turned to him, but he did see that she had a pinned-together wad of papers and pound notes sitting upon the table at which she sat. She'd apparently removed one piece of paper from the wad, as she was studying it.

Keeping his gaze on her, he reached for his beer, picking it up and making to take a sip as he said to Louisa, "Tell me about her."

"Well, 'ave you read the notes I've been sendin' to 'im?"

He shook his head, the top of the glass bare millimeters from his lips. "He's told me what's been in the notes, though. So I know everything that you and everyone else have been telling him—"

"Everyone else?" she echoed as he sipped his drink, and although he didn't see it, she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes," he replied, clearing his throat a bit as he set the glass back atop the counter. "You're not the only one she's talked to. She's discovered four more buildings of his—and she figured out that they were his because she had the building designs for them, just like with here."

"Smart girl," she murmured, sounding rather impressed. "I wonder how she 'as those designs, though…"

"He thinks she's French police."

"Oh?" She looked a little worried, though once again, he didn't see it. "What makes 'im think that?"

"Well, the designs she's got were in his home back in Paris," he informed her, still not looking at her and instead keeping his eyes on the hooded young woman. "And he can't imagine why anyone would be there except the police."

"I see."

He nodded, and then he continued, "So when I say Tell me about her, I don't mean for you to describe her the way you've been doing in the notes. I mean… tell me about her routine, what she orders to drink… anything you know about what she does around town and in here."

"Ah." She cleared her throat. "Well, she's been comin' in at about seven o'clock every night. She goes 'round, talks t' all the customers, shows 'em the building design. Once she's done that, she seats herself in tha' same spot and just sits for a bit. And sometimes she has somethin' to drink as well, though it's nothing alcoholic. She jus' has water."

"Mmm. Anything else?"

"No," she replied with a shake of her head. "She hasn' told me anything abou' what she does outside of 'ere."

Upon hearing this, he nodded once more, picking up his glass and making to take a sip of his beer. "Thank you."

For several moments, neither of them said anything; they merely watched the hooded young woman while he drank. Then, however, she made a query.

"So what's 'e told ya to do with 'er?"

"The same as I've done with everyone else who's come sniffing about," he replied with a shrug. "Threaten her, let her know that her prodding is unacceptable… tell her that it would be best for everyone if she left."

"Oh. I thought 'e might make you do somethin' different because he thinks she's the police." She paused, clearing her throat. "Y'know, something violent."

He shook his head. "He doesn't want to cause any injury, directly or indirectly, unless it's absolutely necessary. We'll only go further if she doesn't listen."

"Well, then I hope she listens," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Upon hearing this, he shrugged, and then they both fell into silence as they observed the mysterious pursuer, waiting to see when she would choose to depart from the tavern, as she looked through several of the papers in the pinned-together wad she had.

After a considerable time had passed, Cameron let out an impatient and frustrated sigh, feeling rather annoyed. His glass was empty and he'd turned down Louisa's offer for a refill, and thus he no longer had any way to pass the time, making the fact that he was just watching this girl all the more irritating. He'd told Monsieur Tourneau that he would take care of the matter, but he hadn't expected it to be so time-consuming… in fact, he'd been thinking that he would miss seeing her, even, and that he'd have to wait for her to appear some other time in order to confront her. That had been proven wrong, however, and instead he was obliged to merely sit about, looking rather like a fool, and wait for the hooded young woman to do something.

The clock on the wall showed that he spent half an hour watching the girl without doing anything else before, at long last, she folded up the sheets of paper she'd studied, placed them back with the wad, and then rose to her feet.

Knowing she was apparently about to leave, he cleared his throat and turned away so she wouldn't see his face. He looked intently at Louisa, who had taken note of the hooded young woman's movements as well, waiting for some kind of indication that she was departing.

"Yes, she's about to go," she said quietly to him, giving him a rather fleeting glance while keeping most of her attention on his target. "She's comin' forward right now…"

He placed a hand over his face and lowered his head slightly in a gesture that made it look as if he was deep in thought or something to that effect, but in fact, he was concealing his face from the hooded young woman to ensure that she wouldn't know who was threatening her later on. And because he had his eyes covered, he didn't see Louisa and the hooded young woman exchange departing waves and he didn't see her exit the tavern.

"All right, she's gone," she told him several moments later, at which point he removed his hand from his face and rose to his feet. "She went east."

"Thank you," he replied quickly, placing his hat back atop his head and leaving the tavern in the same hasty fashion, desperate not to lose his quarry after having just observed her for a rather long time.

As it turned out, however, he didn't need to be concerned about losing sight of the hooded young woman, because upon stepping out of the tavern and beginning to head east, he saw her walking along some number of steps ahead of him.

He let out a sigh of relief, glad that he hadn't lost track of her after having spent a considerable amount of time watching her. Then he cleared his throat and straightened himself a bit, sticking his hand inside the trenchcoat pocket which contained the revolver Erik had given him earlier. Wrapping his hand around the gun, he followed his target, staying a good twenty steps behind her in order to ensure that if she happened to turn around, he would be able to duck out of her line of vision and prevent her from seeing his face.

For several kilometers, he kept following her, admittedly feeling a little bit anxious. There were a rather sizable number of people about; thus he didn't feel comfortable approaching her and threatening her with the revolver in his pocket. After all, he didn't want someone else to see the gun and get him into some kind of trouble because of it—especially if that someone else happened to see the gun while he was pointing it at the hooded young woman. He also didn't want to find that she would go into some building before he was able to confront her, seeing as how he wouldn't know when he would see her again after that point—because he certainly wasn't going to follow her into another establishment and threaten her there. For various reasons, that was much too risky.

After a little more time had passed, he and the hooded young woman were no longer surrounded by people—they were only one of about five people on the entire sidewalk within a ten-meter radius. It was time for him to act.

Clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders in a determined fashion, he strode toward his quarry, picking up his pace so that he might catch up to her. And when he was bare millimeters behind the girl, he pulled out the revolver, feeling glad that his sleeves were long enough that the gun was somewhat concealed underneath the sleeve despite the fact that it was rather sizable.

Marielle suddenly heard a click coming from behind her, and then something round and rather hard became pressed against her back. She froze and stiffened, having realized that someone was putting a gun to her back.

"Don't move," an Englishman's voice instructed in a low, unemotional tone. "Don't make a sound."

She did as she'd been told and remained perfectly still, looking straight ahead and silently hoping that she wasn't about to get robbed. She hardly had any money as it was—she only had enough to afford one more night in her hotel and for getting back to Paris, really. And if this man, whoever he was, took all her money, she would be utterly stuck. She wouldn't even be able to stay in the hotel anymore…

"Now, listen to me very carefully," the man continued, sounding rather stern. "Erik Tourneau is not a man who wants to be found…"

Upon hearing her father's name, Marielle clenched her hands into tight fists, her heart beginning to pound wildly. So she had been getting close to him all along! He was in London and he knew someone was looking for him!

"… And nothing good ever becomes of those who are persistent in looking for him," the man said, apparently having not taken any notice of her earlier reaction. "They get warned to go away… but if they don't listen to those warnings, well…"

His voice trailed off, and then Marielle felt the gun press further into her back. A little gasp escaped from her lips, a lump rose in her throat, and then she began trembling, feeling uncertain as to what this man's intent was. He had a gun trained on her, he was telling her that bad things happened to those who searched for her father… did that mean that he was about to kill her?

Oh, God, please don't, she thought to the man desperately, squeezing her eyes shut in terror. You just told me that my father is here, he's here in London… I don't want to die without meeting him.

"So if you have any sense of self-preservation," the men went on, a dangerous warning edge now in his tone, "you'll go back where you came from and forget all about Monsieur Tourneau. Am I clear?"

Marielle swallowed hard, ridding herself of the lump in her throat, and nodded fervently.

The man said no more, and then, all of a sudden, the gun was removed from her back. She whirled around so she might see who had been confronting her, but unfortunately, there were a rather sizable number of people behind her who were walking in the direction opposite of the direction in which she was walking.

She let out a long breath of relief, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to calm herself. She was terrified; after all, she'd just been threatened by a complete stranger and for a few moments, she'd been under the distinct impression that she was going to be murdered…

But those threats had occurred because she was close to her father! He was somewhere in the city; the searching she'd been doing for the past five days hadn't been for naught!

I can't leave, she thought to herself with determination. I can't leave now knowing that he's here… because for all I know, he doesn't live here—he may just be having a brief interlude here, and by the time I get to Paris and back, he may have left already. I can't take that risk knowing that he's just out of my reach! I have to stay, no matter how little money I have.

With these thoughts in her head, she straightened herself and continued in the direction she'd been going before she'd been accosted by the stranger, heading toward Ashley's Hotel. She knew what she had to do—once she arrived back at the hotel, she would check out in order to help preserve her money so she would be able to afford food for a little bit longer. Where she would spend her nights, seeing as how she wouldn't have a hotel room starting that evening, was a little beyond her. But it didn't matter that she wouldn't have a bed to sleep on—it wouldn't even matter if she wound up having to go hungry because she might run out of money before finding her father.

All that matters is that I stay here, she thought. I have to stay here… and I have to find him. Maybe the few days leading up to the moment we finally meet will be uncomfortable; maybe I won't have food or a decent place to sleep. But that will be a small price to pay for finding my father. I can't let him get away from me no matter what!

Taking a deep breath, she continued on toward Ashley's Hotel, her heart beginning to pound in excitement. To think she had been about to leave London when she'd been so close to her father all along! Even though being accosted by the man who had spoken to her had scared her a bit, she wouldn't allow herself to be discouraged, not when she was so close to reaching her goal.

I need to be brave, she decided, letting out a little bit of a sigh. Because in the days to come, I may receive more threats… and they may be worse than the one I just got. But I can't let them discourage me! I have to keep looking… and I just have to hope that my father and I will meet before I get killed.

After a few more minutes, she arrived back at the hotel, where she proceeded to go to the room she'd been occupying since her arrival in London. She packed all her things, placing them in her carpetbag, and then went down to the front desk. Once she'd paid the forty pounds she still owed for having stayed the previous night, she left the hotel for the final time.

Upon arriving outside the hotel, she looked around somewhat uncertainly for a few moments, trying to decide where she ought to spend her nights from that point on.

She could try going to a homeless shelter, but she worried about being turned down because of her mask, so she felt that she would just avoid that issue by not attempting to gain access into a homeless shelter. She could sleep in one of the bathrooms of Paddington Station… or, perhaps, on one of the benches on the platforms. Or maybe on a bench in Hyde Park…

None of those sound safe, she thought to herself, biting her lip in a gesture of anxiety. I could be mugged or raped or killed by some insane person… I'd be so exposed. Of course, if I don't particularly want to be exposed, I really should be staying in the hotel. But if I do that, I'll go hungry rather quickly because I'd rather have to use money that I'd use for food in order to pay for the hotel room. And I only have enough money for a few more days in the hotel, anyway—soon enough I'd have to go because I wouldn't be able to pay anymore, so it's better that I've left now, I suppose. But where should I go… where, of any places outside, would I be less exposed?

For several more moments, she stood in front of the hotel and thought about where she might go, and then she came to her decision—she would merely sleep in an alley, for she wouldn't be very exposed if she tucked herself away in an alley. After all, it wasn't as if people really went looking in alleys, anyway, so the odds that someone would see her seemed rather slim. And since she would no longer have a relatively-close-by bathroom as she had in the hotel, she would just have to make do with cleaning herself as best she could in one of the Paddington Station's bathrooms every morning.

Overall, the situation she was putting herself in was less than desirable, but she knew it would be worthwhile in the end. Her persistence would be rewarded when she finally met her father.

At that point, her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't had dinner yet. She therefore went on her way, heading toward one of the closest restaurants so she might get something to eat. All the while she felt confident that she was making the right decision and felt excited at the knowledge that she would come face-to-face with her father soon enough.