"Sheriff Khan!" Inspector Favreau exclaims. Rising from his desk in the small windowed office in the 9th arrondissement mairie, he offers his hand. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"You cannot guess?"

"The only incident of excitement in the city today is the retrieval of the body of the so-call Phantom." A quirked eyebrow and a twist of his mustache, accompany the barest of smiles. "Such a fuss. One would think the entire city was aflame again."

"I suppose the novelty of the man was enough to provide a mob to take up arms. They must be missing the energy of their recent history."

"Perhaps," Favreau says, offering the Persian one of the two wooden chairs opposite his desk, as he returns to this own seat. "The opera, a beautiful woman… To be honest, no one in the audience really knew what was going on."

"I suppose not – the opera itself was quite extraordinary – not the usual fare, I am certain the audience was taken aback, I certainly was, but found it entertainng, nonetheless. Even at that, as with most dramas, why would there not be a villain attempting to seduce the soprano?" Nadir smiles. "You had men there, however. Prepared to shoot – in a full auditorium. Was that wise?"

"The Vicomte de Chagny felt the need – this Phantom or Opera Ghost as he was called, was accused of murder and he was concerned about the Mlle. Daae – his paramour."

"And you allowed that? Your men were told to shoot?"

"Only at Box Five. The Ghost was to appear there it was believed," Favreau takes a cheroot from a wooden box on his desk. Pushing the box toward Nadir, he nods his head for the Persian to help himself.

Shaking his head, the daroga refuses. "You go ahead, though."

"No one expected him to be on stage. Looking back the whole plan was idiotic – problem was reason was ignored – the Vicomte was quite impassioned and, as you said, people were looking for excitement. The prankster was the likely target."

"And now he is dead."

"Yes," he sighs. "His body was found, hardly recognizable except for some of his clothing and a mask found nearby."

"So you are not certain. His body was not examined for identifying marks?"

"No one knew what he looked like – the Vicomte kept calling him a monster – whatever that means. Some sort of facial distortion. The face of the corpse was destroyed and quite monstrous looking by any standards," Favreau says, drawing deeply on his cigar then blowing three circles into the air, smiling to himself at the feat. "We are certain enough to stop the hysteria and allow things to return to normal. The managers just want this all behind them. Not good for business."

"Understandable."

"You have a personal interest?"

"Just as an opera lover, I was unaware there was such a thing as an official Opera Ghost…at least one who was flesh and blood – most theaters have their spirits of one sort or another," Nadir says, rising from his seat. "I appreciate your indulging my curiosity. Once a policeman, always a policeman."

"Anytime. You know you are always welcome and I appreciate all the help you have given us these past years as liaison with our growing community of immigrants from your home country and elsewhere in the Middle East."

"My pleasure. Paris has been most welcoming."

"Is there anything else?" Favreau looks over Nadir's head through the window in the door.

"No, I think not." Following the inspector's eyeline, the Persian observes a young, blonde man pacing outside the office, glancing impatiently through the window at the two men. "It appears you have another visitor. I shall leave you to the gentleman who seems quite fevered over something."

Favreau rises once again. "The Vicomte," he breathes in the daroga's ear as he walks him to the door.

The men shake hands and Khan exits, Raoul bumping into him as he pushes into the inspector's office, turning to the older man with a slight sneer as he brushes some imaginary dust from his sleeve.

"My apologies, Monsieur," Nadir says. "Sometimes doorways are just not wide enough when one is distraught as you appear to be. I do hope the Inspector can ease your angst."

"It will take more than the bumbling fools of this gendarmerie to ease my angst," Raoul mumbles as he turns away from Nadir and enters Favreau's office, slamming the door behind him.

"Most welcoming, indeed," Nadir chuckles as he strokes his dark beard, flecked with strands of gray. So that was the hot-headed fool who created this circus. Thank goodness his old friend, if he could be called such, is still alive. This entire business sounded like something Erik might be part of.

"You know he will kill you if he finds out."

"Then he must not find out," Nadir says as he and the man child, who now referred to himself as the Trap Door Lover, carry the body of a dead prisoner from the jail. A murderer duly scourged and beaten, left to starve to death suited their needs perfectly.

A relatively kind punishment considering the Shah's penchant for more elaborate forms of execution. Often calling upon Erik's own imagination to create new forms of torture. The man's death at this time was a stroke of luck since the Shah seemed intent on ending his architect come musician come assassin's services. Too much brilliance was threatening and could no longer be tolerated.

Throwing the body over the back of his own horse, the two men ride to the shore. Finding a shoal complex, the daroga makes short work of cutting the man's face and hands before shooting him in the back a number of times. "Whether the fish will take an interest in him or not, the pooled water will ruin his face. The bullets will affirm my attempt to stop your escape."

"Thank you," Erik said. "What about you, now?"

"Take me as close to death as you can with your garrote."

"What if I accidently kill you?" The amber eyes danced with odd glee. In jest or not – Nadir never did quite know when Erik was teasing him. If killing him was something any other person would joke about.

"Then I will be dead and will have no concern about what the Shah might do to me," Nadir replied dryly. "With Mitra and Reza gone, my life is not worth much in any event. Better if I live, however, to explain how you tried to escape and how I shot you – offering our late friend's body as evidence of your demise."

"Come with me, then. We shall leave this hell together."

"No, this is best. You do not want them catching you again. The life you lived here will seem like heaven compared to what might await if you are brought back." Lowering his head, he said, "I am sorry I ever brought you here."

"Yes, well, fate has a way of directing us," Erik said, removing the curved wire from his tunic. "Turn around. He may yet wonder how I failed, I fear I bragged entirely too much about my skills."

"Do your best."

"Good-bye, then. Perhaps we will meet again."

"Allah be with you."

Erik's laugh was rough. "You may vomit. If you do, you will know you are still alive. That is how I knew."

Nadir rubs his throat. The thick hair of his beard hides the scar for the most part. The temptation to ask Favreau to see the body pulled from the Seine was great. Was there a similar scar on the neck of the corpse? Had the Inspector any sort of real skill at his job, he might have wondered at the questions he already asked – to make a request to examine the corpse…well…

"I cannot see you." Christine feels her way around the chaise, moving toward the presence she senses in the room with her.

"Perhaps that is a good thing," Erik says, finding her arm with his long fingers, guiding her to sit down. "Best to navigate a dark room with your eyes closed, allow your other senses to guide you." Releasing her arm, he takes the seat next to her, sitting up straight, his hands placed firmly on his knees.

"I told you your face does not frighten me."

"And yet, this is rather more comfortable for both of us – would you not say?"

"How can you joke?"

"I am not joking, but you must know by now I feel more at ease in the dark."

"Yes, I suppose so," she says. "I would still prefer to see you."

"And I you – my pleasure would be greater than yours," he insists, breathing deeply to calm his stirring heart. "Tell me, are you wearing your blue dress?"

"I am." An unseen blush reddens her cheeks. "Do you like this dress?"

"The color suits you and I admire the detail work."

"I made it – not turned, from scratch. I purchased the fabric with my pay, it was a most exciting experience," she rambles enthusiastically. "I love to sew. My Momma taught me."

"Ah. Your mother would be most proud of you. One of the pleasures in teaching you was how you always took note of the smallest instructions. There can be great satisfaction in needlework of any kind. My own mother taught me to sew."

"She did?"

"When I was old enough to manage a needle and thread, we sat for several hours and I learned to make my own masks relieving her of the chore. I became quite adept."

"I am sorry."

"Do not be. Those few hours were some of the happiest of my childhood. I know I spoke of my childhood in most negative terms. In this instance I merely intended to share something we have in common." Shifting his position on the chaise, he clears his throat. "This sort of conversation is unfamiliar to me, Christine."

"You had no one to talk to? Ever?"

"There was a man – in Persia."

"A friend?"

"A jailer, but he was kind to me."

"Oh. Dear."

"You remind me of his son, Reza." Erik smiles at the memory of the boy. "Very pure, kind and honest."

"And you talked."

"Yes. He loved to learn. He loved butterflies. He loved life."

"And he loved you."

Glancing in her direction from the corner of his eye, he admits, "I suppose he did. What a novel thought – I never considered how he felt toward me."

"The pain will be over."

"There is no more you can do?" Nadir asked, unable to control his tears.

Erik shook his head. "This is all I have left to give him - peace."

"Raoul had the wedding gown destroyed," Christine blurts out, disturbing his revery.

Had she been speaking? They were talking about her dress and sewing. Then the subject changed. It had been years since he thought about Reza. About Reza's death. Pay attention. Time enough to dwell on regrets once she leaves again.

"Did he?"

"Well, not him. I actually took it apart because I knew he was going to do something."

The idiot boy. How he hates him. The flame of jealousy still burns deep within. And yet, Christine was here sitting beside him – talking as she might to a friend or as he imagined friends might talk. For what reason and for how long, he did not know. Take advantage of the time, even if it means discussing sewing and other mundane realities. "Well, I suppose that is understandable. It was a wedding dress after all," he says through his teeth.

"You made the dress. I thought you did, now I am sure."

"A person such as myself has much time on his hands – I could not always be writing music."

"I saved some of it."

Why was he so elated at her words? The only time in his life he felt so many jumbled emotions was when writing his music. What was happening to him? "The embellishments, no doubt. They were quite lovely."

"Yes, those, but also the bodice…and the bow," she says, taking his hand.

"And the bow." Erik shudders at her touch, stiffening his shoulders, a soft hiss a substitute for words he is unable to utter.

Ignoring his obvious discomfort, Christine continues, squeezing his fingers ever so lightly. "I like talking to you when you do not have your mask on. You are not so fierce. This is quite nice. Whenever we have been together before you wore your mask…well, except for that one time."

"Quite a shock for both of us," Erik is able to say with a touch of humor. "I am sorry I frightened you. I never intended to frighten you. At least not then."

"I know."

Their silence matches that of the building where both their lives changed irrevocably.

"Why did you come here?" he asks, finally. "I should think this would be the last place you would want to be."

"This is where I have been the happiest since my Pappa died," she laughs gently. "The music, the lessons, finding my voice. Knowing you."

"But you left."

"You told me to leave."

"It was for your own good."

"Actually it was not. You told me to make my choice and I made it."

"You were wrong."

"No. You were wrong."

"Then why did you return my ring and go with him?" Damn. Why am I arguing with her?

"I was afraid of the mob – for you." Tears fill the deep blue eyes and flow down her cheeks. "I thought if I left, that would be enough. You would be safe. Raoul would be able to stop them."

"It was too late for that – once the floodgates opened, those who might never give me a second glance if they passed me on the street were determined I die."

"But they did not find you?"

"Obviously. I had to do what those idiots could not accomplish. A bother, but necessary."

This time her laughter is real. Sniffling, she asks, "Do you have a handkerchief, I fear my nose is running."

Alarmed, he asks, "Are you ill?" Fumbling in his brown wool jacket, he finds a clean square of linen, placing it on her lap.

"No, I am crying and now you made me laugh – quite confusing." Using the fine cloth she wipes her eyes and blows her nose.

"I am sorry I made you cry," he says, shifting his position on the chaise, removing his hand from hers. "I seem to always cause you pain."

Grasping his arm, she rests her head on his shoulder. "No. The pain came from leaving you. Even worse was reading you died."

"You saw the newspaper?"

"Yes. Raoul brought it for me to see."

"You left him then – after learning of my death?"

"I could not stay," she says. "He was too gleeful. Besides I felt like I was in prison."

"He is going to look for you – you know that."

"Yes."

"What if I was not here? What if I was dead?"

"My heart knew you were alive." Touching his cheek, she feels the rough beard growing in on the left side of his face. "What is this?"

"Stubble, such as I am capable of growing – life would have been simpler were I able to grow hair on both sides of my face," he says, removing her hand. "The addition of a longer wig to cover more of my deformity and a slouch hat, and voila! I am simply another ugly man. People tend to avoid looking directly at ugly people, so my best disguise appears to be my own face."

"You just walk around – in the theater?"

"In a manner of speaking, I have been working to rebuild parts of the theater the crowd damaged."

Bouncing on her seat to face him, even though the darkness still prevents them seeing one another, she says, "So you are openly living here?"

"Oh, no, not openly," he says, "but I found this the perfect place to hide until certain plans are in place."

"Plans?"

"I cannot stay in Paris."

"Why not? You said yourself no one notices you."

"I am tired of hiding, Christine. I want to live as a normal man…take my wife for walks on Sundays."

"Your wife?"

"If I had a wife. I mean, I would like to have a wife. A wife would be fine company on a Sunday walk," he mutters. "This was just a thought."

"Then I shall go with you."

"You have no idea what I am planning."

"I do not care," she says. "I am not leaving you again. Now that people believe you are dead, we can be together."

"Wishful thinking – you keep forgetting the boy."

"Do you not want me?" she gasps, covering her mouth as she move away from him. "Oh, I am so foolish."

"NO," he exclaims, reaching for her arm. "No." The toner softer, gentler. "I want you more than you could ever understand."

"We shall think of something then," she says, covering his hand with hers.

"I suppose we must."

"So, you do not mind I came back to find you?"

"No, my dear. I do not mind at all."