"Changed your mind, didja?" Buquet whispers in Raoul's ear.

Jerking around to face the flyman, face flushed, Raoul says, "Is this your normal way of approaching people?"

"When it suits me," is the answer, accompanied by a low chuckle. "Why would you be startled? Said you did not believe in phantoms and what not."

"And I was correct, since you are not a ghost. As for what not, I am not so certain."

"If you are gonna be lording it over me, I might not be willing to help you."

"And why do you assume I am here for your assistance?"

"Because, as a patron, you could be askin' to see the managers or Madame Giry instead of sneakin' around backstage again."

"No one appears to have any information about Mlle. Daae."

"Oh, Madame Giry probably does, she just does not wish to ruffle the feathers of the Phantom."

"So she is his accomplice?"

"Nah," Buquet says with a head shake, " not an accomplice. Messenger more like it. Friend even, if you stretched the word some. Helper."

"So she knows where Christine…Mlle. Daae is?"

"I didna say that."

"Then what? Dammit, man, stop playing games with me." Raoul reaches out to grab the man, but he pulls away too quickly.

"Aha, I would be careful layin' a hand on me, Monsieur. You wantin' information and all. Me bein' more fit than you. Smarter, too, or what it looks like."

Raoul balls his hands into fists at his sides. Unable to respond.

"Lookee here, you are a boy – still wet behind the ears. Did your brother not teach you how to deal with your elders? He be a real gentleman. Wants somethin', asks polite like. Treats us workers like equals, if ya get my drift."

Taking the man's measure, Raoul nods his head. "You are right. I apologize. My concern has me forgetting my manners."

"Think nothin' of it," Buquet says. "I have a cubby where I store my gear, we can talk there."

A short walk finds them in a storage area filled with props and heavier pieces used for staging. Buquet unlocks a door in the far corner and invites Raoul inside. "Small, but private."

"Small indeed," Raoul says, looking around for a place to sit.

Buquet pulls out a stool for Raoul and then sits on the small desk taking up most of the space. Removing a flask from a pocket in his vest, he holds it out to Raoul. "Touch of brandy?"

Raoul curls his lip.

"Too proud to drink with an honest laborer?"

After a moment of deliberation, he take his own flask out. "I have my own," he says, holding it up in a toast. "To a fruitful relationship."

Buquet guffaws.

"So, do you know where she is?"

"With him, I am certain," Buquet says, after taking a long draw from his flask. "She lives with the Girys and if she was with one of the others, I would know. The girls chatter like magpies never caring who might be listening."

"I suppose you know quite a bit about what goes on around here."

"That is true. The theater does not have many secrets."

"So, then, how is this Phantom able to escape being found."

"Because people do not want to find him…except for me."

"Why have you not found him, then?"

"He is the devil, Monsieur. One must be careful dealing with the devil."

"Now you are saying he is not a man."

"Men can be devils – this city was recently besieged by a hundreds of them."

"So he is a soldier? A Prussian? Leftover from the war?"

"Maybe – but I do not think so," Buquet mulls over his answer. "He looks like a mortar blew up in his face, but my sense is he was born ugly. I see soldiers on the street all the time showin' their wounds. He hides."

"Back to the question: where?"

"Below. Within the walls. I dunno for sure."

"And you say Chris…Mlle. Daae is with him?"

"You act like you believe this."

"Can you take me to him?"

"Cannot take you where I have never been," Buquet says. "Best I was able to do was get to the 3rd level – when I saw him and fell."

"Ay, yes, your teeth."

"My teeth."

"So what is your plan then?"

"Madame Giry." Buquet says. "You talk to her. Perhaps wait for a while, until she has forgotten how rude you were. I will follow her when I can, she is certain to be in touch with him."

"That could take days…"

"Might." Buquet shrugs. "Nothing to say the songbird is being hurt."

"He could be ravaging her."

"And what would you be doing with her?" he asks, taking another swig, jumping off the desk. "You patrons are all alike."

"How dare you." Raoul shakes a fist in Buquet's face.

"Back to being the nobleman, I see." The flyman pushes Raoul's hand away with a sneer.

"I…I am her friend. We were fond of each other when we were children."

"And now you are a grown man." Buquet tilts his head toward the door, signaling Raoul to leave. "Talk to Madame Giry – tell her you know about her being chummy with the Phantom. Only this time try not to insult her. I will see what I can find out…for my own pleasure not looking for handouts…but a bottle of brandy would not be unwelcome."

The list and his note safely in Adele's hands, Erik leaves his hiding place inside the pillar to sit in the shadows of Box 5. Settling into a red velvet upholstered seat, he allows himself a moment to relax. How long would it take the woman to fill the list and leave it for him to take back to his lodgings? The better part of an hour he suspects. Sitting here for that length of time is not the least bit appealing. His fingers already begin to fidget, wanting to put his nerves into music.

With no performance tonight, the opera house is virtually empty. Even if there was anyone rehearsing, he really had no heart to play any tricks. After a while, there are only so many times when cutting a scrim loose is amusing.

Returning to her…to Christine is what he really wants to do, but then he would have to come back to check on the groceries. Still, the absence of loneliness in such a short period of time was so compelling, he considers making the journey. Despite his forays above to be with people, the difference in being with Christine is only more apparent. How had he lived without her for so long? How can he live without her now?

"Ah, what is this? The boy has returned and is talking to dear Joseph. Is there a plan afoot?" he asks himself, leaning forward to better observe them. How tempting it would be to throw his voice and shake them up? Better yet, get down there and discover what they are talking about. Christine, no doubt. Him as well.

In a matter of minutes, he settles himself outside Buquet's small office. The smell of whiskey assaults what is left of his nose. So the young man has a drinking problem. Already carrying a flask about. Usually it is those men in their middle years who have lost their physical attractiveness who need to bolster themselves with drink. Tucking that bit of information away, certain it will be useful at a future date.

Buquet's own indulgence is no secret…to anyone. Lefevre only kept him on because Buquet caught him with one of the ballet girls. Something Mme. Lefevre would have frowned upon since it was her money financing his investment. Perhaps Buquet would make his own bed if Adele finds out he has been conniving with the young Vicomte to blackmail her.

Nothing more to learn here. The young pup walks forlornly toward the stage door, if somewhat unsteadily. Unprepared to take his concerns up with Adele as Buquet suggested – at least for the moment. Whatever bravado he gathered to confront Buquet dissolved in a few moments of conversation and a couple of swigs of brandy.

One cannot blame him – the dance mistress is a formidable woman. There are moments, although few, when he find himself questioning how far he dare push her, even with the money she accepts from him. Best not to take anyone to the edge of their tolerance. The vicomte is no match for the dark-haired woman who rules this place…with his help, of course.

As for Buquet, he seems to be enjoying this cat and mouse game with the vicomte – so let him have his bit of fun. Will keep him from nosing around where he should not, even if he did tell the boy he would. The master of the flies will more likely to meet his end through his own stupidity than anything he can do. Observing both of them would be most amusing were it not for Christine.

Impatience to return to her was burning inside him. Taking advantage of the empty theater, he makes his way across the stage without any attempt to hide into the dressing room adjacent to Adele's office to await her return. If someone saw him, it would only increase the myth he created.

At the sound of voices speaking in the room next door, he moves aside a small painting to look through one of the many peepholes he created throughout the opera house. Damnation! Why is she in her office and not shopping? More importantly, why is he with her? How is he here at all?

"Why," Adele asks, taking the note from Khan, centering it on the square green felt pad protecting the cherry wood of her desk.

"I knew someone long ago who wrote in a similar childish hand…much like my son's," the Persian replies. "My heart quite stopped for a brief moment. Many years have passed."

"You were friends?"

"We were many things, I am not certain friend is the appropriate description, but our lives were entwined for several years."

"In Persia?"

"Yes." Nadir rises from his seat. "I can see by the look on your face, you are not amenable to discussing him, although by your speech we are both aware of who wrote those letters."

Flushing, she says, "There is nothing to discuss." Following suit, she stands up as well and walks to the door, opening it for him.

"I understand your hesitation, perhaps better than you might even suspect."

"Was there something else?"

"No, my original question has been answered in a most fascinating way," he says, following her lead. "I shall leave you to your work, Madame. Thank you for speaking with me."

"This must look as though you intended to kill me," the Daroga told him.

The golden eyes examined the man who was responsible for his being in this land at all. Had he stayed in Russia, neither the past years of the worst torture he had ever experienced nor the greatest artistic accomplishment would have happened. The purist of dichotomies.

"What if I go too far, do not stop in time."

"Then I shall be dead and you can still escape," the man in the astrakhan hat laughed. "My wife is gone. My beloved son is dead as well. Death might be a blessing. The body in the surf should be enough to convince the Shah you are dead. If not, well, that is the chance I must take. Die now or later. I shall die at some time."

"I do not wish to kill you."

"Then you will not. Perhaps fate or karma as you call it, will bring us together again. Now please do what you will – time is not our friend."

After sliding the painting back, making certain it is aligned properly on the wall, a sense of peace envelops both his mind and body. Whatever guilt he felt after riding away from him on the beach, not knowing if he would survive the garroting has haunted him all these years. Despite his belief in his skill, there was no guarantee the victim would be strong enough to recover…or in the case of the daroga, whether the Shah believed their scheme.

The masters he met in India often spoke of karma – the law of cause and effect – fate and paying debts. If you save someone's life you are responsible for that life.

"The boy will drown," he said, pulling away from the monk who has been instructing him in Buddhist teachings. "I must help."

"No," the monk replied holding his arm. "The boy's fate may be to die in the river. If you rescue him, he will be your responsibility."

"That is insane."

"It is the law."

To his great relief, another man on the boat from which the boy fell was more concerned with the boy and his mother.

"I am happy for the boy; he was too young to die," he told the master.

"I suspect the man is his father, so it is only right he saved the child," the older man said. "If you take a life or save a life – you will always be responsible in some way. Make your choices wisely, the law of cause and effect is absolute."

The daroga's death was one debt he need no longer be concerned about. The greatest sin, in his mind. The score should be even. So, other than assuring him there was no debt to pay, why is the man back in his life? Meddling again? Disrupting his life again?

"Bother," he mutters to himself, as he re-enters the passage and returns to Box 5 to await Adele's return. Christine must be tended to, the daroga is a matter to be addressed later when he has a chance to think about things further. Still, the thought nags at him. Why was he here at the opera house? What twist of fate has him in Paris at all? Despite not wishing to be in her debt, he must ask Adele and deal with her questions – something he hoped to avoid.

"This is what happens when you allow people into your life." Settling back into his chair, he folds his arms over his chest. "For only a moment. I will rest my eyes for only a moment."