Mmrrow. Isis jumps onto the table where Christine has laid out the Bible and the various documents she retrieved from the floor. Settling down in the middle of the different piles, the she presses her head against Christine's hand.

"And what is it you wish, little lady?" Christine says scratching the space between the cat's black ears. "Some milk, perhaps? I do not know what there might be for you in the kitchen, but we can certainly look." Rising from her chair at the table, she makes her way to the kitchen. "I have a feeling I shall not get anything more done until you are taken care of."

The cat follows her into the adjacent room – spotless, just as every other in the underground house. The sink is cleared of any dishes, a red and white plaid cloth is neatly folded over the edge. The stove a few steps to the right is cleared except for a tea kettle. A small table sits against the wall next to the door, a single wooden chair with a pillow covered in the same fabric as the towel tucked underneath. The homey quality of the room once again finds her confused. Nothing in this house conforms to her teacher as she knows him.

"I find myself embarrassed, Isis. The flat I share with Madame and Meg is hardly this tidy."

Opening the larder, again surprisingly well stocked with non-perishable items. When preparing her list, she had not even considered any of them – flour, sugar, salt, jarred jams, pickles, two potatoes, several onions and some canned goods. What a sorry homemaker she would be. Finding a jar filled with dried sardines, she offers a few to Isis. "Here we are. Perhaps this will satisfy you so I can return to my chore."

Christine smiles down at her new friend as she eats the snack. Once the cat has finished and is washing her face, she takes the plate to the sink and washes it, leaving it to dry on the drainboard.

The important business of having her treat addressed, Isis follows Christine back into the dining area of the sitting room.

"Do you suppose your Pappa will be upset by my looking at these papers?" Christine asks, lifting Isis onto her lap. "Now I must straighten out the bit of a mess you created while helping me look through these papers."

Isis jumps down from her lap and sits on two of the smaller pieces of paper that landed near Christine's feet.

Bending over, Christine moves the cat gently and picks up two daguerreotypes – one of a woman, the other of the same woman and man in what appears to be wedding dress.

"Oh, look, Isis," Christine says, "I wonder if these are Erik's mother and father." Turning the photos over, she nods her head. "Madeleine Marguerite Des Champlaine and Edward Michel Rene Saint-Rien – 14 Avril 1844. Behold your grandparents, young lady."

The cat swats at the photos, then returns to her place on the table watching Christine's every move, but not interfering any further.

Quirking an eyebrow, Christine places the images on the table and lifts up a piece of heavier parchment - Ville De Paris, Certificat de Mariage, Ville de Paris with the same names as those in the pictures. The document is signed by the Mayor du Le Mare 18th Arrondissement with a blue seal stamped at the bottom.

Not Rouen but Montmartre. She would have expected his parents to be married closer to where he said he was raised.

Ah, here was the Rouen connection, an advertisement cut from a newspaper, judging from the paper – Builders: Houses, Barns, Shops; Maurice and Edward Saint-Rien; Rouen.

Riffling further through the papers she finds what turns out to be a poster, much like they use to advertise Hannibal. Café des Ambassadeurs – Champs-Élysée – 1843. On the back, a sketch of a young woman. Her name, Madeleine, with a few comments written in a fine hand…belle jeune fille…soubrette. A small drawn heart and the initials E S-R in the corner.

Christine cannot help but smile. So Erik's pappa was a sketch artist in addition to being an architect. Montmartre was still a community of artists, perhaps he lived there as well for a time. Often after church she and the Girys would stroll along the boulevard admiring the works on display for sale. Much like the dancers and singers at the opera house, they lived in relative poverty, no matter how gifted.

Madeleine was gifted enough to find work as a singer in a cabaret. A chance meeting with a struggling artist who charmed her with his drawing leading to marriage and then a move from a city that loved art but could not support them. His father a successful builder no doubt an incentive.

A few business papers – the deed to a house in Rouen…the one Erik purchased, likely. Squinting at the date – Christine begins missing her glasses – but it appears to be from 1833. Perhaps not – her impression was he only bought the household goods fairly recently. Why would the house be up for auction by the state if he held the deed? Holding the paper farther away, she can make out the name Francois Saint-Rien…not Edward. Erik's grandfather, perhaps.

Another document catches her eye – Extrait des Registrers des Actes de L'Etat Civil – NAISSANCE de le ville Rouen…a registration of birth. 23 Fevrier 1845, quatre heures. Un enfante du sexe masculine. Nom: Emile Francois. Le pere et le sieur Edward Saint-Rien et la mere la dame Madeleine Des Champlaine.

So, not Erik, but Emile. Emile Francois. Why would he not use his real name? Or, perhaps this was not his birth registration. Sifting through the other papers, there is nothing about another child. There are a few more drawings of Marguerite. Christine could quite imagine how Erik…Emile? no, best call him Erik as he asked her to. How Erik might look with a whole face.

Picking up the photographs, she could also see Edward in him – the same strong jaw, but his eyes were his mother's. A handsome couple.

There was no certificate of death for neither parent, only a handwritten note signed by Henri Albers, Mortician with Edward's name and the date 25 Fevrier 1845. Two days after Emile's birth.

A sense of sorrow overwhelms her. Not just for Erik, but for herself. Straightening the papers, she replaces them inside the Bible. Pressing her hands against the book she closes her eyes and allows her tears to fall.

Pappa has not been gone for very long – but it seems a lifetime. Her mother…well, so many years.

"Do we have to leave our house?"

"There is nothing here for us now that your Mama has gone to heaven," Gustave said, sorting through the clothing they would be taking with them. A selection of cooking utensils, blankets, nothing too much for either of them to carry.

"There is Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Olaf."

"They are not your Mama."

"They are Mama's family."

"They are not my kin."

"They love us. They want me to stay with them. I do not want to leave. I want to stay here." How could he not understand how frightened she was? Why was he so angry? Why was he doing this?

"No!" His voice rough…angry. "No." Softer, more gentle, taking her by the shoulder. "You will understand when you are older."

"No, I will not," she screamed at him. Pulling away – striking out with her fists. "I want to stay here. I do not want to walk every day. I want to go to school. I am happy here."

"There is nothing for us here." The words final. "Pack your things and no more shouting."

Still glaring at him, she rubbed her eyes dry with the back of her sleeve. "What about this?" she asked, carrying the Bible from her mother's bedside table to him.

"We have no need for that thing." His words harsh as he took the book from her and tossed it aside. "Nothing but lies."

"But Mamma read from it – she was teaching me."

"Well, forget whatever you heard."

Never had he spoken to her like that before or after. There were times when she knew she angered him, complaining about walking or not having enough food or a place to stay over the years, but he was always gentle and kind, explaining how important the music was. Making music…that was their life…not life on a farm with no real reward for the hard work.

And he did send her the Angel of Music. And the Angel of Music was a man…someone she could love as a person.

Taking the bible to the sofa, she settles into a tufted burgundy velvet cushion. Patting the spot next to her, Isis follows suit. "What shall we read? Psalms? Proverbs? Mama liked those best. Thirty-one I think was her favorite."

She is clothed with strength and splendor,

And she looks to the future with confidence.

She opens her mouth in wisdom.

The teaching of kindness is on her tongue.

She looks well to the ways of her household,

And does not eat of the bread of idleness.

Her children rise up and call her blessed.

Her husband also, and he praises her.

"Many women have done excellently,

But you—you surpass them all."

Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,

But the woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.*

"I am pleased to find you alive and seemingly well…if still not being an exemplary citizen."

The amber eyes fly open. Unsure of whether he dreamed the voice or not, Erik straightens in the velvet armchair. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket to retrieve his garrot, he turns toward the door he knew he locked.

"Picking locks are you?" Erik comments in a dry tone, returning his weapon to the vest. "One would think a keeper of the law would not commit such a petty crime and, yet, you have the audacity to criticize my citizenship."

"As you well know, there are times when breaking the law is sometimes necessary to prevent greater ills." Taking the seat next to Erik, he asks, "Are you not happy to see me again?"

"As a matter of fact, I am, in a peculiar way," Erik turns to look at his former friend, if that was the correct word for their strange relationship. The recollections of just moments ago return – first the daroga was a procurer of talent for his employer – or so he said. Then he was his jailer. Later his savior. Still fit of body, although he did notice a slight paunch peeking out from the bottom of his brightly colored brocade vest reminiscent of the Persian rugs he himself cherishes. The deep green eyes piercing yet gentle, even after all he has seen. No loss of wit. Then there was the hat…always the Astrakhan hat.

"You do not seem particularly surprised at my being here."

"You are not the only one who enters places using stealth…for the greater good, of course."

"I thought I sensed your presence when I was visiting with the most admirable Madame Giry," Nadir laughs. "Peepholes in the walls?"

Erik's smirk answers the question.

"Mirrors, too. I seem to recall you being partial to using mirrors to come and go…or at least for the Shah to come and go…among other uses."

"Mirrors, too." The words accompanied by a slight nod of concession, the smirk still curving the corner of his mouth.

"The young lady?"

Erik turns away from the elder man's gaze. "What young lady might that be?"

"Oh, my dear friend, you missed a beat – that is not like you." Nadir bends over, tilting his head so he can see Erik's face. "Where is she?"

Erik's hooded eyes meet Nadir's. "Safe."

"Does she believe that?"

The amber eyes soften again. "Yes, I believe she does. No reason for her to doubt that fact."

The Persian's dark brows furrow. "I trust you are correct. Strange as that may sound. The dear lady…Madame Giry did not seem concerned about her safety, so I suppose I am taking both your words."

"Well, thank you so much for believing this horrible creature."

"Now, do not be testy – we have been doing so well in our dialogue."

After a soft chuckle, Erik cocks his head as he relaxes into his chair, crossing his legs, arms folded at the wrist. "Why are you here?"

"Where? Paris? The Opera House? This box?"

"Any and all."

"Paris – because it seemed the place to be. Many young people were migrating here. My life in Mazandaran was not completely comfortable after you left."

"You were punished?"

"Stripped of most everything except my life…for which I am grateful."

"He did not believe I was dead?"

"He was not certain," Nadir laughs lightly. "He was as aware of your skills with the garrot as I…and the corpse in the water with half his face missing…well, let us say, he was skeptical, but not so much as to completely disbelieve the story."

"You are a better liar than I thought," Erik says. "All these years I thought you were dead…or imprisoned. Death would have been the better option then, I think."

"I agree. But as it turned out – neither. Just poverty."

"But I left you the jewels."

"Indeed you did and so, here I am." He sighs deeply. "Thanks to you. It took some doing, but there were debts owed me."

"Good. Good. I am glad."

"As for the opera house," Nadir goes on, "I found I enjoyed the music of European composers as well as the bawdiness of the productions. I have become quite a linguist…like you. I found I had to understand what these stories were all about. French, Italian, German roll off my tongue now."

"Indeed, you must give me demonstration," Erik laughs. "Do you sing as well?"

"No, I shall leave that to you and others more capable," he says. "As for the box…I saw you cross the stage when I was leaving Madame's office and followed you."

"A flaw on my part, I believed the theater to be empty."

"Not like you…pre-occupied, perhaps?"

"Perhaps. I shall make a mental note not to allow such a potentially fatal error happen again."

"Fatal?"

"One cannot be a truly effective ghost if one is dead."

"An odd thought."

"I have many of them," Erik says, getting to his feet.

"I take it you are asking me to leave."

"While I am enjoying our chat, time is passing and I am needed elsewhere," he says, opening the door.

"The girl?"

Motioning for the daroga to leave with a wave of his hand, Erik says, "I am truly happy you are well. Now, I must bid you adieu. Please."

"Until next time." Nadir says, narrowing his eyes. "I do hope we can meet again – I should like to hear of how you came to be here."

"We shall see." Closing the door, he locks it once again. Slight pressure on the column opens a panel and he slips inside the post. Meddling fool, but their conversation was enjoyable. How long would he wait before leaving…or try breaking in again? It matters not. Time to secure Adele's purchases from the manager's office. With some luck, they may have replaced the bottle of Armagnac he took last month.

For once, if for only a short time, life seems quite good – two fingers of the brandy for himself…a finger – with water – for Christine if she is inclined after dinner. Then he could read to her. The Rubaiyat, perhaps. His heart leaps at the idea. An evening at home…just like a normal couple. Yes, life is good.

*Proverbs 31:26-30