17 Rue de Carou was thankfully well-lit when I arrived alone and paused at the wrought iron gate that failed to contain an overflowing garden of fragrant flowers.

Before we parted ways, Paulo Fayette said I would not miss the physician's home as it was bursting with flowers in bloom and had at least two dozen bird houses and feeders. He was correct: the physician's home was one I had passed hundreds of times at night and that always drew my attention not because of the flowers or bird feeders, but because there was an enormous Persian cat that often perched on the front steps and watched Bessie and I intently.

It was without a doubt Bessie's favorite spot to sniff aside from the park as she knew the cat existed, but was never able to get near the feline. Considering how terrified she had been of Aria, I doubted she would have enjoyed a face-to-face meeting.

I opened the wrought iron gate, noticing the cat in the first floor picture window. It swished its tail as I strode toward the front door. The windows were open, lace curtains dancing in the evening breeze. Music played from a phonograph, the melody barely noticeable over the conversation and laughter I heard muffled somewhere in the house.

The tips of my fingers touched the brass knocker and I hesitated, considering what I would do when Kamil answered...

I would yank him out of his home the moment the door opened, shove him against the brick exterior of his home, and demand he do precisely what I said. If he refused, the consequences would be swift and severe.

Before I could knock on the door, however, the gate behind me creaked on its hinges and I spun on my heel, fully expecting Kamil had either been alerted by his watchful cat or he himself had seen me approach and sneaked out the back of his home in order to ambush me.

Instead I startled the physician, who had apparently not expected anyone to be lingering on his doorstep at such a late hour and who had not been looking up when he walked through the gate as he was far too preoccupied with whistling to himself. He dropped a small wooden crate he'd been carrying under his arm at the sight of me and stepped back, gasping in surprise.

Rather than take the upper hand once he was distracted, I simply stared at him and crossed my arms.

"Pardon me, Monsieur," he said without meeting my eye as he picked up the crate and the pears that had fallen out. "I wasn't expecting a visitor this late in the...oh."

Kamil froze when he saw me, his flustered expression turning to a smile of recognition and then a frown when I did not greet him with the same warmth.

I realized it must have seemed as though I'd been lying in wait, perhaps biding my time before I could grab him by the shirt, shove him against the exterior of his home, and demand he do precisely as I ordered-which suddenly felt far less appealing once he was on his knees retrieving pears.

"I do hope you are not here to string me up by toes," he said lightly.

"You are of no use to me hanging upside down," I gruffly answered.

"Of use?" he looked up at me, the wrinkles on his forehead prominent and out of place. In my mind he should have still been in his mid-thirties, not in his fifties with silver at his temples and lines around the outsides of his eyes.

"You said that you hoped our paths would cross once more," I reminded him.

"I suppose I did. Is someone ill?" He picked up the last pear and stood, looking me over with a forced smile. "Typically when someone has come to my home that means a member of their family is gravely ill. What is the nature of their affliction?"

"Injured," I corrected. "In need of a surgeon."

His expression darkened. He looked from me to the back of his hands and then at the nearest rose bush. "I don't know how much help I can be in that matter."

"If your skill is anything like it was twenty years ago, you are invaluable."

"You are too kind."

"My words are not meant as flattery. The shoe factory on Rue de Carvale is in ruins and a friend of mine was trapped inside."

The surgeon started to speak, but the door behind me flew open and I glanced over my shoulder at the woman framed by the foyer light.

"Kamil, would you please come inside and tell your uncle to quit cheating at cards?" she said in Arabic.

Her eyes were set first on me, then flashed to where Kamil stood inside of the gate.

"A moment, Shazeen," Kamil said in French. "I have a guest."

I turned immediately to face the woman who had been part of my nightmares and regrets, my heart stuttering at the sound of her given name. Pale blue eyes met mine and she inhaled sharply, her expression caught between horror and surprise as she covered her mouth with her hand.

"Is that…?" Her eyes never left mine, but I knew she addressed her brother-in-law. She shifted her weight, and although I hadn't seen her in two decades, I still expected to hear the bells on her ankles chime with the movement.

The bells had been shackles of sorts, although at the time she had been placed within my chambers, I hadn't realized that the chimes were meant to give her no privacy and allow whatever man she was placed with to know her every step.

For a long moment we simply stared at one another, two people who should have been long dead in the desert, but had somehow denied the will of the Shah of Shahs and his sadistic daughter. "Madame, you look well," I said, hoping my tone was sincere.

At last she offered a closed-lip smile and nod of acknowledgment. There was no fit of raucous laughter or peculiar behavior and Shazeen's eyes were bright and clear with no hint of the reliance she'd had on morphine and whatever other elixir the Little Sultana had kept in cruel intervals of coursing through her veins and abrupt withdrawal.

She had aged gracefully for a woman whose existence had been a living hell for years, separated from her husband to be used by various male prisoners in whatever way they chose.

"Shazeen, would you retrieve my bag, please?" Kamil said. "I must unfortunately leave again for the night at the request of our guest."

His voice drew her attention and she immediately turned and walked away, disappearing around the corner without a word spoken.

Once she was gone, Kamil turned his attention back to me and inhaled. "As I said, she is alive and well," he said. "Quite honestly, she has done better than I would have imagined given what she endured."

For the six months she had been placed within my chambers, I had never seen her walk away on her own. There was always a man who removed her quite violently, often grabbing her by the hair or around the waist where he tossed her first to the ground and then dragged her across the marble floor and out of the door.

The scene had been an endless loop in my nightmares, one of the few in which the punishment was exacted on someone else. It was vivid and painful all the same, sometimes far worse than the memories where I was chased or held down.

I knew both in the waking moments and in dreams when I replayed the past what had happened when the man came to drag her away. I didn't know what criminal was gifted with the body of a drugged woman or if the stranger would harm Shazeen physically before or after he took advantage of her-but I knew she was not able to defend herself.

Sometimes she was missing for hours, other times for days, but she always returned to my chamber, freshly dosed with morphine and unable to form a coherent sentence.

"Which bag, Kamil?" Shazeen asked as she returned to the front door moments after she originally left. Her eyes cut to me, her expression unreadable.

"The brown one," he answered.

"They are all brown."

Kamil sighed. "I will find it. Monsieur, would you prefer stepping inside or waiting here in the garden?" he asked me.

"The garden," I replied.

He nodded and slipped past Shazeen, whom I expected would follow, but she paused and looked up at the rustling trees, her delicate hands gripping the door frame.

I averted my gaze once she turned her attention back to me and I realized I'd been blatantly staring.

"Forgive me for being uncouth," I mumbled. "I do not mean to offend."

"I will forgive you," she said. "If you will tell me something in return."

I met her eye, struggling to keep my emotions pushed far enough from her view. "What is it you wish for me to say?"

Shazeen squared her shoulders, her expression frustrated. Given the amount of time that had passed, I had no idea what she might ask, but as was my nature, I expected the worst.

"Why did you kill Sazu?"

"I never killed anyone named…" My voice trailed off and I furrowed my brow. "Do you mean Sazu from On Summer Nights?"

Shazeen nodded and stepped out the door and off the porch until she stared up at me, her mouth twisted in anger and nostrils flared. "Why did you have to kill her off? Sazu and Itsuki could have been happy, but you ruined it."

"I...well, it was written as a tragedy," I attempted to explain.

She waved a dismissive hand at my face. "Why?"

My lips parted. At the time I had started to write the score, I'd been far too bitter and cynical to believe love could be reciprocated and romance was nothing more than fleeting.

"Because…"

"Because you didn't want Sazu to be happy?"

"No, because it made the story more impactful."

She scoffed at my explanation. You should rewrite it."

I inhaled. "You are not the first to suggest as much."

"Do others feel like Sazu was written for them?"

My breath hitched. "I beg your pardon?"

"A woman who chose to live in her dreams because reality is far too painful, who escapes everything that hurts her to wander in her own fantasy," Shazeen said, her voice quivering. "Who was your inspiration?"

"Observing the hardships of life was my inspiration," I answered.

"No, you are a liar," she shook her head. "It was more specific than that. You based Sazu off of me. Her dream world was my morphine, wasn't it? Look me in the eye when you answer."

My lips parted and I exhaled. "No, I didn't base Sazu off of you, Shazeen."

"I don't believe you."

I could hardly blame Shazeen for not believing what I said as I didn't believe myself. While writing the story I had been plagued with nightmares of her death and the guilt I had felt in failing her.

"If there were similarities, it was not intentional," I said firmly.

Shazeen grunted and rolled her eyes. "I have forgotten how skillful you are at hiding the truth, toy."

My flesh prickled at the mention of the name the Little Sultana had given me, stripping me of humanity in every way that she could manage. I was not a person to her. I was not even a useful tool in her arsenal of torturous devices; I was something that could be easily replaced or discarded.

Kamil hurried out the door with his medical bag slung over his shoulder and brushed past Shazeen. "I believe I have everything I might need," he said without sparing her a glance. He patted his bag and smiled jovially. "Shall we proceed?"

I looked from Shazeen to Kamil and frowned, unsatisfied with the conversation but keenly aware time was of the absolute essence. I followed him through the gate and didn't glance back, knowing Shazeen had not left the place where she had stood.

oOo

I had not known Dr. Khan to be much of a rambler in the past, but he muttered incessantly back to the medical tent, which I found all together irritating.

"Your uncle is in Paris," I said suddenly, cutting him off mid-sentence. I had no idea what he'd been talking about and quite frankly I didn't much care.

"Yes, he returned Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday? He finds Paris more appealing than Germany, particularly for the food. Perhaps at another time you would wish to pay him a visit?"

"Perhaps," I answered.

There was nothing I needed or desired to say to Nadir Khan. I didn't consider him an enemy-at least not anymore-but he was far from a friend.

"He would very much enjoy seeing you again."

"Would he?"

"Of course. My uncle has always considered you one of the most intelligent individuals he's ever encountered."

I snorted at Kamil's failed attempts at flattery. "And he also called me impulsive, erratic, and with tendencies to fixate on one detail and ignore the larger picture."

Kamil refused to meet my eye. "Irascible as well," he added.

"A pity I forgot my best quality," I muttered under my breath.

The factory came into view. From a distance it looked no different than any of the other industrial buildings in the district as the damage was not immediately noticeable.

The sight of it drew my thoughts back to the Opera House and the last time I had seen Nadir Khan. He had still conducted himself like he was the head of the Persian Police, but the title had been stripped from him and he'd been sent into exile by the Shah, which was a far better alternative than execution, as far as I was concerned.

Daroga, I thought to myself. He had always been an eccentric man with a fondness for music and western culture. He took a great interest in my description of the Opera House, a structure he could not believe existed as it sounded like a palace that was open to the public for their entertainment. I had been amused by his fascination and his insistence that I sketch depictions of the stage, the box seats, and the lobby with its grand staircase. He had always wanted to see an opera house for himself, and as fate would have it, our encounter nearly a decade earlier gave him the perfect opportunity to have full access to my home: the Opera Populaire.

"I heard about the disaster," Kamil commented. He shrugged off his bag and slung it over his other shoulder as we crossed the street.

"Everyone did, the world over," I said under my breath, irritated by his unfortunately necessary presence. I detested Kamil's amiable nature.

"I meant...I meant the shoe factory, not the other one," he replied. "One of my patients mentioned the roof collapsed at the factory this afternoon. We heard the commotion the rest of the day. Such a terrible shame."

I made no reply, instead ducking through the tent flap where I immediately paused, my heart stuttering when I didn't see Claude in the center of the room on his cot. There were only two cots remaining, one belonging to a man with a woman at his bedside and the other to the boy who had been pulled out of the rubble earlier in the day.

"Lan," I desperately called out, finding neither Claude nor my brother within the tent.

Phelan stepped out from behind a partition toward the far left rear of the tent and frowned at me, his complexion drained of color in the lamp light. Immediately I crossed the tent and walked past him, peering into the sectioned off space, certain I would find a corpse.

"Is he-"

"Sleeping," Phelan said. "Finally."

I sighed in relief, grateful to find Claude with his head to the side and eyes closed. His lips were parted, his breathing deep and even as he rested.

That was unfortunately where my relief ended. Claude's trouser leg had been completely cut off from the middle of his thigh, the bandage that had taken its place soaked red with his blood and in deep contrast to his concerningly pale complexion.

"What happened?" I asked.

Kamil came up behind me and placed his bag on a table with discarded bandages and crumpled blankets. He glanced over his shoulder at Claude while digging through the contents and muttered something inaudible under his breath.

"He was not cooperative," Phelan said. His features were pinched, his mouth set in a deep frown. "The previous doctor thought it would be best to move him back here in order to remove the nail as he thought it would be less traumatic to the others. Perhaps it would have been if he'd had the sense to sedate Monsieur Gillis earlier."

"He is sedated then?" I asked.

Phelan nodded. "For the time being. It was the only way the previous doctor was able to straighten out his ankle and examine his hand."

Kamil placed several bottles alongside Claude's outstretched left leg and spread out an assortment of scissors, scalpels, and two needles with thread. He pulled a pair of spectacles out of his shirt pocket, then opened a large brown glass bottle, doused a rag with the contents, and wiped his hands.

He wordlessly stepped around me and cut through the bandage on Claude's leg. "Monsieur," he said, looking over the rims of his glasses at my brother. "I am Dr. Khan."

"Phelan Kimmer."

Kamil paused. "Ah, I knew you looked familiar."

"Do I?" Phelan narrowed his eyes and issued a skeptical look.

Kamil gestured for Phelan to lift Claude's leg, which he did, allowing the surgeon to pull the soiled bandage out from beneath Claude's body where he tossed it onto the table beside his bag.

"I've seen you at the theater," Kamil said. "Your seat is three rows in front of mine."

Phelan grunted. "Do you have season tickets?"

"For the last five years." Kamil motioned for my brother to place Claude's leg back down. "My uncle described the theater to me years ago with such enthusiasm that I feared when I first attended a performance that it would not meet my expectations, however, my introduction to opera was quite the experience."

Phelan glanced at me. "I suppose I can assume who the composer was."

Kamil also glanced in my direction before he turned his attention back to my brother. "Mozart, of course."

The two of them chuckled to themselves. I grit my teeth, annoyed with both of them for engaging in such light conversation at a crucial time.

"How do you know my brother?" Phelan asked.

Kamil lifted a brow. He turned his attention to Claude's injured leg and tsked at the sight of the puncture. "Ah, so he is your brother?" he murmured. "We met long ago in-"

"A discussion for another time, doctor," I interrupted sharply.

"When he was employed by the Shah?" Phelan asked.

My heart stuttered. I had almost forgotten I had told my brother quite vaguely of Persia and suddenly I regretted saying anything at all.

Kamil grabbed one of the smaller bottles with a tapered opening and applied several drops of ointment to the puncture. Claude's eyes slit open, his pupils dilated and eyes glassy. He looked directly at me, but his expression remained blank.

"We met in Tabriz," Kamil answered. "Some twenty years ago."

"Were you also employed by the Shah?"

Kamil's olive green eyes flickered briefly toward me. He reached for a metal canister with an atomizer nozzle. "Would you be of assistance and cover the young man's face with a towel?"

"What is that you are using?" I asked, obeying his command.

"Carbolic acid," Kamil replied. "You may want to hold your breath or at least turn your head to the side as it isn't meant to be inhaled and can have adverse effects."

I held my breath and watched him give the puncture several sprays of the mist. He doused the area with another bottle of fluid, mopped up the resulting mess, and sprayed again into the deep wound.

"Was I employed by the Shah," Kamil said more to himself than to Phelan once the mist settled and it was safe to converse. "I had duties pertaining to surgical procedures."

"You are a Persian Joseph Lister," Phelan commented.

Kamil placed the canister on the cot and bent forward, squinting at the injury. "You flatter me, Monsieur Kimmer, but Lister treated the living. Most of my work was experimental and performed on cadavers or those not expected to survive." He glanced at me and frowned. From the corner of my eye, I saw Phelan intently staring at me with his brow furrowed. When Kamil noticed, he cleared his throat. "Would you mind retrieving the lantern? I am in need of a better light source."

Phelan continued to stare at me for a long moment. He turned at last and reached for a lantern hung behind us and held it over Claude's prone form. "May I ask how a surgeon and an architect crossed paths?" he asked.

"It was not a large palace," Kamil said under his breath. He used a blunt metal instrument to examine the wound in silence. I turned my attention back to Claude, whose eyes were wide open and fixed on me with much more clarity. His nostrils were flared and mouth twisted in a way that made me certain he could feel the examination to his leg.

"Claude is awake," I said.

Kamil lifted his eyes and offered his patient a close-lipped smile of reassurance. "Young man," he said as softly and jovially as I recalled from the times he had tended to my injuries. "My name is Dr. Kamil Khan, and I have treated your puncture wound to prevent infection. I will bandage your leg and make you as comfortable as possible before I see to resetting your ankle, which appears to be broken. Unfortunately we are not in a sterile environment and surgery is not an option this evening."

"No, please do not do anything else. I cannot pay you," Claude blurted out, his words slurred from sedation.

Kamil stood to his full height and began plucking bottles and medical equipment off the cot, which he cleaned with a fresh rag and returned to his bag. Phelan returned the lantern to its hook and crossed his arms. I felt the weight of his stare, but didn't meet his eye.

"How old are you?" the surgeon asked with his back to Claude.

"I am nineteen years of age."

"Ah, younger than I originally thought. Your treatment today was already paid in full well before you were born," he said over his shoulder.

"I-I do not know what to say," Claude said, his voice strained with emotion.

"Say you will rest and follow my instructions so that you heal properly," Kamil suggested. "I would be quite pleased to see you walking on your own again in ten weeks, with a cane, of course, until your quadricep heals from the deep puncture and the tibia properly sets. As long as you give yourself ample rest, I am confident you will be able to bear weight fully."

"Ten weeks?" Claude echoed. "But...but I cannot rest for ten weeks. I must return to work."

Kamil turned and stood at the foot of the cot. He linked his hands behind his back and lifted his chin, evaluating his patient's words.

"Do you want to be able to walk again?" I asked.

"Or take your sister to the park?" Phelan asked.

Claude pursed his lips and nodded in silence, his bottom lip quivering. The surgeon smiled, pleased with Claude's response. 'Then I trust you will follow my instructions."

"How will I be able to survive financially?" Claude asked.

"I have an offer for you," I replied. "Two, actually."