Ch 129

Julia was in the kitchen preparing supper with Apolline at her side when I returned home at noon.

"How were the auditions?" Julia asked.

"Long," I answered. "Hermine Leach was in attendance."

"Good, I'm glad she was able to make it."

I turned my head to the side and furrowed my brows. "You knew she was auditioning?"

Julia nodded while stirring whatever was boiling in an iron kettle. "Yes, Gertie told me in her letter a week ago that they were planning a visit for Hermine to audition at two opera houses."

"I suppose you are aware that Gertie came into town with Hermine in hopes of seeing…" I paused, realizing my wife was aware of the auditions and most likely a great deal more, which either she had neglected to tell me or I had neglected to hear. I suspected it was the former. "Ah, but of course you knew. You told Gertie when Phelan was going to be in town, didn't you? That is why they were both at the Golden Palace this morning."

"Perhaps," Julia said with a shrug and sly smile. "Are you hungry? Apolline made rhubarb pie all by herself. It will be out of the oven in two minutes. It smells wonderful, doesn't it?"

"Of course, it's pie," I answered. Her attempts at distracting me were valiant, but wouldn't work. "You knew that Hermine wished to audition?"

"I did."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You already knew."

"How would I have any idea?" I grumbled. "I've certainly never corresponded with either of them."

"Meanie said so in Calais after her show," Julia replied. "You told her that would be lovely."

I had no recollection of such an exchange and most likely replied in such a manner in order to prevent myself from saying something quite the opposite of my true feelings, but before I could argue my case, Julia glanced toward the corner of the room where I noticed Claude had joined them. His pair of crutches were propped up against the table where he sat on a stool in the corner, apparently in deep concentration. He had been given the task of chopping fresh herbs, which he had separated into small bowls.

"You're mobile," I said to Claude. It was the first time I'd seen him in a different room since he had arrived.

"Dr. Khan told me that I need to get my blood circulating before it pools in my feet and they fall off," Claude said. He looked horrified by the notion despite my certainty that Kamil offered an exaggerated threat simply to get Claude to move about the house.

"Dr. Khan was here?" I questioned.

"He's still here," Julia answered. "In the study making a list of what herbs and elixirs work best for an upset stomach. You should ask him if he would like to take pie home with him."

"I most certainly will not," I grumbled. "Giving away pie indeed."

"I am allergic to rhubarb," Dr. Khan said as he walked into the kitchen with a notebook in hand. He tore a page from the book and handed it to Julia. "Your pie is safe, Monsieur."

"As it should be."

"What time is your train departing tomorrow?" Dr. Khan asked me.

"Midnight, I believe."

"Ah." Dr. Khan appeared disappointed. "We are leaving at nine in the morning."

"We?"

"My uncle and sister-in-law are returning to Germany. My brother is meeting us on holiday for the month."

I stared at him for a long moment, scarcely able to comprehend his words. "You have a month's holiday in Germany? What about–"

"My associate will be here if you, your wife or Claude should need anything," Kamil calmly replied.

"Is he qualified?"

"I assure you that Dr. Montepelion is perfectly capable of his duties." Kamil placed his notebook into his breast pocket. "My uncle asked if you would be interested in stopping by our home before he leaves Paris."

"Perhaps when he returns," I said dismissively. "My calendar is quite full."

Dr. Khan inhaled and straightened his shoulders. "At the present time, Uncle Nadir has no intention of returning to Paris. His failing health makes travel difficult and he has decided to stay with Arden."

"Your brother knows nothing about medical care," I pointed out. "Why on earth would he choose to live with him?"

"He is not seeking further treatment for his conditions."

My heart stuttered. I had known Nadir Khan since our paths crossed when he was the head of the Persian police. Once I escaped, we fell out of touch until I saw him again at the Opera Populaire at which time he meddled in my affairs despite no longer being employed as a detective or constable.

We had been civil toward one another in Persia as Nadir greatly appreciated music and had always dreamed of seeing opera performed on the stage. Our interactions frequently involved music, with me explaining the performances I'd witnessed in the theater as well as detailing the music I wished to write when I returned home.

Through a fog of opium, he helped me pass the time and think of something besides the prison yards and mazes. I never would have returned to Paris without the aid of Nadir and his nephews. And I never would have been known as the ghost haunting the theater without his interference in my affairs.

Our past was complicated, to say the least.

I scoffed. "Not seeking further treatment? You act as though he has one foot in the grave."

From the corner of my eye I could see Claude staring at me, knife in his right hand, a look of bewilderment on his face while Julia bowed her head in dismay. The only sound within the kitchen was Apolline removing the pie from the oven, the tin scraping against the rack.

Nadir Khan had been in perfect health the last time I'd seen him. I assumed the old fool was being as dramatic as the scenes he had desperately wanted to see on the stage so many years ago.

"God willing, he has another six months to a year," Kamil answered, his voice breaking.

My lips parted and I looked away from him. "Nadir was not in poor health the last time I saw him."

Kamil glanced at Julia and Lisette, then back at me. "Much has changed in the last decade. Some for the better, some for the worse."

He cleared his throat. "If you have a moment to spare, my uncle would appreciate seeing you. Now if you would excuse me, I have other calls to make."

OoO

Bessie sat whining at the front door, which I ignored until her forlorn cries turned into drawn-out howls of pure anguish.

Given that it was still quite warm and not conducive to her preferred walking conditions, I was skeptical that she'd walk much further than across the street, but as soon as I clipped the leash to her collar, she happily trotted down the steps and off as though she had somewhere to be before supper.

We were nearly to my cousin's home several blocks away when I heard someone shout from the courtyard. "Mongrel! This city is going to the dogs."

Bessie, having no idea that the word was derogatory, wagged her tail and pulled me toward the smell of supper and two familiar faces waiting to dote upon her as if she were starved for affection.

"Lan," I said as I approached, surprised to see my brother. His face was freshly shaven, his hair combed and tied back from his face, which sharpened his features. "You're here early."

Phelan shrugged. He was dressed for an evening out in a pearl white waistcoat, an evening blue overcoat and matching trousers. "If you have not yet noticed, I tend to do as I please."

To that, Joshua shook his head and gestured toward the empty chair across from Phelan. "Please, Erik, sit with us."

"Tired of me already?" Phelan asked.

Joshua merely grunted before he turned his attention to me. "It's good to see you, cousin."

"Likewise," I replied.

Bessie had already situated herself beside my cousin, staring at him with her dark, pleading eyes in hopes of obtaining part of his supper.

"Phelan tells me the two of you are traveling to meet your grandparents," Joshua said.

"We depart tomorrow evening," I said.

"You must be delighted," Joshua replied.

"More nervous than delighted. I've been learning Danish over the last two weeks in an attempt to speak more fluently with them," I replied.

Joshua squeezed my shoulder. "Impressive, dear cousin, but not unexpected. Language has always come easily to you."

"Has it?"

"I suspect Val–Joshua, I should say–is looking for praise," Phelan said.

I furrowed my brow. "I beg your pardon?"

Joshua sat back and exhaled. "Because I taught you how to read and write."

I eyed him. "When?"

"When I was six and you were three and a half and he was ten," Phelan answered as he cut through the meat on his plate. "Joshua spent hours attempting to teach both of us and you had a distinct knack for reading and writing both the alphabet and music. Alak could scarcely believe it when you showed him for the first time."

"My father thought we were playing a trick on him by having you memorize the words I wrote, so he had Phelan write something on the back of the paper and asked you to read it, which you did," Joshua added. "Not full sentences, mind you, but you knew the shapes of the letters and memorized the sounds they made when in a certain order."

"Peculiar," I mumbled.

Phelan furrowed his brow. "Brilliant," he corrected. "And I assume you are fluent in Danish now that you've had several days to learn?"

"Not yet," I admitted. "And it's been several weeks of struggling."

Phelan grunted. "You've apparently grown out of your astounding abilities then, little brother, and become dull and average."

"Must you be so insulting?" Joshua said under his breath.

"Yes," Phelan answered before he turned back to me. "As long as you are able to express that there is no need for Hilda and Toke to shout at us in broken German," Phelan said as he sat back and folded his napkin beside his plate. "Particularly Hilda, who seems to think if she increases the volume of her voice it changes the language to something I'll understand."

"I will do my best to relay the information on your behalf."

"Tak skal du have," Phelan replied. "I assume you know what that means?"

"Thank you," I translated.

Phelan returned a closed-lip smile of satisfaction. "You are most welcome, little brother. Glad to be of assistance."

Joshua appeared annoyed. "Do you care for dessert?" he asked me.

"Not tonight," I said, checking my pocket watch. "I have another stop to make before supper."

I had an hour and a half before Julia had our meal on the table, which gave me ample time to pay Nadir Khan a visit.

"Before you leave, I have something for you." Phelan pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to me. "The Swan," he said as I ran my thumb over the embossing of the elegant bird in the upper left corner.

The envelope held a single page, with information typed first in Danish with hastily scribbled notes in French beneath it. "Formerly the Skyderhelm Inn, whose owner apparently dropped dead at the start of the year. According to the brochure, they've added two new rooms and additional amenities. Our luxurious accommodations for the week, Kire."

"I thought we were staying at their farm," I said.

"Hilda wrote to me and said the room where we were supposed to stay was most recently occupied by a sick calf. I would rather not sleep in manure and straw, little brother." Phelan sat back and folded his hands. "The Swan Hotel is a short distance from the farm and a great deal more comfortable. I've already paid for nightly baths to be drawn for both of us after supper as well as an upgrade to extra down pillows."

"I will compensate you for the cost of the room and the bath," I firmly said.

Phelan made a sound of disgust. "You'll do no such thing."

"Allow me to compensate you for something."

"If you must, then pay for meals."

"Fine. Consider your meals paid in full."

"Knowing your brother, the meals are probably twice as expensive as the rooms," Joshua said.

Phelan feigned a glare at our cousin. "You're intolerable. And if you must know, Hilda will most likely be feeding us like we're on the menu for foie de gras."

"What are you doing in town a day early?" I questioned my brother.

"Business." Phelan stirred the last bite of his food around the gravy on the edge of his plate before he finally set his fork down.

"What sort of business?" I asked.

"Private business," he answered tightly. "If you must know."

"He swears it is legal," Joshua commented. "But that is the extent of what he will say on the matter."

"Where are you staying for the night?"

"A hotel."

"What time will you be stopping by to see Alex and Lisette?"

"So many questions, little brother," Phelan replied. "What time do you prefer?"

"Noon."

Phelan arched a brow. "Very specific."

"It is imperative that you arrive in a timely manner."

Phelan cocked his head to the side. "I do hope you've planned a celebration for my return, complete with lemon blueberry tarts. I assume you know those are my favorite?"

I rolled my eyes. "Indeed."

"Noon it is then."

Phelan pushed his chair back from the table and stood. "Joshua, thank you for the lovely meal, Erik, enjoy the rest of your walk, and Bessie, there is a piece of bread by your right foot that you've yet to notice." He shook his head at Bessie. "And you call yourself a hound."

I leaned back and looked beneath the table where the generous chunk of bread was directly in front of the dog's foot. By the time I looked up to dryly chastise my brother for feeding Bessie scraps, he was already through the iron gate and on his way.

Once Phelan was out of earshot, Joshua turned his attention to me and sighed. "He is up to something."

"What gives you that impression?" I asked.

Joshua looked at me as though I were mad. "Because he's your brother. And he's arrived unexpectedly."

"It's hardly the first time he's come into town early," I pointed out. "Quite frankly, from now on I think it would be wise to expect him at least a day in advance."

"Yes, but…he typically doesn't stop at my home first. Or at all." Joshua inhaled and eyed me. "Such as his most recent visit two weeks ago when he didn't bother to pay a visit at all."

My lips parted, gaze averted. "I had no idea he was visiting," I said defensively. "He didn't send word of his arrival and I came home to find him in the parlor and his visit was unfortunately brief."

"I'm not upset with you," Joshua said. "If anything, I'm used to him keeping matters to himself and storming off when he is no longer interested in the conversation."

"May I ask why there is tension between the two of you?"

"Because your brother is–" Joshua stopped himself short and I felt my breath hitch. "We are both different people."

I waited for him to elaborate.

"All I will say on the matter is that when he becomes secretive like this, it usually involves a woman."

"Is that so?"

Joshua sat back and stretched his arms over his head. "After he abruptly moved to Brussels last year, he offered to send some sketches of Elizabeth and Carmelina. They arrived a few weeks later, haphazardly shipped in a box as if he'd tossed them out. I sent several letters inquiring about not only the artwork, but if he was ill as it seemed strange, but he never bothered to answer any of my letters and after a while I decided not to bring it up.

"But I have a feeling that a woman he fancied didn't care for them hanging in his home, perhaps thinking they were drawings of his former wife and her daughter. Over the years I've come to realize he loses his senses when it comes to women."

Nothing could have been further from the truth as to why my brother had sent the paintings to Joshua, but I didn't argue.

"You think very little of him," I commented.

Joshua shook his head. "If I thought very little of Phelan, I would have–" He took a breath and spread his hands. "I would have cut ties long ago."

"I am grateful that you managed to keep your relationship intact," I replied, pushing my chair away from the table.

"Erik–"

"Good night, Joshua. Thank you for the company."

OOO

As I suspected, the heat late in the day took its toll on Bessie. She dramatically flattened herself onto the cobblestones and sighed loudly with despair as though her evening walk was a form of torture.

"Get up," I demanded after the third time. "Or I shall leave you here, tied to the lamp post and at the mercy of beggars and thieves."

A woman passing by grumbled her thoughts on the matter before she hurried off, glancing over her shoulder at the pathetic dog army crawling inch by inch down the street.

"Home," I said. "For supper."

Immediately Bessie stood, shook herself off, and happily tugged at the end of the leash as if reanimated by the prospect of food.

Once Bessie was in the foyer, I called to Julia and said I would be home in an hour before I set off on foot toward Dr. Khan's home a few short streets away.

I had not been aware of the close proximity between our homes or how long Kamil had taken up residence in Paris. I was positive I would have noticed him if we had crossed paths on the streets. His pace had always been swift and he had a habit of muttering to himself as he walked, making him quite conspicuous.

I walked through the iron gate and immediately noticed the fluffy Persian cat sleeping in a stone planter, the cascading vines and purple fluted flowers squashed beneath the weight of the animal. Its tail flicked against moss, whiskers twitching. The feline didn't react to the moan of the gate as it closed behind me, nor the sound of the metal watering can as it clattered against the stone path when I turned and accidentally kicked it an impressive distance.

Nadir sat upright, snorting in surprise as I woke him with a start. He rested on a wide wooden bench in the shade, propped up on several pillows while his legs were supported by thick blankets atop an ottoman that matched the wooden bench.

I would not have recognized him if not for his small, round glasses perched on the end of his nose. His face was leathery, his hair white and thinning and legs swollen twice their size beneath strained trouser legs. There was a book in his lap with dented leather corners and the edge of the page folded to mark his spot.

"My, what was that about," he mumbled. He looked around, spotting the cat first, then me. "You."

I kept my distance, suddenly unsure if I'd made the correct choice in paying him a visit. "Daroga," I said.

"Phantom," he replied. His voice still sounded the same, deep but welcoming.

"I prefer Erik," I corrected.

He smiled back at me. "Call me Nadir."

"You look…"

"Old and sick," he said. "I am aware."

"That was not what I intended to say," I replied, shifting my weight. "At least not to your face."

Nadir chuckled to himself. "It is good to see you have not lost your sense of humor."

"My wife would disagree about the humor part."

Nadir gestured toward the empty wooden chair in front of the planter containing the cat. "Do you have time to sit?"

I started to reach for my watch, but reconsidered, knowing the hour didn't matter as this would be the final time we exchanged words. "If you would have me."

"Yes, yes, of course. I would offer you tea, but I'm afraid it's gone cold."

I took a seat beside him and looked around the narrow courtyard. The patio was spotless; not a single blade of grass grew between the bricks nor a weed in the planters or flower beds. Behind Nadir was a stone statue of a woman holding a bowl that contained bird seed. The table beside him was iron with a tiled mosaic surface in yellow and orange that held small clay pots containing more flowers in pinks and reds.

"You have a lovely garden," I commented, having no idea what else to say to him. Ten years had passed since we had last seen each other and our parting words had been less than civil.

"Kamil's doing," Nadir answered. "After he returns from his calls, he spends hours out here pulling weeds and watering everything one by one. I tell him he should relax, but he says it keeps his mind bright. Quite frankly he is bright enough as it is."

"He tells me you are returning to Germany."

Nadir rubbed his left thigh. "I should have returned months ago," he said. "But Paris is so beautiful in the spring and summer, particularly my nephew's garden. The city is lovely in the fall as well, but if I don't leave now…" He looked from his enlarged legs to me and frowned. "Then I don't believe I will be leaving at all."

"Perhaps in your condition you should remain with a physician."

"Erik," he said softly. "I would prefer speaking of other matters if you would be so kind as to entertain a frail old man."

I sat back and turned my attention to the statue with the bowl. Sparrows fluttered down from the trees, bickered between themselves, and flew away, leaving more of a mess than enjoying a complimentary meal.

"You're married," he said suddenly.

"Approaching five months now, which doesn't seem possible," I answered. "With two children and another on the way."

Nadir nodded. Wisps of white hair mixed with strands of black crowned his head, which he attempted to smooth. "Tell me about your family."

I inhaled and gave the names and ages of my children as well as Julia's name, which I suspected Kamil had already done. The cat woke and stretched behind me, paws grazing the back of my neck, which prompted me to mention Aria and Bessie.

"Does your son play the violin?"

"Everyone asks and unfortunately his interest is quite limited."

"What are his interests?"

"Ancient civilization," I answered. "Exotic lands and great beasts."

"You have an explorer on your hands."

"Perhaps." I paused and narrowed my eyes. "It appears you have not fully retired."

"What gives you that impression?"

"You are interrogating me."

His olive eyes twinkled with mischief, his features relaxing. Beneath the wrinkles around his lips and eyes, there was a glimmer of the man he had always been. "Simple conversation and nothing more."

"In which you inquire about my life and I know nothing about yours," I grumbled half-heartedly.

His smile broadened, just as it had every time he sat across from me in the palace and took interest in the puzzles I designed. "What do you wish to know? Outside of my medical state."

"Why Germany?"

"Good bread."

I furrowed my brow. "That's an utterly ridiculous reason to live there. What is the real reason?"

"They have very good chocolate. "

I grunted. "Ah, well, that explains it. Chocolate and bread. What else does one need?"

"Music, of course, and I was fortunate enough to see one of your operas last December," he said. "At Leipzig's opera house. Have you been there?"

I shook my head. My travels across Europe had never delivered me to anywhere as opulent or satisfying as a theater, and even if the traveling fair had taken up camp at the bottom of the opera house stairs, I would never have been permitted to step foot in such institutions.

"It was snowing and the Christmas market was overflowing with people bustling from stall to stall in search of gifts, all wearing their finest Sunday clothing. The air smelled of spiced cider, fresh breads, and chocolate." He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "When we pulled up to the opera house steps in our carriage, I thought it looked like a fanciful snowglobe outside, the most delicate and beautiful city I'd ever seen. There was magic in Leipzig, and in the midst of the fantasy there was music. Your music."

"You saw the Soldier and the Shell in Leipzig?" I asked.

"Yes. How did you know which opera?"

"Because they sent me a check in February."

"Ah, yes. I didn't realize you were the composer until we were seated and I examined the program. Did you know they don't have their own orchestra? They employ one out of the garment house."

"Fascinating. I hope you found the music enjoyable."

"Of course, of course. I knew that you had an appreciation for music, but I don't believe I ever knew that you composed so extensively."

"Was this the first of my operas you've seen?" I asked.

"No, I've seen the Fox Pursues twice, Casa del Mar, Margarite, Mauro and Jewel, but not the one that was at the Golden Palace recently, and of course…of course the one at…"

"The Opera Populair. Don Juan Triumphant," I finished for him.

Nadir worked his jaw in silence briefly, and I wondered if he dreaded the turn in conversation as much as I did.

"Did you ever finish that one?" he asked.

"The script was completed," I said. Painstakingly, at that, over a nine week span in which I rarely slept or ate. I was certain I would die from exhaustion or starvation before the ink dried on the last page. "I believe you are aware of how the performance ended."

Nadir studied me for a long moment in silence, so long in fact that I turned my attention back to the statue, which the birds had abandoned. Blank, stone eyes stared across the narrow courtyard, slender arms held out, expression caught somewhere between melancholy and despair.

I wondered if the artist who had chiseled her features knew what it was truly like to stand alone, to hold out one's arms and receive nothing in return.

"Why?" I asked without looking at Nadir.

"Pardon?"

"Why did you help them?"

The question I truly wanted to ask was different from the one that found its way past my lips.

I could feel him still watching me, still contemplating in silence. He had made a career out of dissecting criminals by observing them and the way in which he blatantly looked me over made me feel as though he searched for something I had hoped was no longer part of me.

"I beg your pardon?" he said at last.

"Firmin," I answered rather impatiently. "And Andre."

"Ah, yes. The managers for the Opera Populair."

"Managers," I snarled.

They were hardly fit to manage anything, let alone my beloved Opera House. Firmin, the old incompetent fool, desired nothing but money and Andre, the younger but no less foolish idiot, had no sense of what was popular–and considering the name of the theater, he would have single-handedly driven the opera house into the ground within two years, I was certain of it. Watching them bumble through their daily tasks was like watching Cerberus chasing his tail.

Nadir rearranged himself on the bench. "I had a perfect shot," he said. "One that would kill instantly, not a moment of suffering."

I gripped the wooden armrest and sat forward, silently imploring him to continue.

"Not simply once, but twice I had the opportunity."

"You are mad," I said. "And old and forgetful, I might add."

"Old yes, mad is debatable, but I can assure you that my memory is as keen today as it was forty years ago," he said, eyeing me sharply. "The first time I saw you was on the rooftop the day I arrived at the theater," he said. "It was four fifteen in the afternoon, the winds were particularly strong from the southwest and you were wearing a burgundy suit with a matching fedora."

It was very likely Nadir made up the scenario as I had no recollection of owning a burgundy suit, but still I listened, humoring the feeble man seated before me.

"You were standing beside the statue of Apollo, your hand on his elbow to balance yourself against the wind. Brittle leaves from the previous autumn were swept up around you like birds caught in a tornado. They scraped against the gravel and brick, muffling the sound of my footsteps."

My breath hitched. I remembered the wind that day, how a storm had blown in as the sun set and brought with it a torrential downpour, the thunder rattling the foundation of the Opera House down to my lakeside home. The weather had cut my evening short and I had retreated to the safety of apartments well before I desired. The solitude that day felt almost fatal.

"I was no more than twenty paces away from you," Nadir continued. "Pistol at my side, notebook and pencil in my pocket. I watched for perhaps ten minutes before I returned to the manager's office and agreed to assist them in finding you as I could confirm you were indeed the same individual I had known years earlier."

He looked away from me and rubbed his chin. His eyes appeared tired, his lips forming a deep, sullen frown and I wondered if he regretted not taking the opportunity presented to him so long ago.

"That was smart to wait. If you had shot me in the back prior to signing a contract, they most likely would not have compensated you as you would not have been officially employed."

Nadir ignored my cynical words. He stared past me, his gaze as distant as the statue peering over his shoulder.

"The second time I saw you was backstage, around seven in the morning the day of the performance. You were coming down from the catwalk and there were maids approaching through a side door to tidy the theater. You crouched toward the back of the stage, behind the scenery and before you opened the trap door, I considered calling your name but…"

"You didn't think I would invite you for tea? Come now, Daroga. I would have been quite hospitable toward an old acquaintance."

"I didn't want to draw attention to you." Nadir exhaled and shook his head in dismay. "I never wanted it to end the way that it did."

"How did you want it to end?" I angrily questioned.

Nadir remained undeterred by my tone. "In amicable fashion."

I scoffed at his words. "It was far too late for that."

"It didn't have to be."

"I disagree."

I recalled that I had gone to the rooftop in search of solace from my restless mind. Nightmare after nightmare disrupted my sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, a new horror crept up. There was no reprieve in the last weeks leading up to the debut of Don Juan Triumphant; only memories of my father beating me, Garouche dragging me out of my cage, and the Sultana waiting to finish me off. It was as though the three of them had met up in the afterlife and sought to torment me.

I was trapped within two different hells: the one within my mind when I closed my eyes and the one I had created for myself physically within the Opera House.

The gardens atop the theater had been the one place that had always cleared my thoughts. I brought crumbs for the pigeons, who gathered on the ledge and cooed for their meal. My body felt broken and weighted down, and as I sat on the stone bench to watch the clouds roll past overhead, I wished to return to a time when I was simply lonely. It was strange to long for days I had thought were miserable, but loneliness was tolerable.

"Why would you have gone to the rooftop?" I asked suddenly. "The stairs are narrow and steep, the halls musty and lightless," I pointed out.

"You told me how beautiful it was to overlook the city," Nadir answered. "I wanted to see it for myself. And when I saw you there, I wanted to tell you that the view did not disappoint. You had an eye for such overlooked places."

I grunted. "It was not an invitation," I snapped.

"I also wanted to ask you if you were familiar with Eugune Onegin."

I furrowed my brow. "What were your intentions? Tap me on the shoulder, ask if I found Tchalkovsky interesting, and then once I gave my answer, proceed to shoot me in the chest?"

"I made it quite clear from the moment I spoke to the managers that I would not injure or kill you."

"Then you were obviously the wrong man for the job."

"I was a detective, not a mercenary. I agreed that I would look for you, but I would not kill you nor draw out so that someone else could. After everything that happened in Persia, I wished you no harm."

"It certainly didn't feel that way."

"Erik–"

I turned away, my chest heaving.

We sat in silence, neither one of us looking at the other. The days leading up to the performance were a bit of a blur due to my lack of sleep. I spent my waking hours reading and rereading my opera a dozen times, imagining Christine's reaction once she realized I was beside her on the stage.

She would no longer be able to deny her feelings for me. I reasoned that I had seen adoration in her eyes when she spoke of me to Meg, that she had her reservations, which I understood, but the passion between us was real. When the time came, she would choose me. She would obey the beckoning of her heart and soul and realize that we were bound by our love of music and each other. She belonged to me and no one else. Physically, emotionally…we were to be one, joined until death or I would see that we both perished.

And then, in the back of my head, the Sultana, Garouche, and my father lined up side by side, bringing with them a landslide of self-doubt. Christine didn't love me, she wasn't capable of loving me because I was not made to be loved. I was destined to be beaten, flogged, spit on and berated. I was meant to be humiliated and defeated at every turn. I was designed to fail, to fall to my knees in despair.

Moments before the performance began, my stomach churned and my knees turned to jelly. The designs of failure were in my hands and I had committed to my own demise.

"You were in my nightmares," I said softly.

Nadir's lips parted. "I am deeply saddened to hear that."

I forced myself to meet his eye, to see the man who had taken an interest in opera and who had ultimately helped me flee Persia so many years ago.

"You were at the end of a hall holding a door open," I continued.

And I was on my hands and knees, unable to gain traction on the marble flooring as my palms were slick with my own blood. I never saw her, but I knew in my nightmares that The Sultana stood behind me, whip in hand, waiting for me to climb to my feet so that she could strike me down again. In other renditions it was Garouche with his club. The time I turned around, it was my father with the strap he kept at the top of the cellar stairs. Seeing him not only woke me, but I thrashed so violently to escape that I tumbled from bed and landed on the floor.

My heart raced as I thought of the door open at the end of the hallway, of Nadir Khan frantically telling me to make haste and how I could not for the life of me climb to my feet. All the years of agony and frustration rested on my shoulders, a burden I could not bear. It was a boulder between my shoulder blades, immobilizing me beneath its impossible weight.

"In my nightmares, you were always attempting to help me," I said. "But in reality..."

Why, I wanted to ask him. Why did you betray me? Why did you come to their aid and not mine when I needed someone?

His olive green eyes hinted at remorse. "If I had come to you, if I had offered my assistance, what would you have said in return?"

I took a deep breath. The pain I felt was far more acute than I would have ever anticipated.

"That was ten years ago," I said dismissively.

The cat's tail brushed against the back of my neck and I turned, seeing the animal's mouth wide open with a yawn, its gums pink and teeth slightly discolored. It stretched out on its side, long-haired paws reaching out to knead against my shoulder while he started to purr.

"Would you have accepted?" Nadir questioned. "If I had extended my hand out to you, would you have taken it?"

"In dreams, yes, in person?" I hesitated, my jaw working in silence. I would have killed Nadir before listening to reason. "In person I do not believe so."

"I appreciate your honesty," he said.

I sighed to myself, wanting to know what he would have said to me while at the same time dreading his answer as the past was etched permanently in its place and nothing that Nadir said or did would lessen the turmoil.

"I thought of you frequently over the years," he said. "I wondered if you had made it back here alive, but Arden assured me that you had. He said you were one to survive."

"Like a weed," I said under my breath.

"Weeds have their places," Nadir replied. "Yarrow heals wounds, stinging nettle lessens joint pain and purslane relieves the sting from a bee. But…" he retrieved his cup of tea from a small table and took a sip. "Spurge resembles purslane and yarrow can be mistaken for hemlock. It takes an expert to know what they are looking at as one wrong move could prove fatal."

"Are you an expert on weeds?"

"I knew what I was looking at, yes," Nadir replied with a shrug. "I was quite skilled at differentiating what was lethal and what was not. A good talent to possess in my line of work."

"And if you had been mistaken?"

Nadir lifted his chin and placed his tea back on the table. "Was I?"

"I hope not. For the sake of my wife and our children."

"Of course I wasn't wrong," he said, feigning insult. "In my twenty-six years on the job, I had a flawless record. You were not about to be the first to prove me wrong."

I grunted. The cat jumped down from the planter, stretched, and padded to Nadir.

"Isn't that right, Walid?" he said to the cat. "You are a most excellent judge of character as well."

The cat trilled in response, long white whiskers twitching.

"Yes, that's right, Walid, my friend," Nadir said. He ran his hand along the cat's spine and looked at me. "When Walid doesn't care for someone, he tends to bite them in the back of the neck when he's sleeping in his planter."

I raised a brow. "Is that why you offered me this seat?"

The mischievous twinkle in his eye returned. "As I said, I was never wrong."

"As long as you have the confirmation of a cat."

Nadir once again reached toward the table with his tea, this time for a deck of cards. "Care to play?"

In the distance, church bells marked the hour. I shifted in my seat, knowing Julia expected me home for supper soon.

"My wife," I started to say.

"Another time then," Nadir said.

"When you return from your holiday."

He nodded, but didn't look me in the eye. "Erik," he said, his voice a soft rasp. "If I offer my hand to you now, would you accept it? A truce of sorts between two people with an appreciation for music?"

I leaned forward, offering a handshake. "One game of cards," I said.

His eyes lit up and he shuffled the deck of cards. From the corner of my eye, I saw the back door open and Shazeen step outside with a silver tray in hand.

"Have you packed, Jidi?" she asked, setting the tray down. Affectionately she kissed his forehead.

"Kamil will do it for me, shakhs sabun," he answered as he dealt out the cards.

Shazeen refilled his tea, poured a cup for herself and for me, and took a seat beside Nadir. She pulled at her skirts and watched me from the corner of her eye, but said nothing.

"I'll be quick with my victory so that I don't keep you from your wife a moment longer than necessary," Nadir said, chuckling to himself.

I rolled my eyes. "I've improved with my card playing skills over the years."

"Good enough to best me?" he said, looking up with his eyebrows raised.

"Probably not," I admitted. I glanced at Shazeen. "Spectating?"

"Shazeen is almost as good as me," Nadir said. "You certainly don't want to play against her."

"I'm better than you," she said. "If you didn't cheat you would realize that."

"Cheating indeed," Nadir said as he dealt her hand of cards. "I've never cheated at cards a day in my life."

"Yes, you have," Shazeen and I said in unison.

Shazeen rearranged her cards and smiled to herself. "I told you, Jidi. Playing with you is worse than playing with Arden and Aariz."

I turned my full attention to Shazeen and furrowed my brow, having no recollection of someone by that name.

"My son," she answered. "Twelve years of age and taught by Old Father," she said, nodding at Nadir. "Our sweet, harmless, Jidi."

"My dear shakhs sabun," Nadir replied. "My young one."

I looked the two of them over, two people from long ago that I knew I would never see again after this evening. The past would stay the past, the questions I had left unasked and unanswered.

"Nadir," I said, settling back into my seat. The cat returned to his planter and pawed at my shoulder. "What did you wish to ask me about Eugene Onegin?"