After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.

~ Philip Pullman

"Come now, azizam," Nadir chided gently. "I thought I made it clear that this is my chair, not yours?"

Tahmina's green-gold eyes gazed up at him with a look that said she was still of the opinion that everything in the flat belonged to her, and not interested in sharing.

For a brief moment, he considered asking Darius to come remove her. After all, it had been Darius who first found her and begged to be allowed to keep her, so she was his responsibility.

But then again, Nadir had been the one who named her. And besides, if the former daroga of Mazandaran couldn't best such an opponent on his own, the world was in an even worse state than he'd thought.

Still keeping his tea balanced in one hand, Nadir caught the cat under her chest with the other and deftly hoisted her up. Before Tahmina could give more than a brief miaou of protest, she found herself in his lap, where she soon decided this was an acceptable negotiation and curled up contentedly.

At last, Nadir settled into the wingback chair. The smell of lemon and cardamom mingled with woodsmoke from the fire as he sipped his tea and stroked Tahmina's brindled gray-gold fur. Soon she was purring, and it was a comfort that he had, at least, done one thing right in his life.

The past year had been difficult and exhausting for the exiled Persian. He'd expected there would be trouble from Erik as soon as news came out that the Opera Populaire would be under new management – while he had never been at ease with him extorting Lefèvre, he'd observed that the Opera Ghost at least abided by his own rules when it came to their arrangement, and had never caused lasting harm to persons or Palais.

But just as Nadir had feared, Firmin and André had refused to play by his rules. And as he so often did when he felt like he was losing control, Erik had lashed out like a spiteful, destructive child.

After his near-fatal attempt to confront the Phantom in his lair, Nadir had been ready to go to the police himself. He'd known it would be daunting to get them to listen to an outlandish story about a preternaturally gifted magician-turned-assassin living below the Garnier (especially when the story came from someone of his color and background), but surely the very public murder of Joseph Buquet and the crash of the chandelier would have been enough to make them give his account some consideration.

But then Soroush and his agents had come from the Persian embassy. They had told him of the Dumortier affair – their suspicions about what had really happened, and who had been behind it. They'd ordered the once-daroga to join the investigation, and demanded the utmost discretion on his part.

And so Nadir had found himself faced with a choice: leave Erik free to continue wreaking havoc on the Opera, or lose his pension and end up on the streets, Darius and Tahmina along with him.

Twisted every way, what answer could he have given?

At least he'd given Mme. Giry his card. He could let that knowledge ease his conscience a little.

As he thought of the ballet mistress, Nadir smiled. It had surprised him how much he'd missed her during his months away from the Opera – how much their odd alliance-turned-friendship had come to mean to him. When he'd seen her the other night, he'd also remembered how much he admired her grace, and her mature beauty …

Nadir swallowed a gulp of tea, pushing those thoughts away. What they had could never be anything more than a friendship. Many years ago, in anguish after the death of his beloved Roghayeh, he'd sworn he would never seek the company of the fairer sex again. And even if he hadn't made such a promise, he knew Antoinette still grieved the loss of her husband.

No, her friendship would be enough. There were so few people in France he could call friends, and even fewer who he could trust with the darker and more shameful parts of his past. Whatever the nature of their company might be, he would cherish it.

Tahmina's warmth and purring were starting to make him drowsy. It was tempting to stay where he was, but if he fell asleep in the chair, his back would curse him for it tomorrow. Nadir shook his head – when did I become an old man? – and reached to set his teacup down …

"Monsieur Khan!"

Frantic hammering on the front door startled him back to wakefulness. There was no mistaking that voice, or the fearful urgency in it.

"Monsieur Khan, are you there?!"

Tahmina dropped from his lap with a yowl as he leapt to his feet. He hurried to the door, not caring that he was still in his slippers and robe de chambre . Meg was so caught up in her knocking that she nearly fell over when he opened the door, and he quickly reached out a hand to catch her.

"Mademoiselle Giry, what's going on? What are you doing here?"

Meg's dark eyes were wide, her face flushed. "It's my mother. Please, you have to help, she's been hurt!"

Nadir's blood turned to ice.

He hurried after her down the stairs. Antoinette was there, gripping the shoulder of a bewildered-looking cab driver as she struggled to keep herself upright.

"M'sieur …" Her face brightened for a moment as she saw Nadir, before she started to slump to the floor.

His heart pounding, Nadir lifted the half-unconscious woman into his arms. Her head fell back as he carried her up to the flat, and below the edge of her high collar, he caught a glimpse of all-too-familiar bruises around her neck.

Cold fury surged through his veins. "Don't be afraid," he said as he laid Antoinette gently on the divan. "I'll have him for this."

Never mind the police, Nadir thought. If he's so far gone that he'd kill his oldest friend, I'll take my pistols and put him down myself.

But Antoinette was shaking her head. Pointing to her throat, clearly in pain with every word, she whispered, "Not … Erik."

Darius, still wiping suds from his hands, hurried into the parlor. "Agha, what's happened?"

"That remains to be seen." Nadir knelt beside the divan. "Are you sure it wasn't Erik? I know the work of the Punjab cord when I see it."

"It can't have been him," Meg answered for her mother. "Whoever he was, he was looking for the Phantom."

At Nadir's instruction, Darius brought clean towels and a basin of cold water. This wasn't the first time the daroga had found himself helping the victim of an attempted garrotting (Erik might be the most skilled strangler he knew, but there were plenty of other, more ordinary criminals who used such methods), and he still remembered what to do.

"Did he hurt you anywhere else?" he asked as he unbuttoned Antoinette's collar and began bathing her injured throat. "Your head, or your stomach?"

She shuddered as the icy water trickled down her skin, but shook her head.

"Can you open your eyes wide?"

She did as he asked. To his relief, her lovely dark eyes were clear, with no trace of blood or bruising. Already she seemed more alert, and he took that as a good sign.

As he tended to Antoinette, Meg described the attack, and the cloaked and masked stranger who wielded the Phantom's signature weapon. "His mask looked a lot like the ones the fire brigade sometimes wear. Glass pieces over the eyes, and a metal part that curved down like a beak. Probably to keep him from breathing his own smoke."

Something about her description was stirring the depths of Nadir's memory. He listened in silence for a moment, trying to recall, but the memory refused to surface.

"You said Monsieur Khan would know something," Meg spoke to her mother. "What did you mean by that?"

Antoinette shifted, sitting upright against the arm of the divan. "Yes! When he spoke …"

She started to cough, rubbing her throat in pain. Darius brought her a cup of water, and she sipped it carefully – swallowing was still a misery, but the cold water was soothing enough to endure it.

"Take your time." Nadir held her hand, trying to offer comfort. "What did he say?"

She shook her head again. "Not what he said. His accent …"

Her eyes snapped up, and she gripped his hand tight. "It was like yours. A Persian accent."

Nadir's breath caught in his throat.

Now the memory was coming back to him. He recalled the details he'd been told of Hector Dumortier's death, and the words of the half-insane valet he'd visited and questioned at Sainte-Anne weeks ago: white face, glassy eyes, a beak of brass …

"Are you absolutely certain?" He prayed her answer would be no.

Antoinette was quiet for a long moment. She wanted to tell him that she'd kept his voice in her thoughts for too long not to recognize the accent. But even if her throat hadn't been hurting so much, she knew this was not the occasion to speak of such things.

All she did was nod, and whisper, "I am."

Nadir swallowed. "Khoda hafzemwen kenh."

Mother and daughter didn't understand the Farsi expression, but there was no missing the fear in his voice, or the way the blood drained from his face. "So she was right," Meg spoke up. "You do know something."

"... Possibly. But I cannot speak of it."

"Are you serious?" Meg stared at him. "After everything that's happened, how can you still be keeping secrets?"

"I'm doing it for your safety." Nadir gritted his teeth. "Don't you understand? This is a matter far above all of us. Your lives could be in danger if you knew more."

"Our lives are already in danger!" Meg snapped. "We were just attacked in our home!"

"Who is he?" Antoinette whispered. "Why is he looking for Erik?"

Nadir hesitated one last time, torn between his duty to his homeland and his wish to protect the woman and girl he'd become fond of.

"We can't do anything if you keep us in the dark," Meg spoke again. "What if he comes back?"

Antoinette laid her other hand over Nadir's. She gazed up at him, her eyes arresting his. "Please, tell us."

… Nadir could not resist those beautiful dark eyes any longer.

"Very well. I'll tell you what I know, and what I suspect."

I almost wish it had been Erik who attacked them, he found himself thinking. It would make putting an end to all of this far less complicated.

The office in the tenth arrondissement was small but airy, brightly lit by a large window that welcomed the morning sun. One wall was covered in bookshelves, while another held several framed maps displayed above a painted globe in a wooden stand. The desk Raoul now sat in front of was old-fashioned but well cared for, and the man seated at it offered him a friendly smile.

"I must say, I don't often have one of the aristocracy step through my door at this hour," the attorney said. "What brings you to seek my services?"

A little nervous, Raoul fidgeted with the card Mme. Baptiste had given him. "My fiancée and I are planning to move to Sweden, as soon as possible."

"That would be Christine Daaé?" Seeing Raoul's uneasy reaction, he added, "My apologies, Monsieur de Chagny, but I've been following your story in the papers. I understand the need for haste, and I will give what help I can. Tell me, what are your plans once you arrive in the country?"

As he told the attorney of Christine's wish to find her family, his own intentions to find work, and their hope to start a new, peaceful life, Raoul thought back over the final conversation he'd had with Christine before leaving the townhouse. She'd told him, clearly fearful of hurting his feelings, that although she still loved him as much as ever, she wanted to postpone their wedding.

"I know how hard it is to be without a family," she'd told him. "I love you so much, Raoul, and I don't want you to rush into something you might regret. At least let us wait until we find my mother's family. You'll have time to be sure you can live with your choice, and then, once we find them, we won't have to be alone in the world."

It had hurt to hear her make such a request. He'd spent the whole cab ride dwelling on it, worrying that he'd done something to make her doubt his love for her. He'd already risked his life for her, and given up his birthright – what more did he have to do to prove himself?

He'd found himself dwelling on Erik, too. He knew Christine and her former teacher had had some terrible argument yesterday, but Christine had refused to speak of the details. She'd assured him she still intended for the three of them to travel together, but there was pain in her voice when she spoke of Erik now that had not been there before.

What had happened between the two of them? Nothing Raoul could imagine brought him any comfort. The more he thought about it, the more he found himself dwelling on the words of the young gendarme yesterday.

Erik's feelings for Christine were no particular mystery. But what did Christine feel for him?

Was she even certain herself?

And there was also the Persian's story to consider. Erik might promise honest intentions now, but the Phantom of the Opera was hardly known for being trustworthy.

Were they making a terrible mistake by continuing to let him linger in their lives, even for one more day?

Would they be making an even worse one by letting him escape, where they could no longer keep an eye on him?

The vicomte's uneasy thoughts were clearly written on his face. He only half-listened as the attorney consulted a few books and jotted down a short list of the documents he would need.

"You'll also need statements that each of you is free to marry. I believe I can draw up something that should pass muster, and the Swedish authorities can wire me if needed. Now, the two of you are free to marry, correct?"

"Hmh?" Raoul snapped out of his thoughts. "What did you say?"

"Are you and Mademoiselle Daaé both free to marry? Do either of you have any prior marriages, or unbroken engagements?"

The image of Christine trapped behind dark iron bars, in a wedding dress and veil that made her look like a white ghost among the shadows, floated across this mind. "... No, neither of us have anything like that."

The attorney raised an eyebrow. "If I may say, monsieur, you seem troubled about something. If it's something that could potentially impede your plans to emigrate and marry, you ought to tell me."

Raoul hesitated, watching the attorney closely. He was a handsome, sturdily-built man in his late forties. His hair was thinning on top, but what remained was wavy and golden-brown, and the lines around his eyes spoke of smiling more than age or weariness.

He seemed trustworthy. Perhaps it would be good to have someone older and wiser to share his fears with – with his father gone and Philippe no longer on his side, he had few other options.

"There is something, although I don't foresee it impeding our plans." He took a deep breath. "Monsieur … in your line of work, has there ever been a time when you provided services for someone you knew had done evil things?"

The attorney gave a wry smile. "A subject that weighs on the minds of most men in my profession. I can't share the details, but yes, I have had clients who came seeking my help to escape the law, either in France or their home country."

"And you still helped them?"

"Where I thought it was deserved, yes."

"How do you justify such a choice to yourself? Do you ever fear that someone you help might go on to commit more harm?"

The attorney was silent for a long moment, studying the distraught young man as he turned over something in his mind. "Sometimes. But if you will indulge me for a moment, monsieur, there is a story we tell in my family."

Raoul, puzzled, listened.

"When my grandfather was young," said the attorney, "he spent nineteen years in the bagne at Toulon. After he was paroled, he found himself an outcast – distrusted wherever he went, unable to find work or lodging. The only person who showed him any kindness was an old bishop, who invited him to stay in his home one cold night."

Raoul was used to being lectured with parables and trite stories of salvation (his old governess had been fond of them), and tried not to roll his eyes. "And he was so touched by that one act of compassion that he changed his ways and devoted himself to the Lord?"

The attorney chuckled. "Actually, he repaid the bishop's kindness by robbing him of his silver. But when the gendarmes caught him the next day, the bishop still spoke on his behalf. He let him keep the silver, as a gift, in exchange for his promise to become an honest man."

"And did he?"

"Well, not honest, precisely. He did break his parole, and he spent the rest of his life under false identities. But he did become a good man, monsieur. He helped others wherever he went, with both his money and his deeds. He adopted my mother, saving her from her cruel guardians, and later he saved my father from dying in the June Rebellion. Ever since then, we've considered it something of a family duty to continue his work helping those in need."

He leaned closer across the desk. "It's always a delicate thing. Not every soul has it in them to change, and you must exercise some judgment about who you offer your hand to. But sometimes, monsieur … sometimes helping one person at the right moment can make all the difference in the world."

It was a different sort of tale from the ones his governess had told, and it left Raoul in silence for some moments as he weighed the attorney's words in his mind. Briefly, he glanced at the name on the card again: Jean-Georges Pontmercy.

"Does that give any comfort to what's troubling you?" M. Pontmercy asked.

"... It does." Raoul pocketed the card. "Thank you. You've given me a lot to think on."

"You really needn't do this," said Comtois. "I'm perfectly willing to obtain your ticket as well."

Erik glanced out the cab window, avoiding the valet's gaze. "I prefer to do things for myself when I can."

That was certainly part of the reason he'd insisted on going out to the Gare du Nord to purchase his own ticket. Another reason (the one he'd given to Christine and the vicomte) was that he wanted to test the new mask, to make sure it really could let him pass unnoticed in a crowd. It had worked on the cab driver, as well as the handful of people they'd passed on the street while hailing the cab, and that was a good sign.

But the true reason for his venture ran deeper. Despite all the vicomte had done for him the last few days, Erik still couldn't bring himself to completely trust the boy. He couldn't stop imagining him sending his servant to tell everything to the gendarmes, or on some other secret mission to betray Erik. And even without the vicomte's orders, there was nothing to stop the valet from doing such a thing by his own choice.

So he'd insisted on following him now, to keep an eye on him.

The train station was noisy and crowded, the air heavy with dust and smoke beneath the high, curving roof on its forest of wrought iron columns. For Erik, it was an unpleasant and frustrating experience, as was standing in line at the ticket office – he'd long grown used to creeping around on his own time and taking what he wanted, and disliked being expected to wait with the rest of the rabble.

Fortunately, his dark glasses helped hide it whenever he glared at some particularly irritating fellow queuer, and the rest of the mask seemed to be doing its job. All the people around him were absorbed in their own thoughts and troubles, and they barely seemed to look at each other, let alone him. When one clumsy oaf stepped on the back of his shoe, Erik managed to keep his temper, and only briefly considered reaching for the cord hidden in his coat.

Was this what it felt like to be an ordinary member of the human race? If so, perhaps being feared as a monster wasn't entirely without its merits.

Trying to distract himself by keeping his hands busy, Erik fidgeted with the gold ring that now rested back on his finger. Despite the heartbreaking association it held now, he hadn't been able to forsake wearing it. The ring had once belonged to Vishal, the old Punjabi bandit who had convinced his fellow Thugs to spare the life of a lost, disfigured adolescent boy, and recruit him into their band. Erik had quickly come to admire the black stone that gleamed with inner fire when the sun caught it, and when Vishal and the rest of the band had been gunned down in a fight with British soldiers, Erik, the only survivor, had taken the ring from his dead hand, to remember one of the few people who'd ever shown him kindness.

The next train for Calais was leaving that evening, and Erik and Comtois both purchased tickets without trouble. As they headed back toward the street entrance, they passed by a lone figure leaning against one of the iron columns close to the ticket office.

Distracted by all the chaos of the station, Erik didn't spare a glance for the tall, thin gentleman in the elegant day suit. He failed to notice the way the man's eyes moved behind his thick spectacles, darting up from his newspaper and focusing with predatory intensity on Erik himself.

As his target passed through the doors, Étienne Voclain began to smile.

"Are you certain it was him?"

"As certain as death." Voclain tapped the end of his painted metal nose. "He had one of the best masks I've ever seen, but I know a fellow wearing a piece when I see it. His voice was just as you said, and he was even wearing the same ring he's got in your picture. He'll be heading for Calais in another hour."

"I can have half a dozen of my men ready by then," said Santoni. "It shouldn't be difficult to catch him before he boards."

But Le Chouette was shaking his head. "No, we need not do that."

"Monsieur?"

"The station is the wrong place to trap him. Too many eyes watching, and too many chances for him to escape. Let him go to Calais." Le Chouette smirked. "Let him think he has nearly reached safety. His guard will be down, and we will catch him there and have him on a ship before he knows it."

"Are you sure you can fight him in your condition?" Santoni glanced at the cold compress his employer was holding against the back of his head, where Meg had struck him the night before.

Le Chouette glared at him. "I have been ready to fight him for longer than you can imagine. I will not be denied this chance." He laid the compress down. "Get your men ready to leave. In the meantime, I have some telegrams to send."

And so it was that as the day came to its end, the former rising star of the Opera Populaire, the former Vicomte de Chagny, and the former Phantom of the Opera found themselves riding together on the overnight train bound for Calais.

Silence lay heavy over the three of them as the train departed from the northern railway station of the world. They had a compartment to themselves, Christine and Raoul together on one bench and Erik seated opposite. Outside, the sun fell away to the west, casting lengthening shadows across the city as they looked out over Paris for what each knew might be the last time.

Twilight was deepening by the time the buildings began to thin out and the train began to pick up speed. No one had broken the silence yet, and though Raoul tried to keep his eyes on the darkening countryside, he was all too aware of the tension that still hung between his fiancée and their traveling companion.

The thought of spending the rest of the night in uncomfortable silence was too much for him. So he fell back on what he'd always done as a little boy whenever his father or siblings grew grim and melancholy: change the subject to happier things, to cheer them up.

With his family, though, he'd known what sort of things could make them happy. He'd thought he knew how to cheer Christine as well, but he'd been proved wrong more than once over the last few days. And Christine was only half the problem – what could he possibly say or do that would put the macabre, morose Erik in a better mood, and make traveling with him less likely to end in someone getting strangled?

… Well, Christine had certainly discovered one method that worked. But Raoul rather doubted that kissing him would help anything now.

Still, perhaps the answer was simpler than he thought. One thing he recalled from their conflict over the past year, the Phantom liked to believe himself the smartest and most talented in any room.

Maybe the way to cheer him up was to appeal to his ego. It needn't be empty flattery, either – there were things about the man that Raoul was genuinely curious to learn.

He cleared his throat, and turned to Erik. "So … is it true you once worked for the Shah of Persia?"

Erik stared at the younger man as if he had forgotten that he could talk. "And where did you hear that?"

"Madame Giry. She spoke very highly of your talents." She'd also called him a freak of nature, but Raoul decided not to mention that part. "She said you built the Shah a maze of mirrors."

"I did. And a great deal more than that." His expression was unreadable behind the mask and dark glasses.

"Perhaps you could tell us about it?"

Erik's mouth tightened in a grim line. "I doubt you'd enjoy hearing it. My time in Persia is a long, dark story."

Raoul shrugged, tilting his head toward the window. "We have a long, dark train ride ahead of us. A story or two would help pass the time."

"You expect me to tell tales for your entertainment?"

"I don't mean that! We can make a game of it." He glanced at Christine. "It'll be like in Perros. Each of us takes a turn and tells whatever story we wish."

To Raoul's relief, Christine brightened at the idea. "It sounds like it could be fun. Do the stories have to be true?"

Raoul considered this for a moment. "Preferably. But if you can't think of a good one, make-believe will do."

"If she gets to request terms, then so do I." Erik sounded more interested now. "Each of us may conclude our stories at any point we choose, with no questioning from the others."

"That seems fair. Terms granted."

Erik shifted in his seat, stretching his long legs out comfortably. "Very well. My tale begins in Nizhny Novgorod, in eighteen fifty-seven …"

Once he realized his audience wasn't going to mock him or bother him with interruptions, it didn't take long for Erik to fall back into his old performing habits. His enchanting, golden voice wove the story of how the daroga of Mazandaran had come to Russia to invite him to the Shah's court, following the account of an Uzbek fur trader who had seen the masked magician's incredible displays. He told them how he and Nadir had become something resembling friends on the journey to Tehran, and how he had amazed the Shah's court and won the fondness of Naser al-Din himself.

"He soon learned that my talents went beyond mere conjuring. I'd made a hobby of architecture since I was a boy, and now I finally had the chance to bring some of my designs to life."

He told them of the maze of mirrors – one of several unique renovations he'd made to one of the royal palaces – and of working alongside Persia's finest architects in their ongoing project to expand the capital city. He also told of his time with Nadir's household, and how he had entertained the daroga's sickly son, bringing the boy joy and fun during the final years of his short life.

All the while, Raoul and Christine listened in rapt fascination – and in Christine's case, a little puzzlement. Except for the death of poor little Reza, the story did not seem as dark as Erik had insinuated.

"Erik, I'm curious about something. When he came to the house the other day, Monsieur Khan said he saved you from an unjust execution. What was the story behind that?"

Erik's cheerful, animated mood vanished instantly. His mouth tightened, and when he finally answered, his voice was curt and cold.

"After I finished his palace, the Shah feared I might divulge its secrets. First he planned to just have my eyes put out, but then he decided he couldn't leave me alive when I knew too much. He sentenced me to die, and he ordered Nadir to carry out the sentence."

"But he couldn't bring himself to do it?"

Erik nodded. "We had shared too much for that. He helped me escape into Ottoman territory, and I later found out he'd dressed a half-scavenged corpse in my old costume and convinced the Shah I was dead."

"And then what did –"

"My tale is done," Erik sharply cut her off. "It's someone else's turn."

For the sake of peace, Raoul offered to go next. "I haven't anything as impressive as your tale," he said to Erik. "But perhaps you'd enjoy the story of the time I encountered a ghost ship. It was the night after a terrible storm, when we were sailing through the Strait of Malacca …"

The three of them soon fell into an easy rhythm as they took their turns telling stories. After Raoul finished his macabre tale of a deserted Dutch freighter that mysteriously caught fire, Christine began recounting one of her favorite stories from her childhood: the legend of Disa.

"Long ago, in the age of King Sigtrud, there came a time when Sweden's people had been fruitful and multiplied until the land could no longer support all of them. When a famine struck, the king's chief advisor told him that their only hope was to slaughter the elderly, the crippled, and the weak, and make a sacrifice of them to the old gods."

Raoul, who had heard this story before, nonetheless listened intently. Across the compartment, he could see Erik watching her as well.

"But Disa, the daughter of the chieftain of Uppland, would not have it. She dared to scold the king and his advisors, mocking them for their short-sighted bloodlust, and told them she had a better idea – one where no one had to die."

Christine straightened up in her seat. "That was enough to catch the king's attention. To test her wits, he challenged Disa to come visit his court, but only under certain conditions. She could not travel by foot, by horse, in a wagon, or in a boat. She could not appear to him dressed or undressed. And she must not arrive within a year or a month, during the day or the night, or when the moon was waxing or waning."

Erik smirked. "Very clever of him. No doubt he knew if he simply ignored her, she'd never stop pestering him, so he hoped to keep her distracted trying to meet such conditions."

"As I said, he wanted to test her. I always liked to think he really was hoping she was clever enough to meet the challenge."

"And I'm guessing she did?"

"She did indeed. Since she couldn't travel by foot, horse, wagon, or boat, she harnessed two men to a sled, and had a goat tethered alongside it, so she could keep one leg over the goat and the other in the sled. Since she couldn't be dressed or undressed, she wrapped her body in nothing but a net. And she arrived at dusk, under a full moon, on the third day after Yule, just as the month and year were both coming to their end."

Erik chuckled. "She must have made quite the vision."

"She certainly did. It was enough to make the king put an end to the sacrifice then and there, and listen to Disa's idea instead. She had the people draw lots to leave Sweden and settle new lands beyond the border, gaining more farmland and territory for the nation as they did." She smiled. "And King Sigtrud was so impressed that he married Disa, and made her his queen and new chief advisor."

Erik's smile grew soft and wistful. "He made a wise choice."

By now it had grown dark outside, but lanterns still kept the train car brightly lit. With Christine's story having put things on a happier note after the first two tales, Raoul called a halt to the game, and hauled the picnic hamper Mme. Poirier had packed down from the luggage rack. "This seems like a good time to break for supper."

He and Christine were soon helping themselves to cold, savory-sweet slices of quiche aux poireaux. When he prepared a slice for Erik as well, however, the other man shook his head.

"Thank you, but I must decline."

"All right," Raoul replied with a shrug, reaching into the basket again. "If quiche isn't to your taste, we also have ham tartines, or perhaps some apricots –"

"No need. I'm really not hungry." But a scant moment later, Erik's rumbling stomach proved him a liar.

Now Raoul was starting to get annoyed. "Why won't you have supper with us? Is there something offensive about my cook's handiwork?"

Realizing there was no avoiding the subject, Erik gritted his teeth. "If you absolutely must know," he snapped, "I can't eat with this mask on."

Raoul's irritation immediately faded. Now he felt bad for having pushed what was clearly a very sensitive subject. "... I'm sorry."

Mollified by the apology, Erik sighed. "No matter. I'll be fine until we arrive in Calais."

After a long moment of watching the two men, Christine spoke up softly. "You know, it's all right if you take it off for a while." She nodded at the shade drawn down on the compartment door. "No one would see."

Erik, surprised by the suggestion, looked deeply uncertain. "I'd hate to spoil your appetites."

"You wouldn't, I promise." She glanced over at Raoul. "It's not as if we haven't seen your face already."

After a moment's hesitation, Raoul nodded as well. "Really, it's all right." Only half-joking, he added, "I'm sure we'll all have a much better time if you're not grouchy from hunger on the rest of the journey."

Erik looked as if he might still refuse. But the rich smell of the quiche was becoming too tantalizing to ignore. In the last few days, since he'd begun eating regular meals, his appetite had begun to come back to life for the first time in years, and it was giving him an especially powerful craving for eggs, cheese, and greens.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself to whatever his companions' reaction might be, and removed the mask.

Despite all that had transpired, he still half expected them to gasp in horror, or even scream. But there was no such sound – only the young couple across from him continuing to eat peacefully.

Still wary, Erik laid the mask down on the seat beside him, and picked up his plate.

His face was just as Raoul remembered it from the other night: as gaunt as a corpse's, with withered, sallow skin stretched over bones and tendons, a gaping black cavity where the nose had never grown, and yellow eyes sunken in dark hollows.

But now that its owner wasn't looming out of the darkness to slip a rope around his neck, but was relaxing in a comfortable, well-lit train compartment and tucking into a piece of quiche, somehow that face didn't seem quite so frightening anymore.

After supper, the trio resumed the game, telling round after round of stories.

At one point, Christine had both the men shaking with laughter as she shared a short but very funny story from a summer she'd spent in Le Havre, when she'd found herself mobbed by seagulls while eating sweet rolls on the pier, and had thrown the rolls off the pier in desperation, only to have them land in a boat full of rich holidaymakers out for a pleasure cruise (which quickly turned less pleasurable when the gulls descended on them).

Another time, Raoul had the two artists intrigued by his description of the New Year's celebration in Haiphong, with its music and fireworks and parade of costumed dancers, and was intrigued himself when he learned that Erik had also spent time in Tonkin when he was Raoul's age.

And Erik brought the two young lovers to the verge of tears with his telling of the tragic legend of Rostam and Tahmina, whose one night of love produced a son who would grow up to face his father on opposite sides of a war, and be slain by his own father's blade.

As the night drew on, they passed the hours in an easy companionship that surprised all three of them. And, for those few hours, none of them thought of the future.

Christine wasn't sure when she fell asleep, but she woke to find the compartment in darkness. The only hints of light were the one still-lit lantern at the far end of the car, and the waxing moon riding alongside the train, touching the black fields and woods with faint traces of silver as they passed.

She wasn't the only one who'd been claimed by slumber, she quickly saw. Raoul was sleeping with his head resting against the window, snoring softly. Across from them, Erik had put his mask back on – though he was still mostly upright and she couldn't see his eyes, she could tell from the way his head tilted to one side and his breathing had slowed that he was asleep too.

The air had grown chilly in the deep of the night. Careful not to wake Raoul, Christine got to her feet and pulled a few travel rugs from the carpet bag. She tucked one of them lovingly around her sleeping fiancé … and then looked across the compartment.

After their fight yesterday, she'd expected that she and Erik would speak to each other as little as possible for the rest of the journey. Although she still cared for him, she couldn't forget all that he had done – the people he had harmed, and the future his actions had cost her. Someday, she knew, it might do her soul good to forgive him, but that day had not come yet.

She hadn't expected to enjoy these last hours with him.

The man who had kept her and Raoul company this evening reminded her far more of her Angel of Music than the obsessive, threatening opera ghost they'd faced so recently. He still had his temper, and his arrogance, but he'd also shown that he could be charming, humorous, and – if his story about M. Khan's son was true – even kind.

Christine sighed, her heart aching and torn as she gazed down at the sleeping Erik. More than ever, she realized what a cosmic injustice nature had done by giving him the face it had. This was a man who, in a world where he hadn't been cursed to be abused and reviled from birth, could have been someone great and respected. Who could have given so much to humanity with his talents.

A man who, in a kinder world, she could have loved.

With a lump in her throat, Christine leaned down and gently draped the warm woolen rug over him. She was close enough that if she moved her head just a little more, she could kiss him …

But she did not. She could not.

That was a future that could never exist between the two of them now. Perhaps one that never could have happened from the beginning. And there was no point in tormenting herself by dwelling on what could not be.

She glanced back at Raoul, still sleeping against the window, and felt her heart grow warm. Yes, she was making the right choice – even if it was the only choice left to her.

She wrapped herself in the last woolen rug, and settled down next to Raoul. The rattle and rhythm of the train was soothing, almost like being rocked in a cradle, and it wasn't long before she fell back into a dreamless sleep as the moon sank from the sky and the train carried them onward to morning.

To Be Continued …