"Where is he?" Phillipe asks Francois, removing his travel coat and hat, hanging them on the coatrack in the foyer. Sitting on the carved wooden bench, he heaves a deep sigh, stretches his long legs and massages his thighs.

"In the sitting room."

"Messy weather. As always he creates the most trouble at the most inconvenient time," he growls. "Help me get these off."

"Yes, Monsieur," Francois says, removing first one, then the other muddied boot, replacing them with felt house slippers. "I took the liberty of asking Samuel to meet with you first. He was with the Vicomte the entire day of the incident.

The coachman steps from out of the shadows.

"Well, come, come, no need to hide," Phillipe waves him forward. "Francois seems to think your behavior was most responsible."

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Well?"

"A Persian man opened the door and half lifted, half shoved M. le Vicomte into the coach."

"Where did they come from?"

"The Opera House…the man told me M. Raoul was trespassing inside."

"That is what the message was from the policeman advised," Phillipe says. "How did he get inside?"

Samuel shrugs and sighs. "He insisted I drop him at the Pavillon des Abonnés and told me to go home."

"The service entrance?"

"No, where the carriages deliver the patrons so they can have direct entry to the theater without having to pass through the crowds coming on foot."

"And you just left?"

"Oh, no. I drove around the building – several times over perhaps two hours – I cannot be certain how long."

"Why were you on the Rue Scribe then?"

"Earlier we saw a couple walking along the building, then they disappeared in the fog."

"And?"

"The Vicomte believed the man and woman to be Mlle. Christine and the Ghost," the coachman responds. "I thought he might return there. So I would park, also to give the horses a rest. I actually spoke to a couple who worked there…or so they said. We were interrupted by an associate of theirs – called him Saint-Rien or something like that. I could not see his face and the woman stayed behind him."

"The other man?"

"A Persian, I believe, had one of those odd hats on."

"And then you left?"

"No, Monsieur. The Vicomte was quite stressed, I was concerned about his health. When I suggested stopping at a café for food, he refused. We made a number of visits in the course of the day. I did not wish to leave him without transport."

"Where?"

"The Opera House, the mairie, an apartment not far from the opera house…we went there twice, then back to the Opera House – first to the Rue Scribe where he thought he saw the mademoiselle and then later…as I said to the Pavillon."

"This second Persian man was not the same one as you first saw."

"No, he was much older – the man who brought the Vicomte to the carriage was younger – closer to your age, I would venture."

Phillippe shakes his head. "Very well. Thank you."

When the coachman leaves, he looks to Francois. "When did Mlle. Daae leave?"

"Not long after she received word of the Phantom's death."

"Raoul did not accompany her?"

Francois avoids his eyes and bites his lip.

"What?"

"It seems he had been locking her in her room." Francois takes a deep breath. "When he left to see the gendarmes, the lady encouraged her maid to allow her to walk in the garden."

"How long has he been in the sitting room?"

"Since that night…a week – except for taking care of his personal needs, having a bite of food, he just sits in your father's old leather chair."

"Why was I not notified sooner?"

"You were busy with your tenants, Monsieur, and…"

"And, this behavior was not completely out of the ordinary," Phillipe waves him off, getting to his feet. "I warned him about the girl. I should have returned home when word of the Opera House incident reached me, but I had no idea Raoul was so deeply involved in his…patronage."

Entering the sitting room, he finds Raoul, feet propped up on the ottoman matching the worn oxblood-colored chair, sipping a brandy.

"Do you not think you have drunk quite enough?"

"I was trapped in the bowels of hell, Philippe, and almost died," Raoul retorts, ignoring the nature of the snifter and swallowing the amber drink in a few swallows. "Not that it matters to you."

"You were trespassing."

"I was attempting to rescue Christine from the monster yet again."

"According to the press, he is dead."

"I saw him – he shot at me."

"Why?"

"I was pointing a gun at Christine."

"But he did not kill you?"

"No, it was felt by my captors that coming back here would be a greater punishment," he says, throwing the crystal glass into the fireplace. "It would seem they were correct."

"I am sorry you believe your home to be hell but consider yourself lucky if even half of what I have learned is true," Philippe says. "Get up from that chair, go to your room and bathe. One would assume it was you who just rode along muddy roads for two days instead of me. You are filthy."

"Why, no one cares."

"I care, despite your disbelief." Phillipe grabs him by the arm, half lifting him from the chair, dragging him to the door. "Francois!"

"Then what?"

"Then bed," Philippe says. "Tomorrow we are taking a short holiday. I should take you to the vineyards, get your hands dirty, learn to work, but perhaps some time by the sea would be more merciful."

"I must find Christine."

"No. Enough with Christine and ghosts."

"Monsieurs?" Francois bows to each of the men.

"The Vicomte would like a bath…find one of your helpers to assist you," the Comte instructs him. "We leave at dawn for Perros."

"No…not there."

"You will see – often by re-opening a wound, you can allow it to heal," Philippe says, brushing a blonde curl from the younger man's forehead. "Trust me. I know these things."

Sealing the last of the three crates filled with their household items, Adele takes one last look around the now empty flat. "I should send Raoul a thank you note for leaving us the money to ship our belongings."

"Erik did not provide for this?" Nadir asks, sitting on one of the crates, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

"He did, but I should somehow like to rub his arrogant nose in the casual way he tossed the gold francs on my precious table." Nodding toward the one of the two pieces of furniture and three art pieces she is taking with her, now wrapped in heavy batting, set next to the Louis Quatorze armoire.

"Better he think you are here in Paris. I trust Andre and Richard still believe you and Meg are returning to work?"

"Yes," Meg says, "We have been rehearsing in the Grand Foyer…a new dance for the opening."

"You will not miss performing?" Darius asks, moving the crates onto a dolly.

"Yes, I will," Meg replies, smiling at the tall man, who up until this moment has not said a word. "Who are you?"

Darius flushes.

"I am so sorry, my dear young lady," Nadir says, "Darius is my friend, my son, if you will, we came from Persia together."

"Oh, I thought he was your servant."

"Meg!" Adele exclaims. "I am sorry. My daughter often speaks without thinking first."

"Once I was," Darius says, taking their suitcases to the door. "I shall take these down once the heavier items are loaded on the cart."

"Let me help you," Nadir rushes to help him, slowed only by his limp.

"Your knee is still healing," the younger man says. "Do not reinjure yourself. I am fine."

"I can help," Meg offers. "I am quite strong, despite my size – dancing takes a lot of strength."

"Yes, I am certain it does," Darius replies. "Take the bags then. I can manage the crates and furniture."

"Leave it to the adults both needing walking sticks and unable to help," she smirks at her mother, lifting a suitcase in each hand.

"Wait a few more years and you will not be so smug, daughter." Adele waves her stick at the girl…a younger image of herself.

"What of your things?" Adele asks Nadir.

"The goods we are taking are already on the cart," Nadir says. "I am keeping the apartment – my solicitor will lease it out. The construction company will be overseen by my partner. As far as anyone is concerned, I am seeking new business opportunities in other parts of Europe."

"The police?"

"Apparently the Vicomte chose not to report anything," he says. "I told the inspector about the trespassing and he advised he would tell the brother."

"You must have really frightened Raoul," Adele laughs.

"Whatever he went through before we found him appeared to have terrified him," Nadir says. "He is lucky to be alive, thanks to Erik. I wanted to kill him."

"Did you?"

"He was like a rabid dog. When you meet one, you kill it before it kills or infects you. Shooting one is merciful and quick," he says, his tone hard and bitter – unlike his usual warm tone laced with humor. "Allowing such a creature to continue to live, only to die from the disease is painful and cruel."

The smile remaining from her joke about Raoul flattens into a straight line, her brow furrows. "I would never have expected you to speak in such a way."

"How would you expect a former sheriff to speak?" Nadir asks, nostrils flaring. "Criminals are not to be coddled. Raoul is a criminal, whatever his family or title suggest…trust me when I say this."

"I had no idea. Even when he was blathering on before the opera, he appeared only concerned with inflating his image – not understanding what the consequences might be." Adele shudders. "Do you think he will try to follow?"

"He would have to know where Erik…or more significantly Christine has gone."

"Philippe – the Comte – will control him, I am certain."

"Where was he these past weeks when all the havoc occurred?"

"Most likely visiting his land holdings," Adele says. "I suspect he has returned, which is why no one has heard from Raoul."

"One can hope," Nadir says. "I will feel much happier when we are on the road and away from the city."

Meg bounces through the open door, breathless, but full of smiles. "I will be taking the art pieces down, then we are almost finished."

"I do not believe I have ever seen you quite so gleeful about having to do labor," Adele says.

Nadir laughs softly. "It would appear the young ones have developed a friendship."

Meg blushes. "He is quite nice…and polite, not like the men at the Opera House." Gathering up her burden, she turns around, leaving once more.

"I suppose that is true enough," Adele says. "I never thought I would be happy to leave Paris, but the decision seems to be for the best…her comment about the men tells me as much."

"Last trip." Darius walks through the door, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his homespun shirt. "Do you want to wait in the carriage? At this point, it might be more comfortable."

Meg lags behind, nearly tripping when he stops just inside the door. "I will take one more look around and lock up and take the table – it is not heavy," she says.

"Adele?" Nadir asks. "Since we are both somewhat disabled, it might be best if we get out of their way."

With a deep sigh, Adele uses her cane to help her rise from the wooden chair. "If you think you can manage. It seems quite heavy."

"It is not bad," Meg says, "I can drag the thing. Now that we are packed, I just want to be gone."

Nadir says, "I think Darius can manage with the last piece."

Meg helps Darius balance the armoire on the dolly. "Do you need to help with the balance?"

"No, this is fine," he says. "Are you certain you can manage the table? We will just about have enough room for everything, still leaving room for you to sit next to me."

"You are not riding in the carriage?" Adele asks.

"No, I am going to ride in the cart with Darius," Meg says. "You two go ahead."

"What about the owner of the cart?"

"He agreed to drive the carriage…I will manage the cart," Darius says. "If he drives, he has both his cart and our goods."

"Darius, is that what you want – Meg sitting with you?" Adele asks.

"I would not mind the companionship," he says, a small smile to curving his full lips, the first sign of emotion he has allowed himself since meeting the younger Giry.

"Then it is done," Nadir says, lifting himself up with his own cane. Offering his free arm to Adele, he says, "Madame, shall we away and let the children finish up with their work."

"It would seem the children are thinking about things other than work."

"My father built many of the houses here," Erik says, as they walk along the banks of the Seine. The use of wood placed in various patterns were favorites of his. "Adding a bit of whimsey to brighten normally flat facades. At least that is what Marie told me."

"Marie?"

"Marie Perrault…my mother's friend…my friend, I suppose you might say."

"Not another child, then?"

"No. I knew no other children when I lived here," he says. Marie was a nursemaid of sorts. When I did not die, Marie offered…or was hired to care for me – I never knew which."

"So your mother appears to have had some love for you," she says, stopping to look at the boats filling the waterway. A few with passengers waving at those on the bridge they were crossing. Waving back, she looks up at him, pressing a hand on his arm.

Leaning against the railing, he says, "I suspect she was more fearful of an avenging God than any goodwill. By handing me over to Marie, my mother could face St. Peter with a pure heart. Marie attended my birth and cared for me thereafter. If I had died, she would be blamed."

"So Marie was a godly woman."

"A proud woman," Erik says. "I am certain my mother held a certain amount of hatred for Marie in her heart. Life would have been much easier for all concerned if I succumbed to my premature birth. Alas, despite all appearances, I am quite a robust human being."

"Marie loved you."

"Perhaps. I believe she loved God and would not betray His trust. She believed all living creatures deserved care."

"Well, I believe she loved you."

"It seems there are a few people in this world who have done, much to my belated surprise."

"Quite so. That is the great misfortune…you failing to notice…deciding instead you were hated unequivocally – the distortion I told you about," she laughs lightly, squeezing his hand. "So your father was a builder?"

"Hmm, a builder, yes, but also an architect. I learned much about his work from the books he left behind, apparently Nadir learned from me – so his work lives on in a way beyond this town," he says, continuing their stroll.

"The city is quite beautiful – more so than Paris, I think."

"Indeed?"

"Friendlier…kinder – more like the country but still large enough to get lost," she says, skipping to catch up with his longer strides. "All the wonderful little streets and shops. So much color. I do enjoy the brightness and light."

"I do not know about friendly."

"No one has been unkind to either of us – if anything I have felt nothing but welcome."

"I was jesting, my dear, Jeanne d'Arc was burned at the stake here in Rouen."

"Oh!" she exclaims, stopping in her tracks. "How terrible."

"By the English. A brave young woman. As you have discovered yourself, brave young women are not always appreciated by those in power."

"I would venture to say anyone who opposes people in power might be subject to their wrath."

"Agreed."

"Do you still want to visit your mother's grave?"

"Interesting train of thought," Erik muses.

"Mothers and fathers are powerful to children, although I was not aware I was making a connection."

"You are brighter than you give yourself credit for," Erik says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him. "I am a most fortunate man to have you at my side."

"You are not answering my question," she laughs lightly. "The grave?"

"I discovered Marie is buried not far from her and my father – so, yes, I think a visit to the cemetery will be in order before leaving here."

Erik wipes the dirt off his pants as he rises to his feet. Laying the last bunch of wild flowers Christine insisted on bringing with them on the grave of Marie Perrault, he makes the sign of the cross.

"Did you provide the tombstones," Christine asks, taking his arm. "They appear to all be of one age although the dates vary by many years."

Erik nods. "As soon as I was able. I contacted the priest at the parish. He took care of everything. Had all the names – birth and death dates.

"Charles Antoine Philippe Saint-Rien, 19 Septembre 1805 – 4 Mai 1841. Your father's death – your birth?"

"I assume so," his voice gruff. "In any event, he thanked me, said graves seem unfinished without some sort of stone or marker."

"Did he ask who you were?"

"I told him a friend of the family."

"Oh, Erik."

"I did not wish to engage in a lengthy conversation," he says. "If he was so curious, he might have visited me when his presence might have made a difference."

"Perhaps he was not at this church when you were born. Perhaps he did not know."

"And that is how it shall remain," Erik says, kissing the hand she is pressing against his chest. "Come. We are done here."

"I am glad you brought me." Turning around once more to look at the markers.

"The cemetery?"

"The cemetery, the city, the place you were born…and reborn with the sisters."

"None of this means anything to me without you."

"Of course it does – someday you will understand."

"On to Le Havre tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Then across the sea?"

"Then across the sea."

"I am so excited."

"Oddly enough, so am I."