Two weeks after Irene accepts Erik's proposal, there are still a few small problems back at the Opera…

It was night.

I hurried along the underground passageway away from Erik's house, heading upstairs. My bag banged against the back of my leg as I half-ran, half-walked, but I ignored it. There were other, more important things to dwell on.

The single diamond shone bright on my finger as I passed under a guttering torch, and the facets caught the sputtering light, tossing it in fragments of rainbows around the dusty passageway. I pushed a lock of straggling hair back from my face and walked faster. My bag continued to bang against my legs.

I was going to be late.

I had promised to meet Francis in his office at nine tonight, but Erik and I had gotten a little distracted downstairs (and of course Erik had somehow managed to misplace the grandfather clock that was supposed to be in the living room, making it almost impossible for one to figure out what time it was), so I was going to wind up at Francis' office around ten-fifteen. Hopefully the Count wouldn't be too annoyed.

We were meeting to discuss the police's continued presence at the Opera House – apparently even my confession and Nadir's long, detailed, and thoroughly researched explanation of my activities dealing with the Inspector and his men, had failed to convince the police of my innocence and banish them from the Opera.

Officer Fabre, Nadir's contact within the Parisian police and the man responsible for my case, had agreed to meet with Francis and I to discuss whether or not the police were required to remain in the Opera House.

For the past three weeks, policeman had been showing up everywhere: loitering outside on the Garnier's steps; watching the rehearsals, half-hidden behind pillars in the side wings of the auditorium; coming to the performances, their dark hats tipped low over their watchful eyes, faces set in grim scrutiny.

Erik had become so bothered by their presence that his pranks had increased in both number and intensity. Once he had gone so far as to trap one of them in a closet for an entire hour. The poor man had been most enraged and completely bewildered when he was finally let out. Luckily, he had been at a loss to explain what had happened to him: all he remembered was passing by a half-open closet – then a shove as someone or something knocked him off his feet – and by the time he was finally able to free himself (as he put it – an invisible Erik had opened the door for him), his gun was missing and his hat was "most horrendously crumpled."

I had spoken to Erik after that one.

"I don't think you accomplished anything worthwhile by locking Officer Bouchet in that tiny costume closet, dear," I had said, sitting on the arm of the couch in Erik's living room, Jane Eyre in my lap. I'd been reading before he'd come in.

Erik crossed his arms and put his chin down in a show of classic Phantom disgust. I tried not to smile.

"He refused to follow the no-weapons policy. There was no other way to remove his weapon from him, other than wresting it from him in plain sight, which would have been counterproductive."

"You didn't need to scare the poor man out of his wits," I said, fingering the edges of my book. "And you still could have been seen – what if he happened to turn half a second before you knocked him into the closet?"

Erik frowned still darker. "No one's ever seen me," he informed me. "And you know it."

I resisted the urge to list names. "Well…"

"Well, I think I've won my case," my fiancé said, and brushing past me, he stalked to the bookcase.

"No more locking people in closets, Erik," I said.

"Say please," Erik grumbled to the bookshelf, and snatched a book out at random. He flipped through it, sighed, and tossed it on top of the growing pile next to his chair.

"Please," I said, turning to Chapter Three in my book. Poor Jane was having such a hard time of it.

"Very well, dear," Erik said. "If you insist, dear."

"Thank you, dear," I said. I smiled a little behind my book. Yet another battle won…

There was a moment's pause. Then…

"What did you do with my ring, Erik?"

"What ring?"

"The one you gave to me!"

"Perhaps you could enumerate, dear?"

"The one – Erik, give it back this instant."

A long pause…

"Oh, you mean this ring?"

"That's your ring."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Erik, hand it over or suffer the consequences."

"I faint to think of the consequences."

"Give it back, you brute."

"Wait... this ring? I didn't know you meant this ring."

After I had finally gotten my engagement ring back, I had attempted to figure out what time it was, but Erik refused to tell me where the grandfather clock was.

"Well, what did you do with it?" I demanded, marching down the hallway towards his room. I had already searched the kitchen, the living room, and my old bedroom.

"I really can't remember," Erik said vaguely. "To tell you the truth-"

"You never tell the truth," I interrupted. "I'm going to be late, aren't I? This is all your fault."

"Perhaps you should have gotten here sooner, dear," Erik said, "and then we would have had more time to talk, and then you would have left earlier, and then you would have been on time."

He sounded sly. I stopped walking and turned to consider him.

"Give me your pocket watch," I said.

"What do you-"

"No, hand it over," I said, advancing upon him. Erik took several quick steps backward. "I know you have one, it's the only reason why you'd be so smug right now… give it to me."

"It's not that late," Erik said. "Only around ten or so."

"Ten!"

It was a shriek of horror. I picked up my skirts and ran past him down the hall. My bag was in the living room, and in it was a list of questions I needed to ask Francis and Officer Fabre.

Erik trailed behind me, humming a melancholy tune.

"You have to leave right now?" he inquired as I ran around the living room, picking up papers and books and stuffing them into my bag at random. "You can't stay a little longer?"

"No, I can't – can't you help me – why didn't you tell me what time it was?!"

Erik sank down onto the sofa with a loud sigh. "I only have so much time to see you, dear. And without you, my life is like a Van Gogh painting soaked in rain – the colors drip off the canvas and everything melts into a soggy gray."

I rolled my eyes at this dramatic pronouncement, and finished stuffing the last of my belongings into my bag. Erik and I saw each other at least every other hour. "I'm off to see the Count. I expect you to be somewhere nearby listening, so that if Officer Fabre decides to do something foolhardy, you can intervene. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, my one and only," Erik intoned. "Goodnight, my pale white dove. Goodnight, my sweetheart, my love, my dream, my perfect song! Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight, gooooodnight-"

I sailed forth from the room and slammed the door shut on his woeful warbles.

Officer Fabre and the Count were waiting for me in the Count's office when I opened the door.

"Good evening," I said, calmly. I had decided to adopt a serene attitude, as there was really no way to redeem myself from my lateness. "I'm sorry for making you both wait for me."

"No matter," Francis said, with a sickly smile. Both men had jumped to their feet to greet me, and they were standing side by side like dolls in a glass case, frozen expressions and all. He glanced sideways at the officer. "Officer Fabre was telling me about some of his cases."

"All of the culprits ended up in jail," said Officer Fabre.

His face was fixed in a carefully neutral smile.

"Why don't we sit down?" the Count inquired, when I failed to respond to this dismal line. "Irene, take my chair."

He was referring to the overstuffed chair behind his desk. I sat down in his chair without a second thought. Sitting behind desks always reminded me of writing, and writing calmed me.

Officer Fabre sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair in front of the desk, and Francis lowered himself onto a tiny cushioned stool, stretching out his long legs across the rug for balance.

"I believe that you wanted to inquire after my officers' continued presence in the Opera, Mademoiselle Dubois," Officer Fabre said. I had given him permission to use my real name, so long as he didn't do so within earshot of those not part of S.C.O.W.L's membership.

I nodded. "Yes. I assume they are here to keep an eye on me?"

"Not precisely," the Officer said. He took out a small notepad and lifted Francis' pen from its stand. "But before I go into details, I have a few questions for you."

I looked at Francis.

The Count frowned at me. Apparently he hadn't expected this. "What do you mean, Officer?" he said, turning to Fabre. "I asked Irene to come here simply because she is the patroness of the Opera. I didn't think you were going to question her."

"It is not what you think, Count," Officer Fabre said, unperturbed. "Only a few questions, Mademoiselle Dubois."

"And if I don't answer them?" I said. I had expected something like this; any policeman connected with the Inspector case would be curious about me. I hadn't told everything in my confession. Erik, for one, had never been mentioned, neither by me nor by Nadir.

"Well, there are actions I could take," the Officer said. "But I have no desire to do so, so why don't you listen to the questions first, and then decide if you wish to answer them."

"I don't think I can condone this," the Count said, shaking his head. "Officer, I did not schedule this meeting so you could interrogate my patroness-"

"I do not intend to interrogate her, Count, and I believe the Parisian police still have jurisdiction here, even within the walls of the Opera. Please allow me to do my job."

"Francis," I said, before the Count managed to get another word in, "let him ask me the questions. We'll decide what to do afterwards."

"Thank you," Officer Fabre said, meeting my eyes with his steely ones. "Mademoiselle Dubois, I only have three questions. The first: How long are you planning to stay at the Opera? The second: Would you be willing to do a small assignment for the police? And finally: Are you certain all of your enemies died in the fire?"

I had caught my breath at the second question, and at the last, I felt my face grow cold as the blood drained from it. What did he mean? He wasn't insinuating…?

"Are they or aren't they dead?" I demanded. "Linnet, the Inspector, Nicolas – you told us their bodies were found on the estate. And what do you mean by an assignment?"

The Officer smiled. "It seems that this meeting may go in a slightly different direction than you planned, Francis," he said, without taking his eyes from me. "Mademoiselle Dubois, would you like to accept an undercover assignment from the Parisian police?"

"You'd have to tell me what it entails," I said. "And I'd have to think about it."

"Do you remember what the Inspector told you, Mademoiselle Dubois?"

I held my breath. I thought I knew what he was going to say next.

Officer Fabre leaned forward.

"I assure you, this trap will not be as easy for you to get out of. It is very unlike the last time we met... I have more connections; more men; more twists in my plan than you will ever know."

He was quoting from my confession, and his voice was his own, but I heard the Inspector's jovial tones.

"He's alive," I said, very quietly.

"Maybe," Fabre said. "Maybe, Mademoiselle Dubois. We don't know. We need you to find him, if he is."

"If I say no?" I said. I was thinking of Erik. My engagement ring was cold and smooth against the hand I'd slipped into my pocket (I always took off my ring while in the upper parts of the Opera. No one outside of S.C.O.W.L. could know that I was engaged, seeing as I couldn't tell anyone about my fiancé).

And I was also thinking of Madame Giry, Francis, Nadir – I couldn't leave them now, now that everything was finally all right.

"I wouldn't say you had a choice, Mademoiselle Dubois," Fabre said. "I read through your confession very thoroughly. Sometimes I wonder how you managed to pull all of it off alone. It seems to me that there are a few things - a few people, maybe - missing from your tale."

The Count stood. "I think this meeting is over, Officer. Asking Irene questions is one thing; accusing her of lying in an official police statement is quite another."

"Is it?" Fabre asked, his voice quiet. He rose to his feet. "Goodnight, Mademoiselle Dubois. I would think over our offer very carefully if I were you."

As he went out, he dropped a sealed envelope on the desk.

Count Le Nansen,

It has come to our attention that the Phantom of the Opera has been sighted numerous times over the last month. We would like permission to excavate the Opera House (in particular, the walls, stairwells, and cellars) in search of this man, who has been accused of many crimes over the last few years. Of course, it is up to you and the patroness of the Opera.

We wish you all the best,

The Parisian Police Department