The Magician's Witch

The House on the Lake

A man bent and faded by age stared blankly into the flames dancing in the grate of the fireplace. He sighed as the memories behind his eye traipsed across his visage, reminding him of better days...happier days.

A chess board sat abandoned on a table, the pieces remaining on the board watching indignantly as the occupant of the chair opposite leaned forward, staring furtively into the tongues licking their way around the remaining log, reducing it to brittle pieces of carbon.

"How old would your daughter be now," the first man asked, his voice distant, in a far-off land.

The fingers of the other man's hand twitched at the question as if flicking the question away from him. "Nearly twenty years old," he said, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

The first man smiled. "She must be beautiful," he dreamed. "And wild, like her mother."

The second man made a sound as though he was choking. He never said her name anymore. To utter it was unspeakable agony.

The first man turned to him at that sound. "There are no words for a loss like this," he told the man sympathetically. "I still think of my wife. I could remarry, and yet...I find that I cannot. Our wives were rare women. They are utterly irreplaceable. And I know your wife loved you more than almost anything, except maybe your daughter."

The second man gripped the armrests of the chair hard, seeming to wrestle with some internal turmoil, but remained steadfastly silent.

The first man sighed, turning back to the fireplace.

"Do you think of those days, in Mazandaran, in Ashraf? Sometimes I ache to return...to go back, even though returning to my homeland would surely result in my death."

The other man huffed a derisive laugh. "And mine. Which would prove a paradox since I am supposed to be already deceased."

He sighed deeply. "But yes, I do think of those days."

He lifted a small glass and drained the remnants, then placed it back on the table and stood. The fire glinted off his mask. He turned to his friend.

"I must leave," he spoke with authority. He laid a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Until next time."

The first man nodded absently, returning his gaze to the flames. The masked man drifted away and disappeared faster than he appeared--as if he walked through walls--leaving the remaining man in restless peace.

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They landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport at around 9:30 at night. The Eiffel Tower dazzled from a distance as the runway drifted closer and closer, finally coming into contact with the landing gear with a jolt, rendering all passengers awake.

Eilis, Aria, and Ronan had all dozed off from time to time during their flight; but as Paris got closer, the more excited and awake they all became.

Aria and Ronan both fidgeted as they waited in line for the customs officers, eager to get on with the next leg of their journey. The sleepy officer at the desk was not amused by Aria's bouncing or Ronan's restrained impatience. Eilis was the only calm one, her nerves suddenly turning against her as she considered her plans to find Erik.

As soon as they were all through customs and had retrieved their bags, Eilis hailed a cab and gave the address of the hotel she had stayed at all those years ago, a mere few blocks away from the Palais Garnier. She had booked a room for all three of them, hoping and praying that the rest of her plan would work.