The Restless Demons of Her Soul

by davros72

A new villain sets her sights on Rebecca Fogg...

TITLE: The Restless Demons of Her Soul

AUTHOR: Kevin Schultz

AUTHOR'S EMAIL: davros72@earthlink.net

FEEDBACK: Yes, please

PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: I'm fine with it, just let me know where it'll be, that's all I ask.

CATEGORY: Action/Adventure/Espionage

RATING/WARNINGS: PG, for violence, and for some suggestive situations

MAIN CHARACTERS: Rebecca Fogg, with a brief appearance by Phileas Fogg

DISCLAIMER: SAJV and characters copyright Talisman/Promark/etc. No infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic, and the Alias crossover-thing, "An Alias By Any Other Name", kind of happened at the same time. The original intention was to give Rebecca a rival, sort of like Sydney had Anna Espinoza in the first season of Alias. But then it kinda grew. And grew. And morphed into something similar, but different. Kinda. It turned out to be one of the more epic and elaborate stories I've done.

THANK YOU: Even though Moonhart didn't officially beta this one, her past beta-powers on other fics of mine have definitely had an effect on my writing skills, and for that, she has my grateful thanks.

***************

Rebecca Fogg squinted along the rifle sights as the drizzling midnight mists moistened her skin. Slowly moving the weapon, scanning the exterior of the building across the street from her vantage point atop the abandoned, crumbling warehouse she was perched upon, Rebecca eventually zeroed in on her quarry. There he was, clear as day, visible through the main windows of the brothel-house, on the ground floor. Such a fool, this General Zarkovsky, Rebecca thought to herself. To make no effort to conceal his identity, nor to hide the fact that he was in a house of ill repute, the man was much too full of himself. No matter, she thought, soon he would be full of lead.

Rebecca eased her finger off the trigger and leaned back. She rechecked her immediate surroundings, focusing on her planned escape route across the tops of neighboring buildings, each of which were roughly the same height. She had practiced her jumping for several weeks in preparation for this mission to St. Petersburg. The rifle would be left behind, with nary a clue to be found, thanks to Rebecca's tight black gloves which complemented her skintight black catsuit. Only if someone were looking specifically for a person atop a roof before the moment of action would they possibly be able to notice her. Even then it was very unlikely.

Time for the final step, Rebecca thought grimly to herself. She retrained her weapon, focusing on the slick-haired Russian General in the brothel across the street. "This is for those defenseless children you slaughtered," Rebecca hissed as her finger tightened on the trigger.

The glass window shattered from impact, and General Zarkovsky toppled backwards, blood spurting from the center of his forehead where a bullet had struck him. Rebecca could hear the screams of the whores from her vantage point as she leaned away from the edge of the roof.

She had not fired her rifle.

Double checking just to be certain, Rebecca confirmed that she had not in fact pulled the trigger yet. The bullet was still in its chamber. Then what had just happened? she thought frantically to herself. She inched to the lip of the roof once more and peered over, her eyes searching the scene below.

Few people seemed to have noticed the commotion from inside the brothel. Most good citizens in general tended to avoid the area, and if they did have cause to venture here they also studiously attempted to ignore anything they could hear or see happening in the wicked house. On this evening, Rebecca saw only a small handful of people milling about on the streets nearby. A gentleman and his lady arm in arm walking there, an old man shuffling along the street mumbling to himself over there, a man in a black cape with a deep purple waistcoat, and a small, thin young woman carrying an umbrella with a hand to her mouth. The young woman appeared to be crying... or, as Rebecca discerned as she studied her further, it might possibly be laughter.

Rebecca frowned as she watched the woman round the corner and move away from the brothel-house. By this time, the call had gone out for the authorities, and a number of police officers were rushing up to the house. She noticed one of them (who, perhaps not surprisingly, had already been on the scene when the others arrived) point across the street to her building, and knew that her time was up.

Tossing aside the unused rifle, Rebecca ran across the crumbling roof, reaching the side opposite from the brothel. Without missing a step, she threw herself over the side, landing with a jolt upon the roof of the neighboring building. Her lungs only slightly heaving from the effort, she carried on, leaping across another gap between buildings, putting more and more distance between her and the scene of the assassination.

And all the while, Rebecca fumed at her failure to complete her mission.

*****

As she looked up from her Russian-language newspaper on board the train, Rebecca gazed out the window at the scene of the railway station. After a time, they all began to look the same to her. Sad places, they were, full of lost souls and lost luggage. She returned her attention to her neighbors in her compartment.

Rebecca had booked passage in a lower-class compartment as part of her cover. Sir Jonathan Chatsworth had felt that she would have an easier time blending in and disappearing if she remained amongst a crowd, instead of in the more private first-class cars. At the time, Rebecca had grudgingly agreed. Now, however, she told herself, she needn't worry about such things. After all, she hadn't assassinated the General. Someone else had, someone she didn't know.

A giggle from across the aisle brought Rebecca back from her reverie. She flicked her eyes to a thin, callow youth with oily black hair who sat across from her. The man was chuckling at her, for some reason. With a resigned sigh, she realized that it was because of her newspaper. Rebecca's frustrations about her mission had caused her to reflexively grip her newspaper with an exorbitant amount of strength, thereby causing them to begin to tear along the sides where she held it. She relaxed her fists and attempted to smooth out the paper as she cast a mean, vicious glare in the direction of the laughing man. He quickly shut up and turned to look worriedly out the window.

Presently, the train pulled out of the St. Petersburg railway station to begin its long journey across Europe. As the cars click-clacked along their route, Rebecca reflected upon her mission and its failure.

The more she thought about it, the more frustrated she became. She had done everything properly, everything precisely. There was absolutely no way in which it could go wrong. Except that it had. Someone else had killed the General. Granted, that was the purpose of her mission, and she should be grateful that it had been completed. But the fact that it was not she herself who had done it vexed her no end. Rebecca Fogg simply could not stand failure, especially when another person succeeds in her stead.

As night crept into day, the train rolled into other countries. One of the several stops along its route was Loravin, capital city of the nation of Prestavia. The clean, finely furnished station the train pulled into was a marked contrast to the rather dirty stops earlier on the journey. Rebecca noted at least three individuals lurking near the edges of the platform, most likely persons in the custodial service.

Prestavia was noted for its modesty and cleanliness, not only in its country but in its people. They were not given to irrational domestic or foreign policies, or overaggressive tendencies. Altogether, a rather placid, agreeable country. Rather like Switzerland, in a way, Rebecca thought, fondly recalling a winter spent in the Alps several years ago.

Billowing clouds of steam wafted and circled around the platform as the engine eased off. Rebecca watched placidly out the window as passengers disembarked, some greeting waiting friends, others simply walking away.

A pair of figures moving amongst the swirling steam caught Rebecca's eye. In particular, a vivid purple waistcoat attracted her attention almost immediately. The waistcoat was part of an ensemble that included a black tophat and a black full-length cape. Sudden realization dawned on Rebecca as she recognized the man from the scene of the assassination the previous night. He had been walking along the street by the brothel-house.

Rebecca's attention was further arrested by the person the caped man was walking with. It was the laughing girl who had also been at the scene. She held her furled umbrella in her hand as she strolled haughtily in front of the caped man, who was carrying two bulky items of luggage.

As Rebecca watched the two of them walking away from the train, she realized that she would not be able to get off the train in time, for she could hear the engine working its way up once more. The crowd of people milling about the halls of the carriages would have prevented her from making a speedy departure, and attempting an exit through the cabin's window would result in nothing more than an unnecessary, and rather too ostentatious, commotion that would delay her even more and allow her prey to escape.

There was nothing for it. She would have to remain on the train until its final destination and report her observations to Sir Jonathan at Headquarters. It was frustrating to her, to be held back like this. But her years of experience in the field told her that this course, while not her favorite, was the most prudent at this time. Once back in London, she would be able to follow up on this apparent Prestavian connection to her mission.

Rebecca leaned back grumpily in her seat, crossing her legs, and "accidentally" kicking the oily-haired youth in the shins.

*****

Rebecca sat back in her chair, her arms folded, her legs crossed and irritatedly kicking the wooden desk in front of her. The man seated behind the desk cleared his throat, and Rebecca stopped kicking.

"Well, it appears that congratulations are in order," Sir Jonathan Chatsworth said happily. "General Zarkovsky is dead, and his separatist movement dies with him. Now Europe need not fear a threat from that sector."

"But Sir Jonathan," Rebecca protested with a frown, "I keep telling you that it wasn't me."

"Yes," Chatsworth mused. "No matter, the mission is completed satisfactorily. The important part is that the General is no longer a threat. Who pulled the trigger is of little consequence."

Rolling her eyes at yet another demonstration of her superior's narrow-mindedness, Rebecca stood up angrily. "I should think it is, sir!" she fumed. "I failed to assassinate the General, and I am not happy about someone else replacing me!"

"Really, Miss Fogg, I think there is more at stake here than your personal vanity."

"This is not about my vanity, 'sir'," she hissed back with a sarcastic emphasis on the final word. "This has potentially serious ramifications for the Service. If there is a mole within our organization--"

"Preposterous," Chatsworth interrupted, affronted by her accusation. "The very idea."

"It has happened before."

Chatsworth paused. Rebecca could see the hurt in his eyes as he recalled the previous occasions when the British Secret Service had indeed suffered through a number of deeply planted traitors. As the head of the organization, Chatsworth at times tended to take things perhaps a bit more personally than was deserved. This appeared to be another such instance.

As she resumed her seat, Rebecca pursed her lips before continuing. "Let us look at this problem, and see what we can do about it."

Lifting his eyes to meet hers, Chatsworth smiled gratefully at her. "Excellent thinking, Miss Fogg."

"Prestavia. What do we know about it?"

Chatsworth's eyes lit up as the question led him to a drawer full of folders. His love of paperwork kept the smile on his face as he scanned the most recent intelligence briefing on the nation of Prestavia. "Here we are. Prestavia. A minor country on the global scene. Never one to make a bold move, always content to sit along the fringes and watch as others did the dirty work. Keeps itself to itself, mostly. And clean, always very clean. Its neighbors, which include most of the major Eastern Europe players, have looked on it as a silly younger brother, and have never paid it much attention."

"That fits in with my impressions of it as well," Rebecca agreed, nodding. "So how does that fit with our potential new assassin?"

"The young girl?" Chatsworth asked, chuckling. "Of all the absurd ideas. We all know that a girl couldn't possibly--"

"With respect, sir," Rebecca said evenly.

Chatsworth stopped, then smiled apologetically at Rebecca. "Forgive me, Miss Fogg."

"Any leads as to who this young woman might be?" Rebecca asked, dismissing the subject and moving on.

Chatsworth happily pressed forward with the new topic. "From your description," he said, glancing between her mission report and the Prestavia file, "it appears that it may have been Princess Wyssa whom you saw. She is the youngest of King Karnavos's two children, Prince Durvin being seven years her senior."

Frowning, Rebecca asked, "What would the princess be doing in Russia?"

"Hard to say. There were no official missions or anything public that we are aware of. However, there may have been an unofficial, covert operation of which we were not informed of."

"Unlikely," Rebecca said.

"Indeed." Chatsworth read further in the Prestavia folder, his eyebrows knitting in puzzlement.

"What?"

"Interesting," Chatsworth said. "Quite interesting."

"What?" Rebecca repeated, this time with a touch more persuasion in her tone.

"This Princess Wyssa. How old would you estimate she is, based on your observations?"

Rebecca thought back to the woman on the street below her in St. Petersburg, and again at the railway station. Her figure and her bearing influenced Rebecca's guess. "I would say approximately eighteen, nineteen. Perhaps twenty?"

"Fifteen."

"Good heavens!" Rebecca replied, shocked. She would never have guessed that someone as proud and strong as the princess had appeared could be so young.

"My thoughts exactly," Chatsworth agreed grumpily.

"What on earth is she doing in the field?" Rebecca protested adamantly. "She's much too young, she has no idea what she is doing out there."

Chatsworth cleared his throat meaningfully. "I seem to recall another young female I knew several years ago who was also quite anxious to get her feet wet in the espionage game."

Smirking, Rebecca replied apologetically, "Touché."

"I did not mean it to be cruel. I simply meant that sometimes people are highly driven at even such a tender age."

"I was never 'tender'," Rebecca said quietly.

"That I will not argue," Chatsworth said with a warm smile. His expression quickly turned serious again. "However, Princess Wyssa does seem the most likely suspect for our external investigation."

"And our internal investigation?"

"I shall take care of that matter," Chatsworth answered fussily. "We need to send you on your next mission, Miss Fogg."

Chatsworth set aside the Prestavia file and reached for another folder on his desk. Opening it and passing two papers to Rebecca, Chatsworth outlined the mission. "You are to intercept one Doctor Michael Bergen and bring him back here to England. Doctor Bergen is suspected of experimenting with chemical substances in order to create unique, new, and deadly weapons. The German government is trying to keep him and his work secret, but of course we all know that never works."

"Of course," Rebecca agreed grimly.

"Doctor Bergen is scheduled to travel from his base of operations in Wartburg to another laboratory installation located near Erfurt. You must prevent him from arriving. We want his information, and we want to prevent anyone from benefiting from his work."

"Understood."

"Good luck, Miss Fogg," Chatsworth said. "Oh, and would you drop off one of those mission orders with Agent Kingston on the way out? It needs to go down to Records."

Rebecca stood up, frowning. "Certainly, sir," she muttered, continuing in her mind, "I absolutely adore doing your menial tasks for you, sir." She glowered at the form of Chatsworth as he wrote on some papers, completely ignoring his agent.

Slamming the door shut behind her, Rebecca thrust her hand out and shoved Agent Kingston's copy into her surprised grasp. Chatsworth's personal assistant blinked in surprise, then quickly regained her composure, smiling sympathetically at Rebecca.

"Having another of his moods, is he?" Kingston said kindly.

"No," Rebecca frowned. "I am."

"Oh." Kingston's face fell slightly.

"That copy is to be taken down to Records, as per Sir Jonathan's instruction."

Jessica Kingston nodded, placing the paper inside a folder. "I understand." As she watched Rebecca walk off, Kingston added softly. "Good luck."

*****

The light rain, with its large droplets of water, splashed down on the top of Rebecca's canvas canopy. Camouflaged between some bushes and half-buried in the ground, Rebecca's hideaway protected her from prying eyes and watery elements. The opening in the front of the dugout provided her with a clear line of sight along the road before her. The grey clouds hung low, obscuring the tops of the forest's trees and hiding the sun's direct rays, cooling the already chilly scene considerably.

Rebecca shifted slightly in her prone position, keeping her rifle at the ready.

The doctor's carriage was a day late. She had stayed at her post overnight, her black leather catsuit providing little relief from the chill night air. But nothing would prevent her from carrying out her mission. If necessary, she would stay one more night out in the elements, and then, if there were still no sign of Doctor Bergen, she would investigate in the nearby city to determine what had happened, and what to do next.

Reaching for a small morsel of food she had secreted within one of her outfit's many pouches, Rebecca paused. She turned her head, listening carefully. At last! she thought. She smiled grimly as a faint clip-clop and horse whinny drifted through the spattering rain to her hideout. She double-checked her weapon's readiness. Everything was set, of course.

Eventually, a pair of horses with a rider atop each crossed into her line of sight as she trained her rifle. Behind the two horses was a small black carriage, drawn by another two horses. A black-clad rider perched on the driver's seat, holding the reins.

Rebecca took a deep breath, then pulled the trigger. The first escort rider toppled from his horse, and Rebecca quickly shifted to the second guard. Another quick shot dealt with him as well. Riderless, the two horses fled into the woods.

By this time, the carriage driver clearly knew something was wrong. He urged his horses onward, hoping to speed them out of the danger zone. Rebecca's speed, however, was something he could not foresee.

Tossing her rifle aside, Rebecca burst out from underneath her canopy and drew her pistol. The carriage was now at its nearest point to her hideaway. She aimed swiftly and squeezed the trigger. With a small, helpless cry of pain, the driver was thrown from his seat, landing awkwardly on the ground. He was quite still.

The carriage's horses, meanwhile, had noticed a lack of controlling pressure on their reins, and, in confusion, they came to a halt. Rebecca approached the becalmed carriage carefully, her pistol still at the ready. She reached out and opened the door, training her pistol inside.

"Doctor Michael Bergen," she began, "you are--" Rebecca broke off as the scene inside the carriage finally registered with her.

Doctor Bergen, clad in a dark black suit with a grey overcoat, sat slumped in the seat, unconscious. Poised over him, a wicked grin on her face, was Princess Wyssa of Prestavia. She was clad in a skin-tight outfit of deep scarlet and black, and had a bulky satchel slung across her back, which presumably, thought Rebecca, contained the unconscious doctor's briefcase with his plans and formulas.

"Mine!" snarled Wyssa, completing Rebecca's declaration as she launched herself feet-first at her rival. Caught off-guard by the attack, Rebecca fell back, dropping her pistol and hitting her head against a nearby tree. As she struggled to remain conscious, Rebecca watched blurrily as Wyssa clambered up to the driver's bench, grabbed the reins, and urged the horses quickly back into action.

Rebecca picked up her pistol from where it had come to rest. Blinking furiously, her cloudy head and the rain interfering with her vision, she aimed her weapon and squeezed off a shot. The bullet shatted the linkage connecting the horses and the carriage, in essence breaking the thundering beasts free.

Wyssa yelped as she was pulled off the seat and flung face-first into the muddy road. Angrily, she growled and pulled herself up, the reins of the horses still clutched in her dirty hands. She yanked back furiously, and the horses slowed and halted.

As Rebecca shakily made her way towards the carriage, she watched as Wyssa stormed back, yanked open the door, and hauled out the unconscious form of Doctor Bergen. With her rage clearly manifesting itself in her strength, Wyssa managed to throw the doctor across the back of one of the horses from the carriage train. once he was settled, she leapt onto the other horse and started them both up once more.

By now, Rebecca had reached the carriage. She impotently fired off a few more pistol shots, but by then her quarry had disappeared into the foggy, rainy forest.

"Damn it!" Rebecca hissed as she surveyed the scene of her latest failure.

*****

"Unacceptable!" Chatsworth fumed as he threw Rebecca's report onto his desk. "I should have thought that my best agent would have been more than a match for a fifteen-year-old girl!"

"Well, how do you think I feel?" Rebecca countered just as heatedly.

Pausing, Chatsworth quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Sir," Rebecca added as she calmed herself somewhat.

"Hmmm," Chatsworth replied as his anger deflated as well. "Something needs to be done about this. We must learn more about this Princess Wyssa." He thought for a moment, tapping absent-mindedly on his desk. "To deal with this new threat, we must know our rival. I think we need to send someone to Prestavia to dig around, discover everything we can about her."

"Did you perhaps have anyone in mind for the task?" Rebecca asked, her voice devoid of any hinting inflections.

She was rewarded with a knowing smile from her superior. "As a matter of fact, yes. You, Miss Fogg, will make a most excellent choice for this mission."

"I had a feeling you would say that."

Chatsworth grabbed some papers, quickly scribbling on them. Signing them with a flourish, he handed several of them to Rebecca. "Your new orders," he explained perfunctorily. "Whilst in Prestavia, you are authorized to use any methods necessary, within reason, to learn all you can about Princess Wyssa, and how she has come to prevent you from completing your missions."

"Within reason?" Rebecca asked with a mischevious twinkle in her eye.

"Within *my* definition of reason, Miss Fogg," Chatsworth emphasized.

"Understood."

"Meanwhile, our mole investigation here shall continue."

Rebecca winced sympathetically as she saw the cloud of frustration descend upon Sir Jonathan. "Good luck, sir," she said encouraginly.

"And to you as well," Chatsworth replied as he dismissed her.

Rebecca left Chatsworth's office, closing the door behind her. She smiled at Agent Kingston as she handed across her mission copy. Her smile brightened even further as she saw Edmund Samuels shuffling down the corridor towards them. "Edmund!" Rebecca gushed as she hurried over to the old, grey-haired man. She enveloped him in a warm embrace. "You're looking well," she continued, surveying him closely. "Feeling better?"

"Oh, Miss Fogg!" Samuels said happily. "It is good to see you as well. Yes, I am feeling much better, thank you. That is one part of working down in Records that I could do without. Those cold basements are murder on my lungs."

Rebecca linked an arm in his and together they approached Agent Kingston's desk.

"Ah, Mr. Samuels," Jessica Kingston said, smiling warmly. "You're early today."

Samuels frowned slightly. "Oh, old Waterstone started rambling on about his grandchildren again, and I just had to get out of there." He took the copy of Rebecca's mission that Kingston handed him and placed it in his carrying-case.

Rebecca rubbed her hand on Samuels' back sympathetically. "I'm sorry," she said gently.

"It's all right, Miss Fogg," he said, his smile returning as he looked at Rebecca. "You know, in many ways, you remind me of my daughter. You have the same spark of life that my Katrina had."

Rebecca blushed slightly. "I am sorry I never got to know her."

"She would have liked you, I am certain of it." Samuels coughed, then double-checked his carrying-case. "Well, I'd best be going. Don't want to be reprimanded for wandering the halls, do I?"

"Indeed not," Rebecca agreed as she gave Samuels a quick kiss on the cheek. "It was wonderful to see you again."

"And you," Samuels said happily. "And you as well, Miss Kingston," he added as he turned and tottered off.

Her spirits lifted immeasurably, Rebecca took her leave of Agent Kingston also and headed for the exit.

*****

The train chuffed and squealed as it rolled to a halt at the station. Rebecca Fogg stepped onto the clean, neat station at the city of Loravin, the capital of Prestavia. She was met at the front entrance of the station by an official carriage, which brought her swiftly to the British Embassy, and to Ambassador John Duncan.

Rebecca couldn't help but feel a thrill run through her entire body as the handsome form of Ambassador Duncan approached her. Tall, powerfully built, slightly wavy black hair, gorgeous face... they all added up to a fine package indeed, thought Rebecca.

Duncan held out his hand, which Rebecca took gracefully. "Welcome, Agent Fogg," he said, his strong baritone voice causing Rebecca to reflexively smile in spite of herself. "I am Ambassador Duncan. I understand we will be working together."

"Indeed," Rebecca said through her grin. Before she got carried away, however, she forced herself to settle down. This was a business relationship, she told herself, leave your carnal desires behind.

"Would you follow me, please?" Duncan said as he turned.

"Anywhere," Rebecca murmured softly.

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'Absolutely'," Rebecca hurriedly covered. Stop it, Rebecca! she scolded herself. Yet she couldn't help but admire the way his trousers clung to his rear as he led her to his office.

As they took their seats, Rebecca looked about the room. It was finely appointed, albeit not lavishly. Modest for an ambassador, in fact. She turned to face Duncan as he spoke, crossing her legs as she did so.

"So," the handsome man said, "you're here to investigate the Lady Wyssa, Princess of Prestavia."

"Indeed. What do we know about her?"

"I'm afraid not very much, Agent Fogg," Duncan said as he opened a very slim folder on his desk. "The Lady Wyssa is the youngest child of King Karnavos. Her brother, Prince Durvin, is seven years her senior. As for the Queen, she passed away around the time of Wyssa's birth. Unfortunately, due to the incredibly secretive nature of the royal family, details are very sketchy about many things. Queen Maleva is one of those mysteries. We know she existed, we know approximately when she died, and that is about all."

"Interesting," Rebecca mused. "What else can you tell me about the princess?"

"Again, not much, I'm sad to say." Duncan flipped over the sheet of paper before him. "As I said, the royal family is intensely secretive."

"Apparently so."

"But you're in luck. The King is throwing a celebration this evening. It happens to be Prince Durvin's birthday, and they are having a large reception, dancing to be followed by dinner."

"Followed by dinner?" asked Rebecca. "Isn't it traditionally the other way round?"

"Not in Prestavia, apparently. Their tradition holds that it's best to work up an appetite which you can then satisfy to your stomach's content. It actually can be quite fun, I've been to several."

"I'm afraid I don't have an invitation," Rebecca said.

"No matter, you may accompany me as my guest."

Rebecca smiled inwardly whilst remaining professional outwardly. "That is very generous of you, Ambassador Duncan."

"Think nothing of it," Duncan replied casually. "My wife has been feeling ill of late, and is not up for the reception."

Rebecca felt her heart plummet into her stomach. She smiled bravely as she said, "I'm very sorry to hear that. Please give her my regards and wishes for a swift recovery."

"I shall, thank you. And please, call me John. Ambassador Duncan makes me feel too self-important."

Laughing lightly, Rebecca replied, "Very well, as long as you call me Rebecca."

Duncan laughed agreeably. "Sounds fine to me. Say... did you happen to bring any attire appropriate for a royal reception?"

*****

Rebecca felt very comfortable and sure of herself in her deep purple dress as the carriage dropped them off at the castle of King Karnavos. She glanced at Duncan and smiled approvingly at his handsome, crisp black outfit which befitted his status as ambassador. Together, she and Duncan strolled proudly into the castle. The rich, handsomely decorated interior was absolutely breathtaking. Gold, silver, with tasteful ebony highlights in just the right places, it was a grand spectacle. Rebecca and Duncan were led into a massive, high-ceilinged ballroom, joining the rest of the guests who were already inside.

They each took a glass from a passing server, and looked around the grand room. Duncan surreptitiously indicated someone across the dance floor, who was seated at a table with numerous friends talking jovially around him. "That's Prince Durvin," Duncan said.

Rebecca studied the young man. He was in his early twenties, and had an air of sadness about him. Mainly in the eyes, thought Rebecca. His droopy blonde hair framed a handsome face, which clearly caught the attention of many of the young ladies in attendance. The young prince, however, seemed oblivious to all of the female attention, instead listening and laughing with his close circle of friends.

"He tries," Duncan said quietly, "but he's never fully gotten over the death of his mother, the Queen."

Rebecca nodded, then turned her attention to the rest of the room, looking at everyone in turn. Eventually she leaned close to Duncan, whispering, "Is the King here?"

Duncan sipped from his drink. "No. The King never partakes of the dance. He will be at the dinner, however."

"There's no sign of Princess Wyssa, either, I notice."

Duncan pursed his lips. "Indeed. I must admit, I am rather surprised. Usually she adores being the center of attention at these types of gatherings."

The pair watched the room for several moments, sipping at their drinks. After a short time, Duncan set his glass down on a nearby table, smoothly extracting Rebecca's glass from her grasp and depositing it as well. Rebecca's eyes widened as she smiled.

"John," she began.

"Let's mingle," Duncan said with a twinkle in his eye. He took her hands gently but firmly and led her out onto the dance floor. The musicians had just begun an uptempo selection, and Duncan led Rebecca masterfully through the dance steps. They laughed as they both struggled to match each other, and for a time Rebecca forgot all about her mission, instead losing herself in the moment with the handsome man who was her companion for the evening.

Rebecca and Duncan danced happily for a time. Then, when the musicians started a new, aggressive-sounding piece, Duncan was tapped on the shoulder by a small, black-gloved hand. They stopped and looked at the newcomer.

Princess Wyssa stood before them in a tight, rich-looking, blue-green dress, smiling wickedly at Rebecca and ignoring Duncan completely. "May I have this dance?" she asked over-politely.

"Of course," Rebecca said, turning and heading for the tables. Before she could get far, she was pulled back by Wyssa.

"I meant with you, not him," Wyssa hissed as she waved dismissively at Duncan.

The ambassador looked at Rebecca, who nodded, so he moved off, keeping a watchful eye trained on the two women. He took up station along the wall, standing next to a tall man in a black, full-length cape with a purple waistcoat.

Wyssa locked her gloved hands with Rebecca's bare palms, pressing her body up against Rebecca's. The fabric of Wyssa's dress rustled as it crushed against her dance partner's gown.

"I know who you are," said Wyssa as the pair danced together, moving rhythmically as one.

"Do you?" Rebecca countered smoothly.

"You are Rebecca Fogg, Special Agent in Her Majesty's Not-So-Secret Service."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"I know what I know," Wyssa said as she suddenly spun Rebecca, then pulled her lose once more. "I also know why you're here."

Rebecca arched an eyebrow as she in turn spun Wyssa, which infuriated the young woman no end. It was obvious from the fresh tension in her body once the two were face to face once again.

"And why is that?" asked Rebecca.

"You're here to find out more about me." Wyssa flashed her teeth wickedly. "More specifically, why I keep beating you on your missions. Why you keep failing."

"I never fail at my work," Rebecca replied icily.

"Until me," Wyssa taunted nastily. Now it was Wyssa's turn to feel the increased tension in Rebecca's body. "My, my," she teased, her eyes sparkling. "Aren't we the sore loser?"

The music increased in tempo, and the dancers danced even more aggressively. Finally, the musicians reached the finale, and Wyssa clenched Rebecca close. "You'll never stop me," Wyssa whispered in Rebecca's ear. She slid her hands to Rebecca's back, and ran them down her body, giving Rebecca's buttocks a strong, playful squeeze as she disengaged from her.

Wyssa noticed Duncan approaching. She blew a kiss at Rebecca, then walked off, saying to the ambassador as she parted, "She's all yours, Dumb-can."

Together, Rebecca and Duncan watched as Wyssa went over to the wall and met with the tall man in the cape. Then she walked quickly from the room with her companion following after.

"She's such a girl," Rebecca said, still smarting from Wyssa's taunting.

"That she is," Duncan agreed. "But it appears a dangerous one, nonetheless. I think it best if we avoid any further confrontations with her."

"Nothing would please me more," Rebecca said huffily, folding her arms across her chest.

A bell rang out from somewhere, and the guests began filing out of the ballroom, chattering amongst themselves excitedly.

"Come on," Duncan said, taking Rebecca's arm. "Time for dinner."

*****

The banquet hall was nearly as massive as the ballroom. It was beautifully decorated, and was dominated by an impressively large U-shaped dinner table in the center. King Karnavos sat in the very center, whilst Rebecca and Duncan sat several places away from him along his right-hand side. Prince Durvin sat on the King's left hand. Of Princess Wyssa there was no sign. Not even an empty seat.

As they began partaking of the sumptuous feast before them, Rebecca took some time to study the King. He appeared tall, from what she could judge as he sat in his chair. His grey hair still showed a few hints of its original black. A noble brow and a smallish nose, along with lively brown eyes and an almost constantly smiling mouth, all contributed to a picture of a mature, settled, content man, happy with his station in life. And what King wouldn't be? she thought to herself. Karnavos also had a marvelous, infectious laugh, which burst from him on numerous occasions throughout the meal. Rebecca found herself smiling and laughing as well, even though half the time she had not heard what had caused the King's guffaws.

Duncan leaned close to Rebecca and whispered a naughty secret about one of the men across the table from them. She giggled, her hand flying to her face to stifle her laughter. She playfully kicked Duncan in the shins and tucked back into her meal.

The King, meanwhile, had begun to talk briefly with every guest at his table in turn, starting on the far left side of the table opposite from Rebecca. He would chat with them for a few moments, ask after family members, perhaps engage in a bit of innocent teasing, which his subjects clearly all seemed to delight in.

Soon enough, the King's attention turned to Ambassador Duncan. "Ambassador," the King smiled. "And how are you this happy evening?"

Rebecca chuckled to herself, as it looked like the subject of the celebration, Prince Durvin, appeared anything but happy.

"The evening finds me well, thank you, Your Majesty," Duncan replied, bowing his head deferentially.

"I cannot help but notice that your charming wife is not accompanying you tonight," the King continued, a touch of genuine concern in his voice. "I trust she is well."

"She is recovering from a minor ailment, Highness, and hopes to be with us for the sporting tournaments next week."

"Excellent! Send her my warmest wishes, if you would be so kind."

"Thank you, Your Majesty, I know she will be honored."

"I also cannot help but notice that you still managed to arrive with a beautiful woman on your arm. Pray tell, who might this lovely lady be?"

Rebecca blushed. "You flatter me, Your Majesty."

"May I present Miss Rebecca Fogg, Highness. My... cousin." Duncan winked at Rebecca.

"'Miss', you say?" the King said, lifting a royal eyebrow. "Have you met my son yet, Miss Fogg?"

"Dad!" Prince Durvin whined, burying his face in his hands, clearly wishing he was anywhere but at that table.

"I love to tease him," said the King, winking at Rebecca. "I hear you were the recipient of my daughter's attentions earlier this evening."

"Indeed, you are correct, Your Majesty," Rebecca replied.

"Have the two of you met previously, Miss Fogg?" asked the curious King.

"We have... run into each other once or twice."

"Miss Fogg is quite the well-traveled courier," Duncan explained smoothly.

"Ah," the King replied, nodding. "That would explain it. MY restless daughter is always after me to let her use the royal carriage, the royal barge, the royal train. Truth be told, she has become quite the royal pain in the a--"

"Dad!" Prince Durvin protested again, glaring at his father.

King Karnavos sighed. "I am sorry, son. I know how fond of her you are. However, it must be said that Princess Wyssa will never be satisfied to sit still in any one place for too long. She is always anxious to try something new. In fact, I was rather surprised to see her return home yesterday."

Further idle queries from Rebecca and Duncan yielded nothing more about Wyssa. Also not forthcoming was any scrap of information about the late Queen. After a few moments, the King turned his attention to the excited little man sitting on Rebecca's right.

Once the great feast had been consumed, the King retired, and the celebration ended. The guests began to depart, and Rebecca and Duncan followed suit. Rebecca had wanted to sneak off and explore the castle, but she was discouraged by a frowning Duncan, who explained on the ride home that his local agents had already infiltrated and searched the place many times previously. In fact, the most recent occasion had been three days previous, after they had learned of Rebecca's impending arrival.

As they rode in their carriage on the way back to the embassy, Rebecca turned to Duncan and asked, "John, if I may be so bold..."

"I do not think that is something of which you need be unsure of," John teased playfully.

Rebecca smiled, then turned serious. "How did you come to be here? I mean, such a young man, with what would seem such a promising outlook in life. I'm rather surprised to find you in such a career side-road, as it were."

Duncan shifted in his seat, looking slightly discomfited. "Yes, I understand. I used to have a career in the government back home. I was a star on the rise, you could say." He paused, looking out the window at the passing streets. "It was an... indiscretion on my part."

"Ah." Rebecca pursed her lips. "Forgive me."

Duncan slid his eyes back to Rebecca, smiling kindly at her. "It's all right, Rebecca. It's in the past, and I am working hard at rebuilding my reputation. I have a good feeling about the future."

"I am glad to hear it," Rebecca said.

They rode the rest of the way in companionable silence.

*****

Rebecca was shown to her room for the night, which was a nice, neat, yet spartanly decorated guest room in the embassy building. As the hour was late, Rebecca changed almost immediately into her bedclothes. Before slipping under the warm covers of her comfortable-looking bed, she paused to gaze out the window. Her second-floor quarters looked over a pleasant vista of the city of Loravin. The lights of the town sparkled as the pale moonlight shone down. Rebecca could almost feel her worries drifting away, but she shook herself and refocused her attention, thinking back to her recent failures. Was this yet another? She had been sent to learn more about the princess, yet she had come away with almost nothing. Perhaps that in itself was telling.

No, it wasn't, Rebecca thought grumpily to herself. You're just trying to convince yourself that you've not lost your edge.

Irritatedly telling herself she had not lost her edge, she got into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her mind filled with frustrated emotions, Rebecca soon fell asleep.

*****

She dreamt. Her dream was of a routine mission. A simple information pick-up from a dead drop. As she approached the bench where the informant had made his covert delivery before departing, a figure in a red dress and a black hood suddenly materialized out of thin air on the bench. The soft laughter of a young girl drifted towards her from within the hood. Rebecca slowed to a halt, then reached out tentatively for the figure. With a hissing snarl, the figure threw back its hood, revealing a giant snake's head. Rebecca reared back, tripping and falling. Her head struck the ground, and she jolted awake.

Rebecca took a few deep breaths, calming her racing heartbeat. As she felt her eyelids drooping towards slumber once more, she felt something else. A cold, scaly motion rubbed along her thigh underneath her bedclothes. Dismissing it as a remnant of her nightmare, Rebecca rolled over onto her side.

The sensation did not disappear.

Instead, it had now reached her chest. Frowning, Rebecca threw off her covers. That is when the creature chose its moment to attack. The large, dark snake slid quickly around Rebecca's throat, constricting as it wound more and more of itself around her.

Eyes bulging, Rebecca clawed at the snake, attempting to pull it off. Her efforts were met with a tightening of the constriction. Gasping for breath, she reached over towards her night table, clawing for anything to help her.

Her desperate fingers touched her bedtime waterglass. Frantically, she clutched the glass and brought it down on the thick body of the snake. It appeared to have no effect. Rebecca twisted slightly in the snake's grasp, and smashed her glass against the nearby table. Shattered shards flew, and Rebecca jabbed the broken glass into the snake's skin.

The pressure around her neck eased ever so slightly. That, along with the sticky blood that oozed onto her hands, renewed her determination, and she redoubled her efforts. Rebecca stabbed and sliced, her hands becoming covered in blood, her nightdress stained crimson.

Finally, with a last writhing squeeze, the beast died, its grip on Rebecca's neck becoming completely slack. As Rebecca lay exhausted on her bed, she summoned up the strength to heave the snake off of her, throwing it onto the floor.

Rubbing her sore neck, Rebecca's eyes turned ice cold as the fury within her boiled.

*****

In his throne room, King Karnavos looked up from the report in his hand as a slick, bloodied snake carcass thudded heavily at his feet. His two councilors at his side jumped back in fright, yet the King merely grimaced. He handed the paper to one of his men and nodded at the guards in the doorway, indicating he was all right.

Rebecca Fogg stared angrily at him as she stood near the slain creature on the floor, still clad only in her nightclothes. "Where is she?" she demanded.

Karnavos sighed heavily. "I assume you mean the princess."

"Yes, I damn well do," Rebecca replied huffily.

One of the King's councilors cleared his throat meaningfully.

"Your Majesty," Rebecca concluded belatedly.

"Are you suggesting she had something to do with this...creature?" Karnavos asked, indicating the large dead snake.

"Indeed. Where is she?"

Karnavos made a gesture, and one of his guards saluted and rushed off. "She is not in this room at the moment. Beyond that, I do not know. However, I have sent one of my men to search for her. Now, if you would be so kind as to explain yourself, Miss Fogg."

Rebecca pursed her lips, folding her arms self-consciously across her chest. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," she said apologetically, now regretting her impulsive brashness in barging in on the King. "I have reason to believe that the princess is intending to send me a message."

"What sort of message, pray tell?"

Choosing her words carefully, Rebecca explained her thinking. "She sees me as a rival. She wants me to be sure that we both know she is the better of the two of us."

The King looked at her. "Something tells me this is something beyond a mere rivalry for a gentleman's affections or somesuch."

Rebecca rubbed her arms before responding. "You are very perceptive, Your Majesty. I am not, as you have probably guessed by now, just a simple courier. I am, in fact, an agent in Her Majesty's Secret Service. My previous encounters with Princess Wyssa have all been on official missions, during which she has continually interfered with my objectives. I was sent here to learn more about her."

Sighing, the King slid back on his throne, slumping down and rubbing his head. "Oh, good grief. I had prayed she might settle herself one of these days. I fear that she may never quell the restless demons of her soul."

"Your Majesty?" Rebecca prodded gently. She could see the pain clearly written in his face as the King continued.

"Ever since she was a little girl," he said, "she would not keep still. I tried to sate her thirst for new things, new adventures as she grew. Yet nothing seemed to satisfy her, at least not for long. I fear that this rivalry with you is but the latest manifestation of her anxious spirit."

The guard the King had previously sent away now returned to the throne room. "Your Majesty, the Princess Wyssa appears not to be within the bounds of the castle."

"Damnation!" King Karnavos spat. "That girl will be the death of me." Once more he slumped back into his chair. "Sometimes I wish that the reaper may take her to join her mother in the afterlife." He leaned his head back against the throne's backrest, shutting his eyes. For a time he sat there, silent.

Rebecca waited respectfully, not wishing to disturb the distressed monarch.

"Enough," rumbled King Karnavos eventually. "You may do with her as you like, should your paths cross once more." He opened his eyes and leaned forward tiredly. "I shall do what I can to rein in my daughter. You have my apologies, as a father, for the trouble she has caused you. But you must also understand that, as the King, I can offer no official apology, nor any reparations."

Bowing graciously, Rebecca said, "I understand, Your Majesty. Thank you."

As she departed, Rebecca heard the King thundering to his men, "Find her, damn it, before she brings ruin to our entire kingdom!"

*****

The following day, as Rebecca sat moodily in the railway car heading out of the Loravin station, she could not shake the dark feeling that this whole situation was rapidly spiraling out of control.

*****

"She's 'restless'?!" Sir Jonathan Chatsworth spluttered. "I send you to Prestavia to dig up information on the princess, and all you can bring back to me is the King's explanation that she is restless?"

Rebecca winced at the venom in Chatsworth's tone. "With respect--"

"And not only that, this same princess attempts to kill you in your own bed!"

"To be precise, it was a guest bed, I was merely its occupant that evening."

Chatsworth angrily narrowed his eyes. "I could do with a less flippant attitude from you, Miss Fogg."

"My apologies, sir."

"And now," continued Sir Jonathan as he shuffled through some papers on his desk, "I have to sign another agent to you, in order to keep you safe."

Rebecca stood up. "I must protest, sir. That snake in the bed was not an assassination attempt. It was a message from the princess to me. I can handle her sir. I need no protection!"

Chatsworth slammed his fist on his desktop as he stood as well, leaning across his desk to glare at Rebecca. "It is precisely that kind of arrogant thinking that gets agents killed!"

Rebecca and Chatsworth stared at each other. The stalemate was eventually broken by Chatsworth, who leaned back and glanced away.

"I do not wish to lose my best agent," he said quietly as he sat down.

Rebecca softened as she resumed her seat as well. "I appreciate your good intentions, sir."

Chatsworth smiled uncertainly at her. "Believe me, Miss Fogg, I truly do not wish any harm to come to you. I want you safe, and I want your missions to be successful once again."

Sighing, Rebecca replied, "Very well. I shall accept your order of a partner. And I mean a partner, not a protector."

"That is precisely what I had in mind." Chatsworth summoned his assistant. "Miss Kingston," he said to her, "would you please have Agent Harris report to my office?"

Kingston nodded and hurried off.

Oh, good Lord, not him! Rebecca whispered to herself, rubbing her already aching head. Agent Lance Harris was an insufferable braggart, constantly attempting to be more heroic than the situation usually warranted. By an incredible run of luck, Harris had not yet gotten himself killed. Not that Rebecca would have shed a tear, had that been the case, mind you...

"Good afternoon!" a deep, enthusiastic voice burst into the room. It was immediately followed by an immaculately dressed, handsome young man. Agent Lance Harris smoothed back his golden locks as he gracefully took his seat. He smiled winningly at Rebecca, who stared blankly back at him, her expression revealing nothing, especially not the distaste she felt for this worm before her.

"A pleasure to see you again, Agent Fogg," Harris grinned. "So, what new adventure do you have for me today, Sir Jonathan?"

Chatsworth quickly brought Harris up to speed on the situation. Harris knitted his brow with worry as Rebecca's perils were detailed.

"I say," Harris remarked after Chatsworth concluded. "I can certainly understand the need for protection."

"A partner," Rebecca corrected.

"If you say so," Harris replied, smiling patronizingly at her.

Rebecca gripped the armrests of her chair in an attempt to control her indignation. She forced herself to smile back at Harris, then turned to Chatsworth. "Thank you for your kindness, sir," she said thinly.

"Now," Chatsworth said brusquely, ignoring the tension between his agents. "Time to lay out your new mission."

"Excellent!" Harris enthused, rubbing his hands together excitedly. Rebecca rolled her eyes.

"You are to take a number of important documents to the governor in Bombay, India. This is merely your cover, however. The documents are, in fact, real papers that do need to reach the governor. However, I have another agent carrying the same documents to arrive one day later. If, as we must now expect, Princess Wyssa is disrupting your missions, then she will most likely make an appearance. In which case, you are authorized to apprehend her and bring her into custody. Meanwhile, your real mission is to investigate the goings on at the India Railway Company. It appears that several of their top executives are suspected of embezzling from their accounts. I want you to find out if this is indeed the case. If so, report your findings to the governor, and the local British representatives will take care of the matter from there."

"Why can't the locals look into this?" Rebecca asked.

"Because we cannot be sure if the people we send to investigate are involved in the crimes. And also because they are too well known amongst the citizenry."

Rebecca and Harris both nodded. Chatsworth handed over their mission copies.

"I'm sending you off immediately," Chatsworth continued. "Perhaps this will keep you at least one step ahead of the princess. Good luck to you both. And do be careful, Miss Fogg."

Rebecca was about to thank him, but was interrupted. "Never fear, Sir Jonathan," Harris said happily. "Harris is here!" He grinned his wide smile at Rebecca, who turned and stormed out of the office.

*****

Rebecca walked back to Harris, who stood proudly with hands on hips as he stood looking happily at the collection of trains at each of the platforms in the station. He looked down at Rebecca as she handed him his ticket, which he tucked into a coat pocket.

"I've always loved trains," Harris gushed as Rebecca led him to Platform Four. "Such a romantic way to travel, don't you think?"

"No," Rebecca replied quickly and tersely.

"Oh." Harris' face fell for a moment, then brightened once more as they boarded the train. As they took their seats in their private compartment, Rebecca fidgeted nervously as she looked out the window. Harris leaned his powerful frame back in his seat.

As the last boarding calls were made, Rebecca suddenly stood up. "I will... be right back," she said as she moved to the doorway.

"Are you all right, Miss Fogg?" Harris asked with genuine concern.

"Yes, thank you." She hesitated. "It is a... delicate matter."

Harris looked puzzled briefly, then he blushed. "Oh. Oh! One of those ladies' ailments I have heard of. I understand. Well, I shan't detain you, just be careful. Don't want you missing out on a minute of our grand adventure!"

Rolling her eyes yet again, Rebecca tossed him a quick goodbye and exited the compartment, shutting the door behind her.

*****

Harris looked about himself, studying his surroundings eagerly as he waited for Rebecca to return. He was so excited. As he had told Rebecca, he was an ardent admirer of trains. This was a fine example, indeed. Clean, well-decorated. 'Twas a pity it would be a relatively short journey to the coast to catch their ship to India.

As he smiled happily, he glanced out the window and noticed a woman who looked remarkably like Miss Fogg. How interesting, he thought. Then realization slammed into him as the train began pulling away from the station. He saw Rebecca stop and watch, throwing him a kiss before she hurried from the platform.

Fuming, Harris rushed to the doorway of the compartment. He tugged at the handle, but to no avail. It would not budge. Slapping the door in anger, Harris sat down dejectedly in his seat. He pulled out his ticket and examined it closely. One way, London to York. Completely the wrong direction. Rebecca had tricked him.

Sir Jonathan was not going to be pleased.

*****

Rebecca laughed as the train to York receded into the distance. Good riddance, she thought. Another agent would accomplish nothing, apart from slowing her down, or worse.

She pulled out another ticket and headed for Platform Six and the train to Portsmouth, her smile beaming from her face now.

*****

The proud ocean-going vessel named the Lady Lysette docked at the main port of Bombay in early morning. As Rebecca disembarked, the sweltering heat struck her fully, and she was glad she had changed aboard ship. She was wearing a light, tan-colored silk wrap in the fashion of what the lady colonials were wearing these days. A silk kerchief kept the blowing sand out of her hair.

As she gazed about the scene at the dockside, Rebecca breathed in the air. "I've always had a fondness for India," she said happily.

She quickly located a taxi carriage and arranged to have her baggage loaded onto it as she climbed in. She ordered the driver to take her to the British Governor's residence, and they were underway.

Rebecca watched the scenery roll by. The many and varied citizens of the city of Bombay presented a vast array of the portraits of life. Tired, huddled, hungry families hunched in dirty, dusty corners, while clean, elegantly dressed white colonials strolled about proudly as if they owned the place. Which, of course, they technically did. Technically.

The carriage turned down a side street, coming to a halt in a narrow, secluded alley. "Driver," Rebecca called out. "This is not the Governor's residence."

"No, it's not," Princess Wyssa hissed as she swung down from the roof of the carriage, slamming her feet into Rebecca's chest. Winded, Rebecca fell back into the waiting arms of a tall, strong man who dragged her out of the carriage. Through her daze, Rebecca noted the crumpled figure of the driver lying in the dirt nearby.

The tall man, who was bizarrely dressed in a black, full-length cape even in the heat of the morning, whipped out some rope and quickly bound Rebecca's hands behind her back, then tied her feet together as well. He then laid her down with surprising gentleness on the ground away from the carriage.

Wyssa clambered out and smiled at the man, the same man, Rebecca now realized, whom she had seen before. In St. Petersburg, at the Prestavia railway station, and again at the reception for Prince Durvin. "Thank you, Mr. Bittertwitch," Wyssa said. Smiling nastily, she stood at Rebecca's feet, her grey, skin-tight outfit shifting as she crouched to consider her quarry.

The princess straddled Rebecca's legs, sliding her hands up Rebecca's loose wrap and caressing the skin underneath, then quickly removed the concealed knife strapped to Rebecca's thigh. Then Wyssa squirmed her way up Rebecca's body, wrapping her strong legs around the struggling woman's. Teasingly, she directed her hands up Rebecca's torso and cupped Rebecca's face in her hands. Sneering down at the helpless, infuriated woman, Wyssa pressed her body against Rebecca as she extended her tongue. She started at the base of Rebecca's neck, licking her way up to her mouth. Planting a wet, sloppy kiss on her captive, Wyssa then giggled and stood up.

"Always a pleasure." Wyssa smiled nastily at the writhing, angry form of Rebecca Fogg. "Let's go, Mr. Bittertwitch." She jumped inside the carriage while Mr. Bittertwitch took the driver's seat.

Rebecca watched the carriage roll off, gleeful, girlish, maniacal laughter drifting back towards her. She twisted her body, arching her back and struggling angrily against the rope binding her hands and legs. Regretting that she no longer had her secreted knife with her, she inched her way over to the broken body of the dead carriage driver, hoping against hope that he had been a careful man, one who knew the dangers of the Bombay streets and would have taken steps to protect himself.

Thank the heavens, she thought, as she sliced her finger on a compact knife within the folds of the driver's clothing. She pulled out the knife and quickly shifted the blade into position, cutting through her bonds on her wrists and then through the rope around her ankles. Once free, she wrapped her bleeding finger wound with her kerchief, and headed down the alley and back to the main street.

*****

Rebecca eventually reached the Governor's residence, glorying in the blessed relief of the cool, shaded interior as she was led to the governor's office. After a brief meeting with Governor Wood, during which she felt on edge the entire time, Rebecca moved on to undertake the next step of her mission. She acquired the information she needed from the governor, learning when and where the two men from the India Railway Company she sought were scheduled to arrive.

Not even bothering to change her dirty, torn, and bloody clothing, much less get her wounded finger tended to, Rebecca set off immediately for the railway station. She did make one stop on her way, however. She procured a new pistol from the governor's residence's security armory, along with a healthy amount of ammunition.

By now, Rebecca was beside herself with anger. That a little scamp of a girl could be such a thorn in her side was almost inconceivable to her. Yet she could not deny that a thorn was precisely what the young girl was. Rebecca gazed at her hands, ruefully noting that she even had a bleeding finger as proof.

She glanced up at the clock affixed to the wall as she sat on a bench on the platform of the railway station. The train carrying the two men was due to arrive in approximately five minutes' time. Rebecca sat, tense, uneasy, feeling skittish as she looked around, her senses tuned to detect anything out of the ordinary. I'll be damned if that little bitch bests me again, Rebecca thought furiously to herself.

A faint, high-pitched whistle echoed towards the platform, alerting the patrons to the imminent arrival of the 2:15 from Pankot. Rebecca stood up, fingering the pistol concealed beneath her clothing. She and the other people around her watched as the train clattered nearer and nearer, tooting its whistle every few seconds. A few children playing near the track scurried away from the rails as their father approached them to scold them.

As the front of the engine entered the station, it suddenly seemed to shatter. First the engine exploded, metal, coal, iron and wood flying everywhere, causing the horrified onlookers to duck or take cover. Then, as if marching to a drum beat, the rest of the train exploded, one by one, each car bursting into a ball of flame, down the line until the carnage engulfed the caboose. The momentum of the explosions pushed the burning train's remnants through and beyond the station, leaving a huge cloud of black smoke in its wake above the rails along the platform.

Rebecca picked herself up off the ground, coughing as she peered through the choking smoke. Her stomach churned as she saw the charred remains of the playful children and their father smoldering near the rails.

Then her stomach dropped even further, as the sound of a horse and carriage drifted to her through the smoke.

"Oh, my God," Rebecca choked. "No, damn it!" she sobbed angrily.

Princess Wyssa, driving the taxi carriage herself, charged out of the black cloud, laughing and giggling insanely. She cackled as she spotted the ash-darkened form of Rebecca glaring murderously at her from the platform. Wyssa steered her carriage just close enough to the charging Rebecca and spat defiantly on her.

Rebecca roared as she launched herself off the platform, hoping to catch the now-retreating carriage. She did not quite make it, instead thudding heavily across the fire-blackened rails. Jumping up as quick as she could, clutching her side and what felt like a dozen bruised ribs, Rebecca fired every shot she could into the still-roiling cloud of smoke into which the princess and her carriage had disappeared. But it was to no avail.

Wyssa had gotten away yet again.

Rebecca screamed in angry, impotent rage as she fell to her knees near the corpses of the young children, who had been doing nothing more than having fun with each other. Now they were dead, because of the capricious, dangerous, and deadly whims of a wild young girl.

Rebecca eventually made her way back to the governor's residence, feeling disconnected from the world as she walked. She had mutely allowed the medics at the governor's residence treat her wounds, and a friendly female nurse had helped her change out of her tattered clothes and into a clean, simple dress. She made a brief report to the governor, then made arrangements for a swift return home. She left India the next day.

*****

Rebecca Fogg was unnaturally silent as she sat across from Sir Jonathan Chatsworth in his office. Chatsworth was perusing her report, a frown creasing his features. Once he finished, he set the report down, and looked up at Rebecca. She met his stare blankly.

"Miss Fogg..." he began gently. "Rebecca. This has been a terrible ordeal for you. I want you to know that I--"

"She killed those children," Rebecca said calmly, her gaze not wavering.

Chatsworth pursed his lips. "I know." He leafed fussily through some papers on his desk. "I think, in light of all that has happened, that perhaps it might be for the best if you were to take a brief leave of--"

"No." Rebecca's eyes narrowed as she stared him down.

"Miss Fogg, I think--"

"I said no. I am perfectly fine." She folded her arms, as if daring him to contradict her.

Chatsworth sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Very well. But it is against my better judgment that I do this for you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Sliding a few papers across the desk to her, Chatsworth kept an eye on her as he spoke. "Clearly my wishes to assign you a partner have met with total failure. And I believe pressing the point with you would only irritate you further."

"Indeed."

"Hmmm. I have another mission for you, as you can see here. This one is in a somewhat cooler climate than your previous destination. A frigate is on its way from Spain to Gudrovsky, Prestavia's chief rival in the region. The vessel is carrying a large cargo of weapons and ammunition. In the interests of peace, and in response to an unofficial request from Prestavia itself, we have been charged by Her Majesty to stop this ship, no matter the cost. Apparently, King Karnavos seems to have been impressed by you on your brief visit. You were requested personally for this mission."

This managed to break through to Rebecca. A smile played about her features, and her eyes seemed alive again. "Really?"

"Indeed. You are to meet up with this frigate as it heads south through the North Sea. They have sailed around Ireland and Scotland in order to avoid the patrols in the English Channel. You must board the vessel and plant as many explosives as you can. It need not be a large amount, as the cargo hold full of weapons and ammunition will ignite and spread quickly."

Rebecca nodded.

"Are you sure I cannot convince you to take along a fellow agent?" Chatsworth asked quietly.

"I am sure," Rebecca replied. Her mood seemed somewhat lighter now. "However, I do thank you for your concern."

"I shall arrange for transportation for you. Report back here this afternoon. And Miss Fogg..."

Rebecca stood up, preparing to leave. "Yes, sir?"

"Do be careful. Please."

Rebecca smiled gratefully as she slipped out the door.

*****

Later that day, as the sun was beginning its descent towards the hazy horizon, Rebecca returned to Headquarters. She was met at the front by a carriage, the driver indicating that he was ordered to deliver her to her transport.

As she watched the streets of London slip by as she rode, a sense of familiarity swept over her. This route seemed...

No. No, she thought, Chatsworth wouldn't dare do this to her.

The carriage approached the airship Aurora, which sat placidly in the center of a lush green field, one of several of its landing areas in and around London. And then she saw, standing calmly in front of his beloved dirigible, her cousin, Phileas Fogg.

"Driver," Rebecca called out, hammering on the roof of the carriage. "Turn us around, right now!"

"Sorry, ma'am," came the reply. "I have me orders."

The carriage pulled up in front of the Aurora, and Rebecca climbed grumpily out. She stood before Phileas, the two of them silent as the driver carried Rebecca's minimal luggage onboard and then departed.

"Phileas," Rebecca said icily.

"Rebecca," Phileas replied evenly.

Rebecca brushed past her cousin and went aboard the airship. Phileas paused a moment, then spun neatly on his heel and followed her in. He watched her from the doorway for a time as she took her baggage to her cabin and then returned to the main room.

Folding her arms defiantly, she glowered at Phileas. "I suppose Sir Jonathan put you up to this."

"He did contact me, yes," Phileas admitted calmly, stepping forward to stand before her. "But once he explained the situation, I could not refuse." He paused, looking at her closely. "Rebecca, I had to watch one family member fall into the abyss. I am not about to let another do the very same thing."

She tried, she tried very hard not to let him sway her feelings. However, the mere fact that he had even mentioned the death of his brother Erasmus meant that Phileas was being entirely sincere in his concern. He was serious. And she knew he was right. Rebecca slumped her shoulders, heaving a great sigh.

"Thank you, Phileas," she said, brushing at a speck of dust or something which had worked its way into the corner of her eye. It certainly wasn't a tear, she tried to convince herself.

She was rewarded with a warm smile from Phileas.

Rebecca looked around. "Where is Passepartout?" she asked.

"I sent him to look after my apartments in the City," Phileas explained as he stepped up to the airship's main controls. "I decided they needed a very thorough cleaning, and who better than Passepartout?" He smiled at Rebecca. "I also thought it would do us some good to spend a bit of time together, just the two of us."

Giving him a quick hug, Rebecca said, "You sometimes amaze me, Phileas."

"Only sometimes?"

"Oh, shut up, Phileas."

They both laughed, and Rebecca felt a renewed sense of purpose swelling inside herself. Sir Jonathan could be an insufferable boor, but sometimes he knew exactly what he was doing.

"So," Phileas said. "Somewhere in the North Sea, I believe, hmmm?"

"Yes."

"Is there any chance we could narrow that down somewhat?"

*****

It was night as the Aurora approached Rebecca's drop-off point. The skies had turned cloudy, and a crackling thunderstorm was moving into the area.

Phileas surveyed the location as he steered his airship. He looked concerned as the lightning flashed nearby and the thunder rumbled. He took the Aurora lower, guiding it over the rolling waves.

"There," Rebecca said, pointing out the window, indicating a small collection of rocks. The Aurora's illumination lit up the little rocky island, and Phileas directed his craft to hover over it.

"Are you sure you will not need me?" Phileas asked as he locked off the controls.

"Yes," Rebecca replied, finalizing her preparations and checking her outfit. She brushed a stray piece of dirt off her skin-tight leather catsuit. "Meet me back here at this point in exactly twelve hours. I should have completed my mission by then. Unless it's finished for me."

"Rebecca..." Phileas said warningly.

"Sorry," she answered. Shoving her pistol into its holster, Rebecca stretched briefly, limbering herself up.

"I shall get the boat ready," Phileas said as he headed for the rear of the airship. "We are low enough, you should be able to step outside."

Rebecca moved to the door and opened it. She hopped down and landed on the rock island. She turned to look back at the Aurora, and watched as a small, wooden, one-person boat was lowered by ropes from the rear of the airship. Heading towards the boat, she clambered into it and swiftly released the ropes, which were quickly retracted into the craft. As she paddled away, she watched as Phileas appeared in the open doorway, waving at her. As she waved back, it began to rain. Large, fat droplets spattered the sea, the boat, and Rebecca herself.

Lightning flashed, and Phileas shut the door, A moment later, the Aurora began gliding away from her, Phileas no doubt in search of a safe port to ride out the oncoming storm. Soon, Rebecca was all alone in the sea, with only the lightning and her mini-lantern to light the way.

It was time. Rebecca consulted her compass, then oriented the boat in the proper direction and began to row. The winds kicked up, whipping the rain into her face, but Rebecca ignored it and pressed resolutely on.

She rowed for about an hour, heading northeast. As she took a brief break, rubbing her sore arms, she looked around herself in every direction. There was a very faint dot of light due north. Taking a deep breath, she turned her boat and began rowing in that direction, heading for the only other source of light for miles around.

The storm worsened as she approached her destination. The winds whipped and howled, the lightning flashed, and the thunder exploded. Pushing on through it all, Rebecca eventually moved close enough to the light to discover that it was a ship of some sort. Soon she was able to discern that it was the frigate she was looking for.

There was something wrong. Rebecca could sense it even before she reached the ship. The vessel was being buffeted and tossed about by the wind and the waves, directionless. It was not anchored, as she could see the large anchors still in their proper stations alongside the hull. What really gave her cause for concern, however, was the fact that not a single living soul was visible on deck.

Perhaps they were all below decks, Rebecca thought to herself, attempting to ride out the storm in relative safety. But even as she thought it, she knew that was not the case. An invisible fist grabbed her stomach, twisting and squeezing it. She knew what had happened.

There was nothing for it. She had come this far, she had to finish it. Not just the mission, but the entire Princess Wyssa affair.

Rebecca pulled her boat up alongside the hull of the large frigate, resting underneath one of the large anchors. She stood up, tying the moorline of her boat around the anchor, then pulled herself up and climbed. Peering over the side, Rebecca surveyed the scene on deck.

Watery crimson blood covered the wooden deckboards, flowing from the corpses that were littered across the ship. Rebecca estimated there were approximately thirty dead sailors, with various types of wounds. Some stab wounds, some missing limbs, some pistol wounds.

Her anger fueled now by sorrow, Rebecca hauled herself up, landing feet-first on the deck. She sloshed her way sadly through the blood and bodies, alert for any sign of Princess Wyssa. All was quiet for the moment, however, apart from the storm.

Was this how it was going to be from now on? Rebecca asked herself. Given a mission, only to arrive too late? The thought did not please her.

Another flash of lightning, and Rebecca's attention was caught by a quick glimpse of white out to sea to the east, perhaps a sail. It was too near the surface of the water to be the Aurora, and in completely the wrong direction, she thought. She hurried to the port rail, bringing out her spyglass and training it on the spot where she had seen the white. Lightning flashed again. It was definitely a ship. It appeared to be a smaller, swifter vessel than the frigate she was on. Was it Wyssa, fleeing the scene of the crime? As she watched the ship, she quickly realized that it was not heading away, it was coming straight at the frigate. Someone else, then, she thought. The plot she does thicken, Rebecca mused to herself.

"They're coming for me."

Rebecca spun around at the sound of Wyssa's voice, drawing her pistol and leveling it at the young girl. Wyssa and her companion, Mr. Bittertwitch, had just come from belowdecks.

"I expect they're from my father," Wyssa continued calmly despite the storm raging around them. She was clad in her black and scarlet catsuit, holding a dripping sword, while Mr. Bittertwitch was wearing his usual cape and purple waistcoat.

"You did this," Rebecca said accusingly.

"Yes, I did," Wyssa said proudly, grinning wickedly. "I did rather well, don't you think? There are a few more down below if you want to go look."

"Thank you, no," Rebecca responded, icy sarcasm lacing her voice.

"Well, it's your loss. There's some good stuff down there. This one man, I shot him in the back of his head as he was writing at his desk. I'm afraid his journal or whatever it was will never be the same, with all the bits of blood and--"

"Shut up!" Rebecca shouted. "I order you, in the name of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, to surrender yourself and accompany me back to England."

"I don't think so," Wyssa said brightly, walking over to one of the corpses. She poked it with her sword. "I'd have to be as dead as this poor fellow for me to accompany you anywhere." Looking up at Rebecca, she added, "Unless it was to interfere on another of your missions."

"I said be quiet," Rebecca repeated menacingly. "And you!" she shouted, looking quickly at Mr. Bittertwitch, who had been inching his way closer to Rebecca. "Do not move another step."

"What's the matter, Rebecca?" taunted Wyssa. "Feeling inadequate? Not sure of yourself? Doubting that you could take me into custody?"

"No."

"I think you are," Wyssa replied, leaning on her sword as it skewered itself into the corpse she had been prodding a moment earlier. "I think that's what this is aaaaaall about." She leered as she stretched out the word. "You're afraid that you're not as good as you thought you were. And all because a little slip of a girl keeps doing it so much better than you lately."

Rebecca laughed. "What I am troubled by is the fact that you have no sense of right and wrong, no sense of the precious value of life. To kill so many so callously... that is simply disgusting."

"Oh, who cares about these sailors anyway?" Wyssa shrugged. "They knew the risks when they joined up."

"Did those little children you killed in India know the risks?" Rebecca hissed furiously. "What did they ever do to deserve such a horrible fate?"

Wyssa frowned uncertainly. "What children?"

"At the railway station, where you destroyed the train," Rebecca explained impatiently. "There were little children playing innocently near the tracks. You killed them."

"Well, they shouldn't have been playing so close to such a dangerous area," Wyssa said dismissively. She looked up into the stormy night sky, opening her mouth and drinking in the raindrops.

The three of them were distracted by a loud thump against the frigate's hull. The approaching vessel had grappled on, and a dozen soldiers swarmed aboard.

The leader of the newcomers stepped towards Wyssa, holding out his sword. "Princess Wyssa," he declared imperiously. "You are hereby ordered, by the command of His Majesty King Karnavos of Prestavia, to surrender yourself and come with us."

"And if I refuse?" Wyssa asked.

The man stepped forward, lowering his voice somewhat. "My Lady, please do not do this. Come back with us, I beg of you."

"No." Wyssa smiled mockingly at the officer.

"My Lady, please!" he pleaded. "I am your friend, David Trineer, remember? Remember when we used to tease each other when I would visit your brother? That time when we shared a cold night in the upper ramparts of the outer watch tower of the castle? Come back to us, please, my Lady."

Rebecca suddenly recognized the officer. He had been one of the young men talking with Prince Durvin at his birthday reception.

Wyssa laughed. "You were always such a naive fool. You still are. I'm not going with you, David."

Trineer sighed, his shoulders slumping defeatedly. "Then I have my orders. I am authorized by King Karnavos to use any methods necessary to stop you. You have become an embarrassment to the Kingdom of Prestavia. To allow you to pursue your ridiculous notions would bring further scandal to the Kingdom. That cannot be countenanced."

The soldiers moved as one towards Wyssa, drawing their swords as they crossed between their quarry and Rebecca.

"Now, just a moment," Rebecca began to protest, dreading what was surely about to happen.

And it did indeed happen, almost in a flash. Trineer attacked first, and was swiftly beheaded by a giggling Wyssa, who then turned her attention to the rest of the soldiers.

Rebecca made a move to join in the fray, but was stopped by Mr. Bittertwitch, who cleared his throat meaningfully. She looked at him irritatedly. Then she noticed the pistol in his hand, which was pointed at her heart. She frowned and held herself back.

One by one, with a gleeful madness, Wyssa cut through the company of soldiers. Limbs rolled, screams were cut short, and blood spurted onto Wyssa, which she licked and lapped at hungrily. Jabbing her sword through the last remaining soldier, Wyssa laughed triumphantly. She kicked the dead man off of her sword. "Poor Dukovny, he had such a crush on me." Her eyes glittering with the lightning, Wyssa licked the blood from her blade. "Now it's just the two of us, Rebecca," she taunted. "Put your gun away, Mr. Bittertwitch, this no longer concerns you."

Mr. Bittertwitch sighed, rolling his eyes as he holstered his pistol. "As you wish, m'lady." He moved off, watching the two women from a short distance away.

"You are utterly and completely insane," Rebecca said to Wyssa.

"Says you," Wyssa pouted. Suddenly she rushed over to one of the frigate's masts. Turning back to Rebecca, she called out, "Come and catch the insane little girl, if you can! Mr. Bittertwitch, shoot her if she tries to escape."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, girl," Mr. Bittertwitch groused under his breath, but just loud enough for Rebecca to hear, "make up your mind." He pulled out his pistol and once again trained it on Rebecca.

"And, Rebecca," Wyssa said as she began to climb the wooden mast, "leave your pistol behind. Only swords are allowed up here for our duel." She cackled as she scrambled up the mast and climbed out onto the top rigging of one of the sails. Lightning flashed around her as she spread her arms wide, once more drinking in the cold rain. "Come on up, Rebecca, the water's fine!"

"I'm afraid you have to go along with her, Miss Fogg," Mr. Bittertwitch said, not unkindly. "Otherwise..." He gestured with his pistol meaningfully.

Rebecca threw down her pistol and sloshed her way through the bloodies corpses to the mast. As she began to climb, the ship was suddenly tossed violently to starboard by a powerful wave. Mr. Bittertwitch stood his ground, Rebecca clung desperately to the mast, and Wyssa balanced precariously on the rigging, laughing as if daring gravity to bring her down. The ship rolled back, the waves less violent for now.

Eventually, Rebecca pulled herself up onto the rigging on which Wyssa was hopping anxiously.

"Finally!" Wyssa said. "That took you forever. No wonder I keep beating you at everything."

"That is quite enough of that, you spoiled little girl," Rebecca hissed, wiping her wet red hair out of her face.

Wyssa swished her sword at Rebecca, who grudgingly drew her own weapon. Their steel blades clashed, in time with a flash of lighting and a crack of rumbling thunder.

"That was a rather neat touch," Wyssa remarked, giggling. She pressed her attack upon Rebecca, driving the British agent back. Wyssa's precise, accurate, yet decidedly vicious sword swipes clanged against Rebecca's defensive moves, and occasionally sliced gashes in the sail they fought in front of.

The two women attacked and defended, dodged and parried, thrust and slashed for quite some time. All the while, Mr. Bittertwitch watched placidly from below. The frigate was tossed violently by the wind and the waves, yet the two women fought on.

Suddenly the ship listed to port, and Wyssa leapt at Rebecca, thrusting her sword into the woman's shoulder. Wyssa applied pressure, and Rebecca fell back, barely keeping her balance on the beam.

"You know, I probably shouldn't kill you," Wyssa snarled as she twisted her blade in Rebecca's wound. "Otherwise I would lose my promising and lucrative career in espionage. But..." She leered down at Rebecca.

That was enough, Rebecca thought grimly. She had mainly tried to remain on the defensive throughout the duel, unwilling to take advantage of the clearly demented girl. Now, however, her own life was at risk. Rebecca kicked out savagely with her booted feet, catching Wyssa in the shins.

Wyssa slipped on the wet rigging, losing her balance completely. Her wild eyes flared at Rebecca as she fell, her chin smashing against the wooden beam on her way down. She landed hard on the deck, her right leg twisted behind her in an awkward position. She screamed in pain as she breathed raggedly between sobs.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" Wyssa cried out, her broken jaw spurting blood. Mr. Bittertwitch approached her cautiously.

Rebecca moved her tired, hurt body carefully, starting the slow, painful climb back down to the deck.

"Are you hurt?" Mr. Bittertwitch asked Wyssa quietly as he leaned over her.

"Yes, you idiot!" Wyssa shouted back.

"Good."

Wyssa caught her breath at his response, and even Rebecca paused in her climb.

"Wh-what?" Wyssa squeaked.

"I've had enough of you, you pathetic, whining, spoiled little girl," Mr. Bittertwitch snarled as he bent down to pick up her dropped sword. "Have you any idea how difficult it has been to look after you all these years? Were it not for the life debt I owed your father, I would have been gone a long time ago."

By now, Rebecca had reached the deck, and she stood watching the scene from a short distance. If not for the terrible deeds that the young girl had perpetrated, the frightened look on her face as her former guardian loomed over her might almost have elicited sympathy from Rebecca. But it didn't.

"You have no idea how much shame you would bring to our kingdom if you were to continue, do you?" Mr. Bittertwitch continued evenly. "How much trouble your stupid little quests would stir up between our kingdom and the rest of the world? Do you? No, of course you don't."

Wyssa's lower lip trembled as she struggled to lift an arm in a feeble attempt to ward off the sword Mr. Bittertwitch was lowering towards her. "P-please, Mr. Bittertwitch," she pleaded. "You c-can't do this..."

"On the contrary," Mr. Bittertwitch replied icily, slipping the cold blade into her chest, "I'm getting quite a bit of enjoyment from this."

Wyssa gasped, tears on her face mixing with the raindrops as Mr. Bittertwitch shoved the sword through her, its blade striking the wooden deck underneath the girl. With a few final pathetic twitches, Wyssa hissed and squealed, and then was still and silent, her dead eyes staring up at Mr. Bittertwitch.

Releasing the sword, which kept Wyssa's body pinned to the deck, the man turned to Rebecca. "I am truly sorry for everything, Miss Fogg."

"Why?" Rebecca asked. "Why did she do this?"

"I never found out for sure," Mr. Bittertwitch replied sadly as he surveyed the scene, taking in the dozens of corpses, the rivers of blood. "Perhaps it was something to do with her mother."

"The Queen?"

"No, not the Queen," Mr. Bittertwitch said. "The Queen was not her mother, although the King was indeed her father."

"What?" gasped Rebecca.

"I did not know her mother. What little I do know is from what Wyssa happened to mention from time to time. Apparently her real mother was English, and was the result of one of the King's state visits to England. Apart from that, and the fact that her mother died giving birth to her, I know nothing further."

Rebecca pondered this for a moment before responding. "What will you do now?"

"Well, clearly I can never return to Prestavia, not after I have killed their princess."

"They don't know what happened out here," Rebecca suggested.

"They will know. However, my duty to my King and my Kingdom will never die. I understand you were sent to destroy this vessel?"

"Yes."

"That was her objective her as well. I suggest we pool our resources and our explosives, and destroy this ship and the legacy of what happened here forever."

"Agreed."

Together, the two collected all of their explosives and planted them in strategic positions throughout the frigate. They met back up on deck once everything was set.

"Only a few minutes before they go off," Rebecca said.

"Time we were off, then," Mr. Bittertwitch replied, nodding.

"Where will you go?"

Mr. Bittertwitch took a deep, hopeful breath. "Somewhere safe, fun, and relaxing, I should think."

Rebecca smiled. "I wish you the best of luck."

"And to you as well," Mr. Bittertwitch replied. The pair shook hands, then headed for their escape vessels, Rebecca to her small boat, Mr. Bittertwitch to the Prestavian vessel which had grappled onto the frigate. They moved away from the large vessel as fast as they could. Rebecca lost sight of Mr. Bittertwitch as his craft was soon obscured by the darkness and the blinding sheets of rain.

The Spanish frigate exploded into a thousand suns, the cargo igniting and setting off further spectacular blasts. Rebecca shaded her eyes as she sadly watched the burning, broken ship sink below the surface of the sea. Perhaps now, she thought, it was finally over, and she could get on with her life.

As Rebecca rowed for the small rocky island, she noticed that the rain was lessening. By the time she pulled her boat up onto the rocks to wait for Phileas to return, the rain had stopped completely.

Well, now, Rebecca thought, that had to be a good sign.

Another happy sight was the Aurora, as it drifted into view a short while later.

"You're early!" Rebecca called as Phileas opened the door for her.

"I saw an explosion," Phileas said by way of explanation. "And besides, it has stopped raining."

"It has indeed," Rebecca murmured as she headed for her cabin and a long, long sleep.

*****

Upon their return to London, there was a message for Rebecca. She was to report to Sir Jonathan at Headquarters immediately. Hurrying to arrive as quick as she could, she did not even take time to unpack.

Rebecca ran up the stone steps of the Headquarters building and headed for Sir Jonathan's office. As she approached, she noticed that his assistant, Agent Kingston, was not at her desk. Rebecca knocked on the door and went inside upon hearing Chatsworth's gruff response from within.

Inside, she found a distraught-looking Chatsworth seated behind his desk. He looked as if he hadn't slept for quite some time.

"Sir?" Rebecca said, the concern plain in the tone of her voice.

"We've found our mole," Chatsworth's hoarse, haunted voice answered. He was staring across the room at nothing in particular.

A nasty suspicion formed in the back of her mind that Rebecca desperately hoped was untrue. Tentatively she asked, "Where is Agent Kingston?"

Chatsworth appeared not to hear her. "Under our very noses the entire time," he said. Then he shook himself and looked at Rebecca. "Ah, Miss Fogg. Thank you for coming so quickly." He stood up and led her to the door. "I shall take you to our mole. Give me your report on the way."

As the two headed down to the holding cells, Rebecca told Chatsworth everything about her mission, and its sad, tragic conclusion. Chatsworth was mostly silent during her report, only now and then chiming in with a "Hmmm" or an "I see".

They made their way along the corridor of holding cells, and stopped before the last one on the right. The guard outside saluted, then unlocked the door, pushing it open for Sir Jonathan and Rebecca.

Rebecca stepped cautiously into the cell, to find old Edmund Samuels seated sadly at the small table in the center of the room.

"Oh, no," Rebecca breathed, tearing up. "Edmund."

The old man, who had dozed off, lifted his head at the sound of her voice. "Eh, what? Visitors?" He peered at her. "Why, it's Miss Fogg. Oh, no. Oh, crumbs." He hung his head. "I had hoped you would not see me in my shame, Miss Fogg."

Rebecca rushed to his side, kneeling beside him and looking up at him sadly. "Why?" she said. "Why, Edmund?"

Edmund sighed, and ended up coughing harshly. "Oh, dear," he said hoarsely. "And I thought the Records room was bad for me."

"Edmund," Rebecca repeated.

"She was my grand-daughter, Miss Fogg."

That statement just about knocked Rebecca onto her backside. Instead, she stood up, not quite able to take it in. "What?" she asked, hoping she had misheard.

"Princess Wyssa is my grand-daughter," Samuels explained patiently. "The daughter of my daughter Katrina."

"But how... why?" Rebecca persisted.

"Well, my dear, let me tell you the story. Please, have a seat. Now, you recall my beautiful daughter Katrina? Oh, that's right, you never had the chance to meet her, did you? No. Well, that is because she died quite some time ago. About fifteen years ago, actually. You see, Miss Fogg, Katrina died giving birth to Wyssa.

"Katrina was on the serving staff at Buckingham Palace then. She loved her work, serving the beacons of English and foreign high society. And she was good at her work, too, always ready with the proper selection of drinks whenever it was needed, and so forth. One day, there was a grand reception for the King of Prestavia. He was a handsome, powerful man, and Katrina was drawn to him immediately. And the King was also quite taken by the beautiful young serving woman.

"Later on that evening, as the reception was winding down, the King and Katrina found a disused room and... Well..." He blushed.

"I understand," Rebecca said reassuringly. "Go on."

"Well," Samuels continued, "the King never returned to England after that. And Katrina, after discovering she was with child, couldn't very well claim that a foreign monarch had fathered that child. So she carried it in solitude. She couldn't even confide in me until it was rather obvious she was with child. She felt so ashamed. And, as I have said, she died giving birth to a little girl. I took the child into my care, until about a week later, when some men arrived. They carried important-looking papers from King Karnavos. He had learned about the death of Katrina and the birth of the girl.

"Karnavos was kind enough to send his condolences to me for my loss, and he promised to keep me informed on the growth of my grand-daughter. The girl was taken to Prestavia, where her appearance was met with surprise and joy in most quarters. However, the King's wife, Queen Maleva, was not thrilled with the situation, no, not at all. So disgusted was she that she threw herself from a window in the castle and killed herself. Well, King Karnavos was devastated. He grieved for quite some time. Eventually, no one spoke of the girl's illegitimacy, and life returned to something resembling normality.

"The King named the child Wyssa, after a beautiful waterfall where he and the Queen had spent many happy times. And as the years rolled on, the King very kindly kept me up to date on Wyssa's life, her first words, her first steps, just about everything. Once she was old enough, the King allowed her to write to me directly, having told her the truth about her origins.

"As she grew, I discerned in her letters an insatiable curiosity, an almost tireless pursuit of new things. She was always writing to me about her latest adventures, a new royal barge, a trip to Russia, and so forth. She was so excited about how she was able to persuade the King's best men to train her in such things as fencing, horseback riding, firearms, and... what is the word? Acrobatics? Something like that, yes.

"She also told me stories of how she discovered and indulged in new herbs, spices, and beverages on her journeys around the world. It wasn't until much later that I fully comprehended what she was doing. She was experimenting with illicit substances, and enjoying the tremendous highs they gave her. But this I did not realize until it was far, far too late.

"Eventually, during the course of our correspondence, I told her where I worked, what I did for a living down in the Records department here. I didn't receive a letter back from her for quite some time after that. After about three months had passed, she wrote to me again. And she asked me something which I dearly wished I could have refused her. But I could not deny the only child of my only child. Especially when she threatened to break off all contact with me if I refused.

"So, after much painful deliberation, I decided to send Wyssa one of your missions, Rebecca. It was a fairly simple mission, to steal some documents from a French official. I sent her your mission, but unfortunately, she failed. You got there first, and completed your task successfully. Wyssa was very upset, and demanded another mission. Without thinking, I automatically sent her the next one on your docket. I had assumed that since she was a girl, and you were a woman, that she would have more success completing yours than if I had sent her a man's. I had assumed yours were relatively easy. What a terrible, terrible mistake I made.

"It wasn't until she wrote to me after her success on that mission that I realized what I had done. She had killed a human being, and to my horror, she had enjoyed it. But to my shame, I kept sending her missions.

"She was ashamed of what her mother had been, you see. She did not wish to stay in place, be a good little girl, and let powerful men have their way with her, like the King had with her mother. Wyssa wanted to be the one with the power. And she felt that this was the way she wanted to do that. She couldn't see that as a princess, albeit a secretly illegitimate one, she would soon grow into that power. She was too impatient, too impetuous.

"Oh, Miss Fogg!" Samuels pleaded. "Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me for what I have done?"

Rebecca prevaricated, instead bringing up another, even more difficult subject. "Edmund, I feel I must tell you," she said sadly. "I'm afraid that Wyssa... met with an accident on the latest mission. She... she fell, and... Well, she didn't make it. I'm sorry."

"No," Edmund breathed. "No, oh, God, no!" He broke down and wept, tears streaming down his face.

Rebecca stood up, then led Chatsworth out of the cell and into the corridor. "Don't," she warned. "Whatever you are planning to do with him, don't."

"Miss Fogg--" Chatsworth began to protest.

"I don't care what you have planned for that man, trial, court-martial, whatever. You cannot proceed with it. Whatever punishment you have for him will pale in insignificance to the punishment he is now and will be putting himself through. For heaven's sake, the man lost his daughter, and now he has contributed to the death of his only grand-daughter. Don't you feel that is punishment enough?"

Chatsworth looked as though he were about to persist in his protestations. Then he looked deep into Rebecca's determined eyes, and he sighed heavily. "Very well," he said. "But he is no longer an employee of Her Majesty's government, is that understood?"

Rebecca nodded. "Thank you, sir," she said.

"I'll have Miss Kingston draft the dismissal papers upon her return tomorrow," Chatsworth said. "She was ever so distraught upon learning Samuels was the culprit, the poor woman. I had no choice but to send her home for the day." He shook his head sadly.

Rebecca turned, and walked slowly back into the cell, approaching Edmund, who had stopped sobbing and was now staring silently ahead of him.

"Edmund," she said softly, reaching out to gently touch his shoulder. There was no response. Edmund's blank eyes did not blink. "Edmund?" she repeated.

Rebecca leaned forward, looking closely at Edmund. He was not breathing. A single tear had formed in the corner of his left eye. As Rebecca closed her own eyes and grieved silently, the tear rolled slowly down the old man's cheek.

"Godspeed, Edmund Samuels," Chatsworth said sadly, brushing away a tear of his own. "Godspeed."

THE END