"Don't be a fool," Erik said. His voice was completely Christophe's: icy and full of death. He'd not moved; he still stood to my right. But I was closer to Mara – I could try and rush her – if I was lucky, I might wrest the revolver from her in time. "Put the revolver down, Mara."

Mara advanced, the revolver steady in her hands. "Close, but not good enough. Where is your identification?"

Erik drew his lips back in a sneer. I could hear it in his voice. "You know I don't carry such things with me."

"Liar," she hissed. "Dante, search him. See if he's telling the truth. He'll have something."

I heard Dante move towards us, his shoes surprisingly loud on the leaves, swish, swish, swish. Two footsteps, three. I turned my head, very aware of the revolver Mara still held. Dante had reached Erik, and was reaching out to pat at his back, one hand extended.

Erik didn't even let Dante touch him. He whirled, and the other man stepped back just in time, his face contorting in shock.

I gaped. No – the revolver – what was he doing? - and closed my eyes, unable to look.

"No!" Mara screamed. "Dante – you idiota!"

I opened my eyes, hardly daring to breathe.

Erik had caught Dante in a chokehold, his arms locked around the other man's neck, forcing him to his knees. I could see the strain around his eyes and mouth, the seething tension in his shoulders. He wouldn't be able to hold him much longer, not with his injury.

Dante threw his head back, the muscles in his neck convulsing. Mara raised the revolver and aimed at Erik's forehead.

I had to do something. I raced straight for her, shouting incoherently, "Help me! He kidnapped me! He's dangerous!"

Mara froze, confused by my sudden madness, the revolver dropping to point at the ground. I flung myself into her. My feet found her slim ankles, twisted around them until she toppled; one of my hands caught her shoulder and pressed it into the soft leaves. My right hand grasped the barrel of her revolver, pulling at it, tugging in desperation. The metal was cold and immovable. Her hand was as strong as coiled wire.

She squirmed, trying to get up, and dug her fingernails into my face. I gritted my teeth as I felt the skin under my cheekbone part. For a moment the world swam in useless struggle, spinning only around the two of us; my very skull ached. Then I shifted: the top of my head met her chin with a crack. She let go.

With a grunt, I pulled myself upright, everything swaying around me. The trees teetered; the ground lurched. I closed my eyes, opened them, pulled a few deep breaths against the ache in my side. I could feel blood sliding into my hair. Mine or Mara's, I couldn't tell.

The revolver was warm in my hand.

Oh, my head hurt.

I sat down abruptly on the damp leaves, my legs folding beneath me like broken twigs.

For a few seconds the forest remained silent, as silent as it had been when I'd untangled myself from Mara.

Then something slammed into the side of my head: thick and heavy - a branch? - and sound erupted around me. Screams. Shouting.

"Don't you touch her, you –"

"Back away! Back up. Back up now."

Mara had the revolver; and this was the last thing I knew before I fell forward into the leaves. Half of my face was damp with muddy droplets, the other half was turned to the blazing sun. Above me was a dim scuffle: footsteps, protestations, fading threats. Mara and Erik arguing, and Mara had the revolver.

Mara had the revolver.

Mara had the...

Surprisingly, I woke in a dry and relatively clean environment.

I was sitting in a deep, heavily cushioned chair, my feet flat on a dry wooden floor. My hair was pulled back from my face, fashioned in a loose braid; something I'd found out when I reached up to find the bruise on my head.

Something creaked, and then I opened my eyes into Mara's unconcerned stare.

"The man you've been traveling with, he's Christophe?" she demanded.

I blinked up at her, unsure if I'd heard her right, then nodded dumbly, widening my eyes. Perhaps she still thought I was his prisoner. Where was he?

I could ask that, so I did.

There was dried blood at the corner of Mara's mouth from where she'd bit her tongue. And from when I'd smacked her chin, I presumed. She stepped away from me (she'd been bending over the chair, her hands on the arms), and tapped a finger against her chin, where a large mottled bruise had formed, all purples and blues.

"You're worried about him?"

"No," I said, and was glad to hear that my voice was sure. "What do you want from me?"

She looked down at me, dappled sunlight sliding across her hair. There was something official, professional in her steady gaze. "Answers."

I shook my head, and winced for dramatic effect. Perhaps she'd think there was more wrong with me than a headache. "I don't – don't know what you mean."

For a moment I thought she was buying it: her eyes had become distant, as if she wasn't really listening. I glanced around the room: clean wooden walls, varnished floor, one closed window, and a single door, also closed and latched. It seemed to be late afternoon. Birdsong drifted in through the window, and the light that brushed Mara's gown was bright amber.

"Do you take me for an idiot?" she said.

I snapped my eyes to her face. She clasped her hands in front of her in the same manner she'd affected earlier, but now I saw that it was a customary pose, something she did to calm herself down. It looked as though she was holding herself away from me; it looked as though it was a stance she'd worked at.

"I know the man you are traveling with is not Christophe Janvier. Do you know how I know this?"

I stared wordlessly at her. She could be bluffing.

Mara rolled her eyes in a distinctively Italian fashion. "I am not a fool, girl. I know he is not Christophe, and that he knows you very well. I know how a man looks when he is in love."

"How do you know he's not who he says he is?" I said, grasping at straws.

She sighed deeply, pressed a hand to her lips. Then she went to the door, her feet rapping briskly across the wood, and threw it open. "Come in, whoever you are. Come in. Yes. Get up." She gestured into the hallway; I heard someone moving, then a low voice – Dante. Mara moved away from the door, folding her hands before her.

Erik came in, followed immediately by a stooped and bruised Dante. He pointed his revolver at Erik's back, directly between his shoulderblades.

I frowned, glancing around, but I couldn't see the other one. Where was Mara's revolver?

"It's mine," Mara said, seeing my confusion. "The revolver he's holding is mine. His is false."

"You know how I hate the noise," Dante said, his tone conversational.

Mara ignored him; her eyes were flitting over Erik.

"This is idiotic," he said to her. "There is no reason for such charades. You know who I am; you know who she is, and you should let me do my work."

"Your work is finished," Mara replied.

"I've told you - " He paused to regain his temper, working his jaw. "My instructions have changed. Mademoiselle Dubois is still in my care, not yours."

I didn't know what he was talking about, but I felt it was best to remain silent. I focused on looking sullen and afraid: for some reason, this was not difficult.

Erik stood calmly near the window, watching Mara, his mouth a flat line. His hands were loose at his sides. He had no visible bruises or wounds. When I was certain neither Dante nor Mara could see, I nodded slightly at him, telegraphing my well being. I felt better than I had before I'd collapsed in the clearing.

Mara sighed, then took a step towards Erik, careful to stay out of the revolver's range. Then she fished a handkerchief out of her pocket, reached out, and drew it swiftly down Erik's cheek.

He'd moved too slowly to avoid it, trapped between the wall and the revolver's sight, unwilling to hurt a woman. I saw the panic rise and fall in his eyes as the pale cloth descended. When Mara stepped away from him, I found myself on my feet, almost panting for air, my lungs tight. She'd swept the makeup from his face, and his scars lay clear and white on his face.

Dante barked a sudden laugh: relief, I thought. Perhaps they had been more worried and less knowledgeable about Erik than we'd thought. I dug my nails into my palms. What would we do now? How to get rid of the gun?

Erik said nothing, only looked back to Mara, who was examining her makeup-stained handkerchief with a knowing air.

"Calm down," she said, without looking up. "Both of you. Dante, I think this is better – don't you?"

"Yes," Dante replied. He lowered the revolver, glanced at me. "Look, we don't –"

My fiancé snatched the revolver from his hand, snapped the back open, and emptied the bullets into his palm. Then he threw them out of the window. The revolver went into his pocket.

We all stood still for a moment, staring at him.

Then something like a smile flashed across Dante's face, and he straightened to his full height, wincing at the pull of sore muscles.

"Well," he said, slowly, his tone light, "I had not really planned on using it, anyway."

"True," Erik said, meeting the other man's gaze. "Or you would have held it correctly. Now, if that's all, I think we'll go." He looked imposingly at Dante, then Mara.

She was already raising a hand to stop him; she glanced hurriedly to me. "Irene, we're Italian police, Carabinieri. Christophe Janvier, as per our agreement with the French police, was supposed to bring you to us. We need you for our investigation."

She'd drawn her identification from her pocket; Dante was doing the same.

But I was already moving towards the door, Erik at my heels. "No, thank you. And can I say, I don't believe you? Since when do the Italian police chase after kidnapped women and threaten them? Since when do they try to shoot them?"

Her voice rose. "We need your help! We're trying to find a child!"

I couldn't say no to that. I stopped in the doorway, half-furious, half-sympathetic; Erik ran into me, grunting in mingled pain and annoyance.

I'd forgotten about Stella. Damn.

"Did I mention she's been missing for nearly a month?" Mara said, her tone cajoling.

"Oh, God," Erik said, over my head. "Irene?"

I turned around, and Erik moved quickly out of my way: perhaps he'd seen the look on my face. Mara and Dante looked at me, their profiles inscribed in the orange afternoon light, two pairs of eyes glinting in either hope or dismay. I couldn't quite tell which. I didn't think it mattered.

I looked at them, wondering what I was getting myself and Erik into.

"Tell us everything. And do it quickly. We would really like to get home sometime."

I meant it, too: I was growing quite sick of Italy, wily detectives, and missing children.

Mara didn't smile, but her triumph was plain enough. She looked me up and down, then shook her head. "First, we eat. But before that, I'll find you a new gown. You must be very sick of that one."

At last, we were in agreement.

We ate dinner out on the terrace. Yes, we were in the lake house, and it was actually quite lovely. The cottage, shaded by trees, stood two stories high. Inside was a winding staircase; airy, bright rooms, and a general sense of calm. Outside the terrace stretched to the lake's edge, curving in a half-circle back to the house; the sun was setting slowly overhead, painting the water and grass in shades of gold-red.

Dante had rummaged through the pantry and found a bottle of wine, some Gouda cheese, a pear tart, and fresh bread. Apparently the caretakers of the house stopped by twice a week to restock and scrub the floors.

For once, I was clean, full, and dressed in relatively nice clothing. The gown Mara had found for me was a fine light purple, made from lacy lawn with tiny swirls of pale flowers scattered over the bodice and skirt. I'd washed my face and hands, swept my hair up off my neck, and cleaned my teeth. Erik and I had been given the upstairs rooms (I fancied Mara and Dante wanted to make sure we didn't sneak out the front door at night), and the washing facilities there were more than ample.

Erik was much calmer than I'd seen him all week. He lounged in his basket chair, his long legs extended towards the lapping water of the lake, one hand propped under his chin. His plate lay empty on the table, dotted here and there with crumbs. I sat back in my own chair, savoring the feel of cool air on my face and the soft warmth of a silk blanket over my lap. The lake house had every amenity.

Gingerly, I lifted the last of the pear tart to my lips. I chewed, closed my eyes in bliss, and swallowed.

Dante and Mara watched us warily. Their plates lay on the table, hardly touched.

"It's very nice here," I said, brushing crumbs contentedly from my fingers. A small cloud of flies had gathered near the middle of the lake, flickering like tiny lights in the dimming sunlight. Past them the trees stood tall and serene, their branches deep with shade.

Erik sighed. I glanced sideways at him. He quirked one side of his mouth down.

I acceded. It seemed it was time for us to find out more about Stella.

"You'll be telling us about the case now, I think."

Mara looked up at my tone of command, her eyes narrowing. "Will we?"

"Yes," Erik said, and swiveled around in his chair to face the two of them. "We've agreed to help you. You'll share your information with us."

Dante shoved his chair back from the table with an impressive scraping noise, and stood. I watched him with trepidation: what did he intend to do? Thank God Erik had taken the gun away.

Then he stalked into the house, and I relaxed back into my chair, releasing my grip on the wood. Mara smiled briefly after his retreating figure, her eyes crinkling with amusement. She glanced at me, then Erik.

"He's getting the case file for you," she said. "You should be happy. Dante doesn't make friends easily."

"What – we're friends now?" I demanded. "You must be joking. He's not friendly at all. "

She shrugged. "He's not friendly in that way. You will understand eventually." She smiled again, and looked down at her truly awful wedding ring. I followed her gaze, saw the flash of memories in her eyes, the happiness in her expression, and realized something. It wasn't simple camaraderie or familiarity between the two of them. It was something more. Deeper.

"You are married to him?"

"What?" Erik said. He looked from me to Mara, confused. "But you work with him – and I thought –"

"Wrong," said Mara. "You are wrong. Yes, Irene, I am married to Dante. I met him before I began my work with the Carabinieri, when he was still working as a regular detective there. He was the one who convinced the captain to let me work undercover." She gave Erik an ironic look. "You, of course, would think I gained my place there by other means –"

Erik blinked at her, too kind or too flabbergasted to say anything in response. If he denied it, she'd accuse him of being too vehement, and he had no reason to assume she'd ascended to police work by so-called 'other means.'

"You don't even know him," I snapped, cutting into the conversation. "Keep your speculations to yourself. Where is Dante? Is the file so carefully hidden?"

Mara's shoulders relaxed, now that we were off the topic of her job, and looked towards the house. "No, I can hear him coming back. See, there's the staircase."

Even I, not blessed with Erik's hearing or attuned to the sounds of the lake house, could hear the wooden stairs shifting and groaning with the noise of Dante's passage. He came out into the fading sunlight of the terrace a moment later, carrying a thick folder.

He sat down at the table, flipped it open, handed me a sketch of the missing children, and began talking.

I would not have guessed it if I'd passed him in the street, but Dante was a wonderful speaker. There was something of the dramatic flair in him, but without the need for lengthy exposition. He threw out sharp phrases, gesturing occasionally for added emphasis, slicing into the heart of what he wanted us to understand.

There was really nothing more we learned; the facts of the case were only reinforced. Stella and Pietro had been missing for twenty-three days, and in that time, several new pieces similar to his had appeared on the market.

One was an impression of Woman with a Veil, the other three were originals, exhibited Pietro's touch: a playfulness with chiaroscuro that gave his paintings a brilliant sort of liveliness. The Carabinieri had been tracking these pieces and their buyers (even buying one themselves, in order to question the dealer who sold it), but nothing had come of it.

The dealer had said he'd received the paintings from a plain-looking man: nondescript, dark-haired, Italian, boring. He looked like anyone else in Venice, and he had not given his name or his address. The dealer didn't care or didn't want to know about the kidnapping: he'd received a lovely painting for a good price, a painting which only vaguely resembled Pietro Crocetti's distinctive style. Why did it matter to him that the boy and sister were missing? He didn't want to get in trouble with anyone. He just wanted to keep his business running.

Dante finished speaking. I sighed, feeling rather depressed. The sun had nearly set behind the trees, sending shafts of dying light across the lake, and it was growing cold on the terrace.

Well, I had questions. "So why do you think the Inspector's behind this?" I began. "And what do you need me for?"

Erik uncrossed his arms and drew a deep breath, apparently preparing for an argument. He was still averse to my determination to go to Venice. Mara shuffled the papers back into the file, looking carefully at me from the corners of her eyes. It was Dante who answered.

"We don't know who's behind the kidnapping," he said, knocking out his pipe against the table. "We do not even know if either of the Crocetti's are still alive. But we do know that the Inspector – or someone very like the Inspector – was sighted in Venice a few days before Pietro and his sister were taken. In fact, he was seen by Pietro's apartment. And we have –"

Mara suddenly raised a hand to pat at her hair, and he trailed off. "We have reasonable suspicion to believe it's him."

"Don't lie to us," Erik said. His voice was cool. "Explain the reasoning behind your suspicions. You must have something valid, or you wouldn't have deigned to work with the Parisian police."

Dante, clearing his throat unhappily, looked to Mara.

She fixed him with a glare. "And this is why I do the talking."

"Explain," I said, tucking my hands more securely into my blanket. "What do you have?"

Mara turned back to us, her brows drawn together, and reached for my plate. I let her have it; she stacked it and Erik's on top of the others on the table.

"We," she said, "are in possession of a note. A ransom note, to be exact. We thought it best not to tell you –" here she glanced pointedly at Erik " – for fear of overreaction, but since Dante –" a fierce glance at him, now "– has decided it is best to enlighten you, I shall tell you about it."

She leaned back in her chair, smoothing her skirts. "The note asks for one Irene Dubois' presence in the Piazza San Marco on August 3rd, along with her new fiancé, Erik, also known as the Phantom."

So that was how Officer Fabre had known about Erik and I; the ransom note had told him. Mara continued, ignoring Erik's fierce stare: "If you and Erik come to the Piazza at ten in the morning, the writer promises to release Stella. We will, of course, have Carabinieri stationed in the Piazza, watching the entire exchange. We will regain the girl without the two of you being harmed in any way." She paused. "If you wish to do it, we have two days to prepare you."

It was August 1st. We didn't have much time. I broke in before Erik could speak, as his hands had tightened menacingly on the fragile wood of his chair. "We will think about it. Thank you for your explanations."

"Do you have the note?" Erik asked sharply.

Mara shook her head, somewhat calmer than she'd been.

"No, it is back in Venice. Our handwriting analysts are still going over it. The last I heard, it was definitely a man's writing, a conceited, educated, older man. He is slightly overweight; he was raised in France, and then he spent some time in the Italian countryside. Recently, he was badly injured. We suspect some sort of heavy scarring along his left side."

"Thank you," I said, mulling this over. Heavy scarring; older man; conceited. Not the Inspector, then. I still doubted he was even alive. It had to be his second-in-command, someone who had known Erik and I, someone who had known the secret of my identity. Someone like Nicolas – but it couldn't be.

Both Mara and Dante had risen from their chairs, having recognized the dismissal in my voice, and were carrying the plates and papers back into the house. The door swung shut behind them - and the sound of their beginning argument. Mara's voice was the loudest; I suspected Dante hadn't meant to let the information about the note slip; that he had been stupid. But it was better for us to have every detail. I wasn't worried about their relationship. At least they hadn't been stranded in Italy, with enemies pursuing them from every direction.

Erik turned to me, still tense, his face strained. His dyed hair curled over the collar of his borrowed shirt and around his earlobes.

"I think you need a haircut," I said, at the same moment he said, "I don't think this is a good idea."

"Which? The haircut or the exchange?"

Erik almost smiled. "The exchange, of course." He rubbed his chin, and looked pensively out over the lake. "There are measures we can take to prevent our own kidnapping – or harm – but they will be difficult to perform in a crowded area like the Piazza. And of course the kidnappers could simply drive away with Stella, if they thought their plan was in jeopardy."

I got up. "Keep thinking about it, dear. I'm going to get a pair of scissors and some candles."

When I returned, carrying a candelabra and thick scissors (the only ones Mara had), Erik was standing at the water's edge, his hands in his pockets, his face turned up to the sky. I set the candelabra down on the table, mindful of the hot wax, and walked across the terrace to him, still holding the scissors.

"How's your shoulder?" I said.

Erik jumped. "Irene. You startled me." He turned and looked down at me, his eyes dark in the twilight; he smiled at the scissors. "It's alright. You can look at it later, if you still wish to."

"I do," I said firmly. "Go sit down. Your hair is really quite bad."

He walked past me, his gait almost normal – perhaps his shoulder was almost healed – and sat down with his back to me. I went to stand behind him, running my fingers through his hair. Goodness, it was long. How had I not noticed it before?

"You cut my hair last year," he said.

I smiled at the memory. It had been just after our first run-in with the Inspector, after I'd learned Erik's new name, and when he'd begun to tell me some of his past. He'd been seated at the kitchen table in his underground home, trying to convince me that he looked more attractive with his hair longer, that it somehow enhanced his roguish appearance. I'd laughed at him. Such a silly man: of course he looked better when his hair was short and neat.

"That was when you told me about your mother," I said, measuring his hair with my fingers. "You said she used to cut your hair when you were small."

"Before the gypsies came," he agreed. "After that – well, there were not so many haircuts, then."

I fell silent, sorry for having reminded him of the Circusmaster, and began to snip away at his fine thick hair. It fell in pale blond curls around my feet and onto his shoulders, ashy trails against the white fabric.

Erik looked steadfastly at the side of the house, unmoving. I thought he was remembering some of the more sordid details from his past.

His voice surprised me. "I know you don't mean to bring up painful subjects, Irene. I am much happier now, with you. Much happier. Anything you ask me, I will answer."

"Oh, Erik," I said, blinking, and closed the scissors. "But it seems that pain follows you wherever you go."

"Pain follows all of us," he said, and he reached around the chair to touch my wrist with a finger. "It is what makes us better. Stronger. Kinder."

I swallowed; let my face drop against the back of his head. His hair was soft on my cheek. "You still think we shouldn't go to Venice?"

He waited until my breathing calmed, then said, "We should go."

"Stella," I agreed, and straightened, raising the scissors.

The sun fell away behind the forest and the dark lake vanished into obscurity; still I snipped away at Erik's hair, my hands bathed in warm candlelight. He sat in his chair, quiet, watching the silent house for signs of trouble. But it was a good silence, and I was not afraid. We were not alone.