'...often the turning down this street or that, the accepting
or rejecting of an invitation, may deflect the whole current
of our lives into some other channel.'

- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 'The Stark Munro Letters.'

' "I prefer women with a past. They're always so demmed
amusing to talk to." '

- Oscar Wilde, 'Lady Windermere's Fan.'

Chapter Three: Turning

If Nagira had asked her why she had invited him to go to Venice, Doujima doubted that she would have had an answer for him. She had a long history of doing as she pleased, but even she would admit that this bordered on carelessness. She didn't think that she would be returning to her life with the STN-J, and Nagira was very much a part of that life. It wouldn't be plausible for her to drag him along on whatever assignment she was handed next; it was barely plausible for her to be taking him to La Serenissima, the very center of SOLOMON's intelligence agency.

In short, he was a loose end. Alfonso hated it when his agents didn't tie up loose ends. She couldn't understand why she was having such trouble letting go of her life in Japan; it wasn't just Nagira, but all of it. Against agency policy, she had gone back to say goodbye to her coworkers at the STN-J. A spy was supposed to just leave, not stand there and watch as her boss rubbed his shiny bald head in dismay at her departure – and then yelled at her for going gallivanting off to Europe and leaving them understaffed. A spy was certainly not supposed to provide a forwarding address, but Miho now had in her possession of a small slip of paper with the number of a rented mailbox written on it. A spy was not supposed to let her old life, her old assignment, bleed into the new, but that seemed to be exactly what she was doing.

Come to think of it, she wasn't entirely sure why Nagira had agreed to this trip in the first place. Although she hadn't told him the specifics, she had made it clear that she was going to Venice on SOLOMON business, and the lawyer had never been subtle in his dislike for the organization. A part of her wondered if his ready agreement had been with the intention of trying to gain more information on the confraria, but that was really more her style than his. While they had been working together to find out about Zaizen, she had realized that he had the makings of a truly talented spy. In spite of that he was a basically honorable man, and would have seen something wrong with using the woman he was sleeping with to achieve his ends.

Doujima stole a sideways glance at the Nagira, and decided not to worry about it any further. Although allowing business and pleasure to mix probably hadn't been one of her better ideas, she couldn't see any real harm in it either. Many of the agents she knew kept a little slice of normal life for themselves on the side and, at the very least, she would have a few fun days with a sexy man in a city that encouraged romance.

The man in question was currently slumped in his seat, his head bowed so low that it almost touched his knees. She had been surprised, and a little bit amused, to find out that Nagira did not fly well. He had been a charming shade of green since the moment they had set foot on the plane, and when they had hit turbulence during the takeoff, which was not surprising considering July was Tokyo's rainy season, he had gone pale and curled into his current hunched position. He had only uncurled to gulp down the drink that the stewardess had left for him, and then returned to studying the floor of the cabin as though he expected it to fall out from beneath him at any given moment.

Needless to say, she had not needed to fight him for possession of the window seat. She leaned over a little to speak to him, curving her body so that her head was on the same level as his. "If you need a distraction," she teased, "I've always wanted to join the mile-high club."

Nagira snorted. "Yurika, if I make a mad dash for the bathroom, it's going to be for a very different reason."

"I hope you don't get this sick on a boat," she mused. "Otherwise, Venice is going to be hard for you. It's almost impossible to get around in just a car."

"I'm fine on water," he replied dryly. "At least then there's something under you. But thanks so much for your overwhelming concern." He redirected his gaze from the floor to her face. "It sounds like you know your way around the place. Are you a native?"

"No," she replied, with a shake of her head. "But I lived there for almost four years while I was in training." It felt strange to be giving a completely honest answer, even about something so simple. It had been a long time since she had done that, and she realized that this wasn't something they had really talked about in their time together. Her past, like her future, wasn't something that she usually gave a lot of thought to.

"You had to have been pretty young when you moved to Italy. Your parents didn't mind?"

"No. I think they were happy that Alfonso recruited me, and that I was making myself useful. I haven't seen either of them in a long time. My father more or less lives in Rome, and has for years, and my mother is poised to become the next administrator for SOLOMON-France, so she spends a lot of time working in Paris." She smiled at his startled look. "When I said that my parents were high up in SOLOMON? It wasn't one of my lies."

"I didn't think it was," he replied. "Why—."

He cut himself off abruptly, and suddenly she could sense that familiar gap. The Forbidden Subject: her work for SOLOMON, and his distaste for the organization, its mission and its methods. She let it go, shifting to a safer topic of discussion. "We should be landing soon. Someone is supposed to meet us at the airport and take us to our hotel."

Almost as soon as the words had left her mouth, the intercom crackled to life and a voice informed them to prepare for descent. Nagira returned to careful contemplation of his loafers, as she leaned towards her tiny window to catch her first glance of Venice in almost two years. The light of the setting sun reflected off of the water, caught on the gracefully curved dome of the church of Santa Maria della Salute, and turned the tiled rooftops of historical Venice an even deeper shade of red. It was picturesque, like something out of a postcard or a Renaissance painting, even though she knew that, at this time of year, the canals would stink in the summer heat, and the beaches and bath houses of the Lido would be overflowing with tourists.

The landing went much more smoothly than the take-off had, and she leaned over once again to nudge Nagira. "Come on, buddy. Let's get you off this flying death trap."

He rose to his feet slowly. "You're mocking my pain."

"I'm sorry," Doujima replied, not at all repentant. Nagira tried to glare, but it ended up turning into a smile instead. He did that a lot; unlike his grumpy half-brother, he did not seem inclined towards dark moods.

"I think you can be forgiven, little lady," he said, and draped a long arm across her shoulders as they stepped into the terminal at Marco Polo Airport, just north of the city. The last of the day's light cast long shadows across the ground. Even this late in the afternoon, the airport was swarming with people, which wasn't entirely surprising during the height of the summer tourist season.

Doujima glanced across the crowded airport, and wondered how she was expected to find her contact in this mess. Perhaps he was standing somewhere, holding cardboard sign that said 'SOLOMON Intelligence' on it in bold letters? She smirked at the idea, and motioned towards the baggage carousel. Maybe in the time it took them to retrieve their luggage, her contact would find her.

Sure enough, as they were removing the last of their numerous bags from the carousel, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. "Buonasera," a familiar, gruff voice said, "and welcome to the stinking, festering swamp that is Venezia."

"Venice is built on a lagoon, not a swamp," she replied, and turned to greet Marco Bianchi. This actually required looking down a couple of inches; even if she had been wearing flat-heeled shoes, she was taller than he was. Doujima had long ago decided that Marco reminded her of nothing so much as an aging biker. His gut strained against the thin material of his white t-shirt, and a lion's mane of graying black hair was brushed back from his gently retreating hairline. He even had the worn black leather jacket to fit the part. In spite of that, she knew that the initial impression of him as thug-like was misleading. Marco had been her contact during the first part of her time in Japan, and he was a dedicated family man who became exceptionally irritable when forced to leave his beloved Sicily on assignment, even if his days as a field operative were rapidly coming to an end.

He had once told her that he wanted to retire completely from the spy business. It seemed that he had not gotten his wish. "I'm surprised to see you here," she said, and there was the slightest hint of a question in her voice.

The older spy caught her meaning, and shrugged. "It was a foolish thing to consider. I know as well as you do that the only retirement plan for a SOLOMON agent involves being carried by six of your best friends." He tried to make light of it, but the joke fell flat. In that, spies were like Hunters; none of them were ever going to be able to leave SOLOMON, unless they did so in a cozy pine board box.

"Are you two done speaking in code?" Nagira asked from behind her. She jumped a little. Marco's eyebrows shot up, and he looked Nagira over from head to foot before turning to give her a very suspicious glare.

"That's a very strange piece of luggage you have there, Yurika." There was a bit of an edge to his voice.

"He's not my luggage," Doujima quipped, "he's the thing that carries my luggage." Nagira made a faintly offended sound, but looked more amused than anything else. "Nagira, meet the inexorable Marco Bianchi. Marco, meet Syunji Nagira." She stumbled a little over the introduction; after so long in Japan, her mouth desperately wanted to introduce them last name first.

"I don't want to meet Signor Nagira," the older man muttered, "I'm hoping that if I rub my eyes real hard, Signor Nagira disappear. You always did know how to complicate matters."

"I don't see what the big deal is," she replied, picking up one of her suitcases. It barely weighed anything; she always carried an empty one that she could fill up with the spoils of whatever shopping she did. "The Spaniard is going to shit a brick when he finds out, sure, but it's not like he'll actually do anything about it." Actually, as far as those higher up in SOLOMON went, Alfonso was pretty relaxed. He didn't take failure lightly, but he was willing to give his agents a little more leeway that most.

"The Spaniard?" Nagira asked, but Doujima simply gave him her best enigmatic smile in response.

Something shadowed Marco's gaze for a moment, and his lips thinned out into a hard line. "Things have changed here, Yurika. You'll find nothing as you left it." He glanced away, and a strange, stiff smile curved his lips. "After all, Venice is sinking."

Doujima cast him a bewildered look. "It has been for years. What are you talking about, Marco?"

"Nothing," he replied evasively, waving off her question with one wide, dark-skinned hand.

"Yeah, that sure sounded like 'nothing'," Nagira commented, then snorted. "'Venice is sinking,' indeed."

Marco sighed and turned his gaze towards the baggage carousel, as if he suddenly didn't want to look at either of them. "Nothing that I'm allowed to tell you about, then. Certainly nothing I'm allowed to tell him about." He motioned towards Nagira without looking at the other man. "You'll know soon enough."

"That sounds foreboding," Doujima said. She pulled out the handle on one of her other suitcases, which was heavier but thankfully came on wheels. "Help me with these?"

The Sicilian seemed relieved that she wasn't going to press the issue, and retrieved two of the bags with a minimum of protest. "How is it that I always end up carrying your shit around?" he grumbled, and led the way towards the exit.

"Just lucky, I guess," she replied. Nagira fell into step beside her as they left the airport, one bag in his hand. He grinned at the look she gave him, and shrugged.

"If your friend is willing lug it all, why should I argue?"

From ahead of them, Marco made a very rude sound.

"Are we taking the vaporetti or driving?" she asked after a moment, and Marco glanced over his shoulder.

"The Alilaguna ferry will get us into the heart of town. From there we can walk." He scoffed, "Why rent a car to drive to the city when I will just have to dispose of it upon arrival?"

Doujima rolled her eyes, and looked at Nagira. "Everything travels by water in Venice. Cars aren't even allowed within the city." She considered Marco, and added with a smirk, "Of course, after seeing the way that the rest of Italy drives, I think that the banning of cars shows a great deal of sense." She slowed down as they approached the edge of canal, near where the water bus would stop. That was something that had taken getting used to when she had first moved to Japan: the need to drive everywhere, rather than using the public boats or borrowing the one that had always been tethered outside of the house where she had stayed. "There's also the fact that you can pretty much walk from one end of the city to the other in a little over an hour."

Another very rude little sound came from Marco's direction. "Under an hour, in sensible shoes." He eyed her feet, along with the high-heeled boots she was wearing, somewhat dubiously. "How you survived hunting in those, I'll never know." He glanced quickly sideways at Nagira, as if he had suddenly realized that he wasn't supposed to speak so openly about her hunting for SOLOMON around an 'outsider'.

Much to her relief, Nagira simply shrugged. While snippy comments about SOLOMON did nothing more than irritate her, saying such things around Marco might have caused problems. Her gallivanting around Venice with her current beau would raise a few eyebrows and perhaps earn her a good talking-to at worst. On the other hand, her gallivanting around Venice with her current beau, who happened to dislike the syndicate and all that it stood for, would probably get her into a whole mess of trouble. Especially given the fact that he had been hard at work, foiling a good number of the STN-J's carefully laid plans. Plans that she had been taking part in... Which was a bit unusual, come to think of it. Maybe it was good that they never talked about work.

Of course, sometimes they didn't talk at all. But that was another thing altogether.

"Maybe they got distracted by how her legs look in heels, and were easy prey," the lawyer suggested. Although he didn't look at her when he said it, there was something wicked in his expression as they stopped to wait at the ferry landing.

"Hey," she protested, as Marco guffawed.

"I take it back," the older man said with a grin, "He's quite amusing." He bobbed his head towards Nagira in a belated greeting. "Piacere."

Doujima muttered something indignant about this being revenge for the last time they had worked together, and looked up the canal in the hopes that the ferry would soon arrive. After what seemed like an eternity, with Marco still grinning widely at her, the sound of the boat approaching reached her ears. The smile faded from the other spy's face, and by the time the ferry had reached them, he was solemn once more. She frowned, and wondered over the man's sudden mood change. Marco had almost rivaled Kosaka as far as sheer crankiness went, but today he just seemed... morose. Once again, she felt a little thrill of apprehension. Had something really gone that terribly wrong in Venice?

There was no use worrying about it now. He had already made it clear that he wasn't allowed to tell her anything about whatever mysterious 'changes' had come to pass. The lack of information was frustrating, but nothing new when it came to dealing with SOLOMON Intelligence.

"I'll pay for the tickets," he said, and shoved the smaller of the two bags he was carrying under his arm so that he had a hand free. "I don't imagine you've had a chance to change your currency yet." He once again moved ahead of them, this time to buy the tickets.

The sky had darkened into true twilight, a deep blue with just a hint of lingering light at the edges. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nagira remove a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his travel-wrinkled green suit jacket. He tapped one out into his hand, and placed it in his mouth, but didn't light it. "Your pal there seems pretty upset," he said and, as always, it amazed her that he could still talk with one of those things hanging out from between his lips, "You sure you want to do this?"

She wanted to remind him that she didn't particularly have a choice, but she held back. It would probably draw a comment about the dubious nature of SOLOMON's employee policy and, in this case, she would have to agree with him. She remembered Marco's comment about retirement options, and almost sighed, but ended up shrugging instead. "A lot of things upset Marco. My breathing upsets Marco, most of the time. Maybe that's what you're sensing."

The look he gave her as he pulled his lighter out of his pocket said it all. Yeah, right. He didn't argue though, simply flicked open the lighter and used it to ignite his cigarette. He slipped the lighter back into his pocket, and inhaled deeply, the tip of the cigarette glowing for a moment in the darkness.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his nose twitch. He exhaled a mouthful of smoke, sniffed again, then asked, "What's that smell?"

"The canals, signore," Marco said, returning with tickets in hand, "The city has been trying to clean them up for a while now, but they still stink in summer." He glanced between the two of them and smirked, although Doujima couldn't help but feel that it was half-hearted at best. "Not very romantic, I'm afraid."

"I really do hope that your wife beats you while you're at home," Doujima informed him, and even though she sounded exasperated, the comment had the quality of an old and shared joke.

"Every night," Marco said, with complete seriousness in his voice and the barest glint of humor in his eyes. She hear something that sounded suspiciously like a snicker from Nagira. With a shake of her blond head and a soft harrumph, she led the way onto the boat.

Marco eyed Nagira's cigarette as they stepped up onto the deck. "Could I bum one of those?"

Nagira shrugged and fished one out for him, and Doujima raised a brow. "I didn't know you smoked."

"I do now," Marco replied darkly. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it, and frowned at her. "Knowing that I would again be in your charming company is what got me started."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she drawled, and moved to the edge of the boat to lean against the railing. Nagira came to stand near her, close enough that their elbows were bumping but without speaking. The murky green water of the canal slid by on either side as the boat chugged along slowly, and passengers were scarce enough that it was almost completely silent on the deck, except for Marco's quiet and nonsensical muttering a few feet away. Nagira's cigarette burned out as they approached the center of town, and he dropped the butt into the water before lighting up another.

She let out a long breath, and let the noise of the boat's engine lull her into a sort of trance, watching as the familiar sights went by. She barely noticed when the boat stopped, although she did stir when Marco came and tapped her on the shoulder. "We're the next stop," he informed her. "You're already registered at a hotel. I'll take you straight there. I imagine you're both tired."

Actually, she wasn't, although she didn't bother to tell him that. Too many thoughts were buzzing through her head for her to even contemplate sleep. If she was honest, she was more than a little excited about all this. Excited, because she was back in Venice, yes, but also excited by the little hints of danger that she had been picking up on ever since stepping off the plane. Doujima had seen how energized some of her coworkers got in the middle of a dangerous hunt, even if they wouldn't admit it, and she wondered if this was something similar. Hunting scared her more than it thrilled her... But spy work was a different matter. If running around after dangerous witches was how the members of the STN-J got their daily dose of adrenaline, secret messages and covert missions were undoubtedly how she got hers.

"What rat-hole are we staying at?" she asked teasingly.

Marco rolled his eyes. "The Hotel Pausania, which is not a rat-hole."

"And here I thought that all of Venice was a festering swamp to you," she mocked, and frowned thoughtfully at the name of the hotel. "That's in Dorsoduro, isn't it?" she asked, naming the sestiere, or neighborhood, where the hotel was located.

"Yes."

She waved a flippant hand. "It will do."

"I'm glad you approve," Marco said, in a flat voice that implied that he really couldn't have cared less. The ferry once again floated to a stop, and he hustled them back onto dry land. He glanced around quickly, as if getting his bearings, then made a gesture that she took to mean that they should cross the Ponte dell'Accademia, the last bridge across the Grand Canal. After she nodded, he hurried towards the bridge, obviously assuming that she and Nagira would follow and not bothering to look over his shoulder and make sure that this was the case.

"I think he wants to get rid of us," Nagira remarked. "What did you ever do to him?"

"Why do you assume that it was something I did?" she replied, with mock-indignation.

Once again, the look he gave her spoke louder than words.

"Alright. So it was something I did," she admitted. "He calls it his 'year in hell'. But I really didn't think that he'd hold a grudge." She hurried to catch up with Marco before the lawyer could respond, the heels of her boots clicking against the pavement and the wheels of her suitcase bumping along quietly. Nagira followed at a more sedate pace, but they finally drew even with Marco at the other end of the bridge, on the Dorsoduro side of the canal. She caught a brief glance of the Gallerie dell'Accademia, the art galleries that Napoleon had founded in 1807, before she was forced to once again lengthen her stride to keep up with Marco. His legs were shorter than her own, but Nagira was right – he did seem eager to get this over and done with.

It wasn't long before they turned onto the Fondamenta Gherardini, and from there it was only a stone's throw to their hotel. A small canal ran alongside the street and, even though the sky had by now darkened to true night, there was still a good deal of traffic sliding through the water. "Wait here," Marco told them sternly, and set the bags he had been carrying down by Doujima's feet before stepping into the hotel.

"He's bossy," Doujima said, but she didn't try to follow the other spy into the hotel. Nagira shrugged and leaned back to finish his second cigarette, squashing it out beneath his loafer when he was done. By the time he was finished, Marco had returned, a pair of room keys in his hand. He handed them each one, and retrieved the bags that he had left behind. "I'll show you where to find your room, then you're on your own for the night."

"Whatever shall we do with ourselves?" Nagira murmured.

Doujima smiled archly, then followed Marco into the old palazzo with its fountain at the center, and towards a set of impressively wide stairs. The stairs became a lot less impressive when she realized that she would be lugging her suitcases up them, and she sighed every time the empty one banged into her shins. It was with a great deal of relief that she stopped in front of the door to the room. Marco plucked her key out of her hand, apparently deciding that she was taking too long to open the door, and unlocked it himself. Something in his face seemed to relax once the task was done. Probably joy at the thought of finally being rid of them.

He pushed the door open, revealing the room beyond it, and returned the key to her. "Here we are. Go ahead and take some time to settle in; I doubt that anyone will be contacting you until tomorrow, or even the day after."

"Mysterious, aren't we?" she muttered, as she pushed the first of the suitcases through the door and onto one of the lightly-colored rugs that covered the floor of the room.

Marco grinned suddenly, reaching up to rumple her hair, like she was a child who had just said something particularly adorable – and silly. "Espionage, Yurika. Nothing can be simple or straightforward, sě?"

Torn between amusement at his words and annoyance at his somewhat patronizing tone, she finally returned the grin. "Sě. I'll see you around, Marco."

He nodded curtly, and disappeared back down the stairs. "Be careful," he called over his shoulder, a kind, if somewhat unnecessary, warning.

"Aren't I always?" she wondered to herself. She had no doubt that Marco would have had a rather pointed response, had he heard the comment. Happily, he had not.

Nagira stepped around her into the room, and dropped the bag he was carrying onto the bed. Doujima followed him in, glancing around appreciatively. Unlike many of Venice's hotel rooms, which were usually around the size of a postage stamp and filled with heavy, baroque furniture, this room was large and decorated in light colors. The overall impression was one of space and comfort, and she approved. If Alfonso was going to drag her to Italy on short notice, at least he had provided some nice digs.

Doujima set down her second bag and reached out into the hall to retrieve the two that Marco had left behind, then closed the door. Nagira seemed to be busy investigating the bathroom, and she crossed the room to glance through the cream-colored curtains that covered the windows. Their room overlooked the canal, and the water shimmered in the darkness, reflecting the lights of the hotel's windows back at her. The occasional boat still passed below, but they were less frequent now. She wondered how late it had become.

She sensed it, rather than heard it, when Nagira emerged from the bathroom behind her. One of the floorboards gave a soft squeal as he approached her from the other side of the room, and she spoke without turning away from the window. "How do you want to spend the evening? I'm not tired, and it's a little late for sightseeing..."

He stepped up behind her, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his body against her back. One of his hands brushed her hair to one side of her neck, trailing lightly over the sensitive skin there and catching briefly in the strands of her hair before sliding through. Doujima closed her eyes and smiled a little at the contact, but continued to speak, "...but we could go find somewhere to eat, or check and see if this hotel has a bar."

Nagira leaned forward, and she could feel his breath tickle against her skin for just a moment before his mouth touched the bend of her shoulder, right before it curved into her neck. She felt him grin faintly against her flesh as she maintained her rather one-sided conversation.

"Or, we could stay here, and see if we can order some food in..."

He slid an arm around her waist, and closed that last trembling inch of distance between them so that he was pressed up against her back in one smooth, unbroken line. His lips moved up a little to brush the tender skin just behind her jaw, and she shivered a little. All the same, she went on with her teasing litany of 'things to do.'

"...play a game of cards, or maybe checkers. I like checkers. Something to while away the long evening hours, you know..."

"Yurika."

She turned her head so that she could look at Nagira, her expression one of contrived innocence.

"I'm trying to seduce you, here," he said, rather dryly.

"Really? I hadn't—."

Whatever Doujima had been about to say was cut off abruptly as he covered her mouth with his own. She leaned into the kiss, tilting her head back and parting her lips slightly to allow him better access. All thoughts of checkers were conveniently forgotten.

At first Doujima thought that the noise from the canal had woken her, the hustle and bustle of people making their morning commute from outside the hotel room's window. Pale sunlight spilled through a crack in the curtains, illuminating the foot of the bed but leaving the rest of the room in shadow, and she prepared to simply role over and go back to sleep.

Then she realized that it was not the sound of morning traffic from below that had pulled her out of sleep; that in fact, someone was knocking quietly and politely at the door.

With a soft groan, she blinked bleary eyes and extricated herself from Nagira's arms and the tangled sheets, nearly pitching forward onto the floor when her foot got caught in one final loop of white linen. She managed to snag one of the hotel's fluffy white bathrobes and pull it on before she made her way to the door, and used the hand that wasn't holding the robe closed to try to pat her mussed hair into some semblance of order.

Nagira barely even stirred on the bed, except to role over into the warm spot she had left behind.

She pulled open the door, and stared rather blankly at the middle-aged maid on the other side. The woman took in her rumpled appearance, and smiled apologetically. "Scusi, signora. It's past eleven; I thought that you would already be awake." She held out a sheet of paper, neatly folded, but not sealed or placed in an envelope. "Someone left this at the front desk for a 'Signorina Doujima'?"

"That's me," she replied. She took the paper from the woman's outstretched fingers. "Grazie," she murmured, but didn't offer a tip. After a moment, the maid turned and went, looking a little disgruntled.

Doujima closed the door, and wasted no time unfolding the paper. The handwriting was the same neat, slanting calligraphy as the letter that had summoned her to Venice, and this communique was perhaps even shorter than that one had been.

Lunch at Al Profeta, it said, To be found on Calle Lunga. 12 o'clock.

Something was bothering Doujima about those thick, gracefully-written letters. She frowned a little, trying to figure out what.

Then she realized. She grabbed for the pants she had worn the previous night, and emptied the pockets. She tossed her passport and her wallet aside carelessly, in favor of the slender blue-and-red bordered envelope that the original letter had come in. The handwriting was the same as the morning's note, yes – but it was unfamiliar. She was certain that she had never seen it before this past week, and it was definitely not the neat, blocky copperplate that Alfonso used to communicate with his agents. Whoever had asked her to return to Italy, it had not been The Spaniard.

How had she not realized this before?

She glanced again at the note that the maid had delivered. She wasn't familiar with the name of the restaurant, but the Calle Lunga, the street where it was located, was only a short way away from Fondamenta Gherardini, the street on which they were staying. Perhaps the restaurant had been chosen specifically for that reason. It was an easy walk, and if she hurried and got dressed, she could make it there by the appointed time.

There wasn't any question of whether or not she would go. Even if Alfonso had not been the one to send the letters, this was still SOLOMON business. When SOLOMON called, she answered.

She remembered Marco's cryptic warnings, and seriously reconsidered that notion. Maybe the next time SOLOMON called, she could conveniently... not hear.

And maybe she could run naked through the Piazza San Marco, with a lampshade on her head and the words 'the wine was better in France' written across her bare ass.

It the end, she heaved a sigh, and pulled out of her suitcase a hairbrush and a slightly wrinkled, not to mention scandalously short, plum-colored dress. She ran the brush through her hair a few times, and shimmied quickly into the dress before hunting around for the boots she had worn the night before. When she was finished, she still looked a little rumpled (which made the fashionista within her cringe) but it would have to do.

With one last glance at the man on the bed, she grabbed her shoulder-bag and stepped out of the room and into the mid-July heat.

Disclaimer: Witch Hunter Robin, not mine. Plot and original characters, mine.

Notes: Marco first appears in 'We Wear the Mask', a ficlet which is also posted on my account. A vaporetti is a large public ferry, and a fondamenta is a street that runs along a canal, or along the lagoon banks. A calle is a street which does not. Sestiere is used to designate one of the six sestieri – neighborhoods, of which Dorsoduro is one. Technically, the word palazzo means 'palace', but it's used for many large, important buildings; or in this case, a hotel in what used to be a large, important building. All of the places mentioned here are real, and although I've done my best to remain accurate, I can't promise that I haven't made a few mistakes. Once again, WiccanMethuselah receives credit for making this thing readable. In the next chapter, The News of His Decease, Doujima finally gets some answers, which in turn raise even more questions. Ain't that always the way?