It was the crash of fists against the door that woke me. I had dozed off despite myself, and when I opened my eyes, the tiny bathroom was shuddering as someone banged incessantly, over and over, on the little door.

"Christophe!"

I coughed, trying to clear the dryness from my throat. It didn't work. I couldn't even summon up a few syllables.

"Christophe! Open up! It's the police!"

I croaked out, feeling as if the words were ripping through my throat, "He's not here," but the man outside didn't hear me. He continued to bang on the door.

Then there was a bang as a window closed, and a calm voice said, "I'm right here, you idiot. Stop banging on the door; you'll have the whole hotel up here in five minutes. I've recaptured both of them."

"The Phantom too?" demanded the man.

"Yes, him too, as I just said. Don't remind me of Fabre's orders; I haven't forgotten them. 'Lose the Phantom and you'll lose the girl, bleh, bleh, bleh.' Go back and tell him everything's under control."

"You're sure. And where's the girl?"

"Locked in the bathroom, where I put her."

"The Phantom?"

"Still crawling over the rooftop with some other policemen. Go on, go away. Everything's fine."

"Then why'd you call us up here?" grumbled the man, but he went away, and I heard the door slam behind him.

Christophe opened the bathroom door ten minutes later, and I instantly covered my face with both hands to block the light that streamed into the cell. The cuff around my wrist jangled loudly; my eyes watered from the brilliant flood of sunlight.

"I'm glad to see you've followed instructions," Christophe said, his voice louder than I would have wished it to be. "I brought food and water."

"Don't expect me to thank you," I whispered. My voice still wasn't working properly.

"Drink some water," Christophe ordered. He set a glass down next to me, and I lowered my hands slowly from my face to pick up the cup, blinking hard.

He dropped a bag on the ground at my feet, whipped out a match, struck it, and lit the candle next to the mirror. I drank thirstily, greedily. My throat ached as the cool water slipped down into my stomach.

"I'll get you more," the detective said grudgingly, as I put the empty cup down and reached for the bag.

"Where's the Phantom?" I demanded, as I tore open the paper bag to find a greasy cheese and ham sandwich. I wasn't going to use Erik's name around this man. "Is his wound better? Where have you put him?"

"He's in the bedroom," Christophe said.

I tried to look around him, but he was blocking the doorway with his body.

He pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it, sticking it in a corner of his pale mouth. I noticed that there were blue shadows in the hollows under his eyes. A swath of light freckles ran over his nose and spread in a brownish smattering across his cheeks.

I bit into my sandwich and leaned my head back against the wall as I chewed, thinking. "Where are we going from here?"

Christophe smiled colorlessly. "Nowhere you need to know about. Eat your sandwich."

I wanted to disobey him, but I knew I needed the nutrition. "How bad is the Phantom's wound?"

"Are you really going to keep calling him that? Do you really not know the name of the man you're marrying?"

Christophe was suddenly frowning down at me, displaying more emotion than I'd seen from him all day.

"Why do you care?" I asked, biting off a chunk of ham and cheese. This was interesting.

"Tell me his name," the detective said, still glaring down at me.

"No," I said. I took another bite. "Seems to me you know a little less about us than you'd like."

Christophe took the cigar out of his mouth and smashed it carefully on the counter, brushing ashes onto the floor. A few drifted to land on my skirts.

"Very well," he said, unsmiling. He reached down, lifted my water glass, and turned on the faucet to refill it. I watched him as he put it back down on the floor, still eating my sandwich.

"I hope you brought food for the Phantom," I said.

"No," Christophe said. He watched my expression change from serene to wild, his eyes empty. "He'll be better to control if he's hungry. All I have to do is wait."

"He's injured," I said, dropping my sandwich as if it had burnt me. "You have to feed him."

"No," the detective said, crouching down next to me, "but you have to eat. Finish your sandwich."

I folded my hands in my lap and looked away.

"I once read a book about force-feeding," Christophe said, picking up my half-eaten sandwich and turning it over in his hands. "It sounds very painful, undignified, and emotionally exhausting. I'd rather not have to employ the tactics required to feed someone against their will."

He had a point.

"Your fiancé wouldn't want you to quit eating only because he isn't," the detective went on.

"Perhaps you could feed him and see what happens," I said.

"Or you could eat your sandwich."

I stared at a crack in the wall. "Feed him. I won't eat until you do."

"Eat your sandwich."

The crack was thicker than I had thought. It ran from behind the cabinet up towards the shelf. Tiny tendrils of moss had sprouted in its deepest section.

"Irene. Eat the sandwich."

If I squinted, the moss looked as though it was growing. I thought I could see teensy yellow flowers blossoming at the tips of the green tendrils. Maybe someday the wall would split open from the humidity, and the moss would spread to fill the new hole.

"Eat the sandwich."

The wall was filled with hundreds of cracks – the line I'd first seen was only one of many, winding through its brothers and sisters with abandon. Moss ran through most of the others; some tendrils yellow, others brown and dying. But only the first crack had the yellow flowers sprouting in it.

Christophe's voice had faded into the distance.

After a long minute of silence, he dropped the sandwich on the paper and reached forward to shake my shoulder.

I pretended not to feel his touch.

"Snap out of it, Irene," he said, his voice hard. "Eat your sandwich."

"Feed the Phantom," I said.

Christophe drew his lips back in a soundless snarl, leapt to his feet, and banged out of the bathroom.

I picked up my sandwich and bit into it, listening to Christophe rip open another paper bag in the bedroom. He'd lost that battle easily enough. Perhaps I could get him to lose another.

"Really?" I heard Erik say, his voice stronger than I had thought it was going to be. Maybe he was all right – maybe his wound hadn't been that bad. "Ham sandwiches? What kind of hotel is this?"

I bit down on my laughter before Christophe could hear me. I didn't think it would help the situation.

"Eat it," Christophe snapped. "It's all you're getting for a long time. And drink your water. Your fiancée is too persistent for her own good."

"Let her out of the bathroom," Erik said.

"No. Be quiet and eat." He crossed back to the bathroom and looked in at me, his eyes focusing for a moment on my face, then tracing down over the rest of my body. "Are you hot?"

"Yes," I said, reaching for my water glass. "I don't suppose you care, though."

Christophe pulled the handcuff key from his pocket, considering me. "You can trade places with your fiancé."

"I'll stay," I said, pulling my feet up underneath me and wiggling back against the wall as far as I could. I didn't want Erik to be in here; I was sure the sweltering heat would only make him worse. "I don't mind."

"True love," Christophe mocked, dropping the key back into his pocket, and I relaxed. He wasn't going to make Erik sit in here. Thank God. "Well, suit yourself. Finish your sandwich, and then drink the rest of your water. I need you alive."

He blew out the candle, closed the bathroom door, and the familiar darkness swept in around me once again. I fumbled for my sandwich, found it, and stuffed the rest of it haphazardly into my mouth. The bread was dry as death, and the cheese was older than I would have liked, but it was food.

I hoped Erik wasn't wasting his strength arguing with Christophe instead of resting.

An hour passed. I dozed against the wall, half-dreams flitting away under my eyelids. Christophe shooting Erik… Erik with a sword, running at him, green eyes narrowed with his intent… And then I was holding the gun, the cold metal burning into my skin, my finger wrapped around the trigger… I lifted it – I pointed – I pulled back and the world exploded.

"Good afternoon," Christophe said.

I sat upright so fast that my head smacked the wall. He'd opened the door and lit the candle; he stood above me, his hazel eyes passing disinterestedly over my face.

"What time is it?"

My voice was cracked and dry. I pressed a hand to my throat and found that I was drenched in sweat. My head ached.

"Nearing three," the detective said. He pulled the handcuff key from his pocket. "You're switching places with your fiancé whether you like it or not. I'm not having my mark die in a moldy bathroom just because she won't listen to orders."

I covered the cuff with my hand and drew my knees up to my chest. If he was going to try to get me out of here, I was going to make it as difficult for him as possible.

Christophe knelt. He took hold of my wrist, dug a finger between the fragile bones, and my arm screamed in pain. My fingers let go of their own accord, and the detective delved the key into the cuff and snapped it open.

He still had hold of my wrist: he pulled me to my feet when I tried to tug away, and yanked me easily out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

My eyes watered at the blast of sunlight. Christophe didn't stop walking, even as I reached up to wipe at my eyes – he propelled me forward onto the bed and promptly snapped my cuff around one of the wooden beams in the headboard.

"Sit still," he snapped, as I yanked away from him , rubbing at my injured wrist. "You next."

He turned away from me to Erik.

Erik was sitting against the wall, his shirt gaping open to reveal a swath of white bandages, his eyes cool. He looked at me. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon to you," I said, realizing what he was doing. I adopted his cheery tone. "Nice weather today."

"Soon it will be spring," Erik said, as Christophe wrapped a hand in his shirt and pulled him to his feet. His arms were cuffed behind his back, and a short chain ran from them to a metal loop in the wall. "I thought I heard the birds singing this morning when I woke up."

"Shut up," Christophe snarled, pushing him into the bathroom. "I've heard enough from you to last a century."

There was the rattle of chains, and I heard Erik say: "I find it difficult to sympathize with you. Perhaps if you reconsidered your plan for your life – and mine, and Irene's – I would understand, but I'm afraid currently I am unable to understand your plight-"

Christophe slammed the door on him, his face clenched in annoyance. I stared fixedly at my foot. Laughter would be the wrong choice at this time.

"How do you stand him?" the detective burst out, glaring madly at me. "How could anyone imagine living with that man?"

My lips twitched uncontrollably, but I managed to keep the rest of my expression neutral.

As long as Erik continued to badger Christophe, it appeared that we would have a better chance of escaping this situation.

And I could do my part, too. I yawned. "I don't take it you have extra clothing for me? And I want another glass of water."

Christophe shook his head. "No extra clothing."

"No water, either?" I said.

The detective looked at me. "You can have some water."

He turned to the bathroom door, took a deep breath, and opened it. As he went in, I heard Erik say, "Perhaps you see the errors of your ways now? Are you here to rectify the wrongs you've done? Or maybe you wish to confess, to let another hear the darkest things you've done. I have extra time, and ears – you can speak to me."

"Be quiet," Christophe snapped.

"One would think that even a man as twisted as you would see the error in his ways and make better life choices. May I suggest a life choice you can make at this very moment?"

He sounded like a salesperson. I grinned. Christophe slammed the bathroom door and marched over with the water glass, his eyes wild.

"Here. And don't think you're getting any more for at least an hour."

I tipped the glass down my throat, gulping the water away, and handed it back to him. "Please? I'm still thirsty."

The detective held the glass in one hand, looking down at it with a feverish expression. His nostrils flared unbecomingly.

Then he turned, and began the slow walk to the bathroom, his steps quiet on the wooden floor.

I watched him with satisfaction. Perhaps, by the end of the day he'd be so sick of Erik and I that he'd do something drastic. Perhaps he would break, and we'd be able to escape.

The hope that I'd thought was gone was returning in full force.