By nightfall, the hotel room was silent.

I was curled under the blankets, my head on the pillow. My arm was still cuffed to the headboard, and the metal circle dug painfully into my wrist whenever I tried to shift into a more comfortable position, so now I lay still, hoping to doze off.

The empty water glass was on the side table.

Christophe had dragged a chair into the center of the room and was sitting in it, his head bowed over his gun. He'd been cleaning it, but now he was finished, and he hadn't moved for a few minutes. His lowered face was closed and empty.

Erik was still in the bathroom. The door stood ajar, allowing Christophe to watch both of his prisoners at once.

I swallowed thirstily and turned my head towards the bathroom, trying for the umpteenth time to catch a glimpse of Erik. Christophe had arranged it so that while the half-open door allowed him to see his prisoner, it did not allow me to see Erik at all. As usual, not even Erik's foot was visible. I wondered how he was faring. He hadn't spoken for the last fifteen minutes.

As I thought this, Christophe looked up from his gun and into the bathroom. "Still alive?"

Erik said nothing. Maybe he had dozed off.

Christophe didn't seem to require a reply. He looked back down at his gun, then up at me. He frowned. "We still have to come up with a name for you."

"We have a while before we get to Italy," I said, and coughed to clear my throat. I needed more water. "Besides, I don't feel up to doing anything regarding the assignment while my fiancé is languishing in the bathroom."

"I fed him," Christophe said. He went back to stroking his gun. "I don't think you need much more than that."

"Let him stay in here," I said.

"No."

"I'll remember that when we're in Italy," I said, trying to prod him into action. "That you let the Phantom huddle in a dark, stinking, heated bathroom and did nothing."

"I suppose shooting him didn't bother you as much?"

"It did," I said. "It does. Very well, have it your way, then. Just don't expect me to be agreeable when we get to Italy."

Christophe set his gun down on the floor and stood up, rubbing his hands together to rid them of the polish. "I will, though. Remember that the rest of your fiancé's life depends on you completing the assignment. Perhaps you've forgotten about the pending trial."

"Perhaps you've forgotten your orders," I said. "I believe Fabre instructed you not to injure him. And what have you gone and done? Shot him, and within a single day, too. I'm sure he'll be so pleased with you when you get back."

Christophe pushed the chair against the wall with his foot, considering.

"You're doing a rather poor job," I went on. "It's odd that you managed to become a detective at all. Perhaps the only reason you're here with us is because they want to get rid of you. Did you know they're sending you on a suicide mission, or are you trying not to think about that part? The Inspector knows we're coming. And while he may care a little about me, he sure as anything doesn't care about you. You'll be doomed as soon as you walk into Venice."

"Of course," Christophe said quietly, looking up at me, "I'll have you."

I didn't know what he meant. Of course he'd be with me, but how would that-

"Didn't you know I'm coming in with you?" he said. "Weren't you wondering who your husband would be? You are on a honeymoon, my dear."

I felt my stomach clench.

"Yes," the detective said, smiling at me, "I'm going to be your husband. So lie down and be quiet, before I decide to make our honeymoon a little more realistic."

I shook my head violently. "You've forgotten that the Inspector knows about Erik and I. He'll never believe I married you."

"Oh, but there is where you've gone wrong," Christophe said. "You don't understand at all."

He sat back down in his chair, lifted his gun into his lap. "You see, Mademoiselle, I was chosen for this assignment because I'm very good at disguising myself. I'm also of the same height and build as your fiancé. Fabre sent Erik along with you because he knew I would have a better chance of pulling it off if I had time to study the Phantom's characteristics."

I held my breath.

"Yes," Christophe said, not looking up, "I'll be the Phantom when we get to Venice. And not even the Inspector will know better. After all, I have everything I need for my disguise." He nudged his suitcase with his toe. "And I'll take his mask, too. The only person who'll know that I'm actually Christophe Janvier is you."

"You can't take his mask," I said, stupidly. "It's his. And of course I won't pretend you're my husband. The whole idea is bizarre. Insane."

"You won't have a choice," he said. "You see, I don't share Fabre's fervor for justice. I don't really care how I get somewhere, as long as I get there. You'll do what I say, or I'll simply kill the Phantom. I can always tell Fabre he died trying to save you, and no one will ever know better."

My lips felt numb. "I'll tell," I burst out. "I'll tell them, and they'll believe me."

"You may not make it back either," the undercover detective said. He caressed his gun with a finger. "Everyone knows how vindictive the Inspector is. I'll simply say I couldn't get to you in time, that he shot you before I could stop him. It will be easy."

He stood and blew out the candles on the windowsill. The room fell into darkness.

"Goodnight, Mademoiselle."

When I was sure he had gone into the other room, I pressed my face into the pillow, trembling all over. He hadn't been bluffing. The coldness in his eyes had been real.

When the assignment was over, he was going to kill us both.

In the morning, Christophe woke me by unlocking the cuff that held me to the bed. The sharp clicking noise startled me awake: I rolled away and sat up, my heart pounding.

"Good morning," he said, smiling at my wide-eyed stare. "Get up. You and your Phantom are going back into the carriage."

I touched a hand to my aching head – whatever he'd gassed us with was still giving me headaches – and stared back at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Get up," he repeated. "Put your shoes on; they're in the corner over there. And do something about your hair. It looks awful."

I got off the bed, walked to the corner, and slipped my shoes on, my back to him as I laced up the ties.

His shoes clicked away as he left the room. I turned to make sure he was gone, and saw that the gun he'd been polishing last night was lying on the edge of the bed.

I slipped off my shoes, pulled my hair out of my face, and tied it back securely. I could hear Erik talking loudly to Christophe in the bathroom – something about how the toilet made a terrible pillow. I looked carefully around once more.

Then I crossed to the bed and picked up the gun.

I had no idea how to use this thing, but I knew what I could do with it. Firearms were never supposed to be dropped in the water, nor thrown out of hotels. The second idea was too dangerous – it could fire when it hit the ground - but the first would work. I only had to find the water pitcher Christophe had been using yesterday.

I looked wildly around the room, aware that the window of time in which I could act was quickly shrinking. I could hear Christophe snarling at Erik, snapping at him about his mask.

"And it's clear your name isn't the Phantom-"

Erik said something quiet and cutting. The gun in my hands was cold, noxious against my skin. I pivoted, staring around for the pitcher, praying it would emerge – and then I realized…

It was probably in the other bedroom; Christophe might have put it there and forgotten about it.

Turning, I crept past the bathroom, my heart in my throat, the gun hidden at my side.

Christophe said quite loudly, "Did I tell you what will happen once we reach Venice? Or maybe I'll let Irene." His voice seemed to echo throughout the room; I cowered as I fled silently into his bedroom, my hands trembling violently.

But the pitcher was on the table beside his bed.

I flew to it, dropped the gun inside with a splash, and stepped back, covering my mouth with my hands. Would it work?

The door crashed against the wall as Christophe barreled inside, his white face contorted, his mouth open. He was bigger than I had thought – he reached for the pitcher with a massive hand and flung it against the wall. White and blue pottery shattered over the beige rug.

I ran without thinking: the bathroom door opened under my hands and I flung myself through, slamming it behind me. The lock clicked.

Erik had been sitting on the floor, but when he saw me, he wrenched his cuff free from the pipe (I gaped, hardly believing the strength he must have used to do it) and stood upright. He caught hold of me and pulled me against him, turning so that he was between me and the locked door.

I clenched his hands desperately in mine, shaking, but filled with an inexpressible feeling of relief.

"I threw his gun in the water," I whispered.

I could feel Erik laughing. "You brave girl," he whispered. "You wonderful, brilliant woman. Of course you did."

"It's the only one he has, I think," I said.

We could hear Christophe rampaging around in the bedroom: something shattered, followed immediately by a stifled cry of pain.

"Idiot," Erik hissed. "Oh, and I still have your lockpick. Here, before he comes back."

He'd freed himself from the cuff - no wonder it had broken away so easily from the pipe.

"Erik," I said, taking the lockpick from him and pushing it up my sleeve, "he plans to kill the two of us after he finds the Inspector. And he says he's going to disguise himself as you – he says he's very good at disguises – he says he and I have to – have to pretend-"

The tears dripped down my cheeks and clogged up my throat. Erik ran a gentle hand under my chin, tilting my face upwards. His green eyes were hard and fierce in the candlelight.

"I won't let him do anything to you," he said. "His gun is gone. I'm free. You have your knife, correct?"

Swallowing, I drew the sheathed knife from my other sleeve and handed it to him. "What are you planning?"

"A straight fight," Erik said, setting the sheath down on the bathroom counter. "Fast, easy, deadly. We're leaving today."

We planned it very carefully. Erik was to leave the bathroom first, carrying his knife; I would follow with the broken pipe from the sink. Erik would immediately engage Christophe with his weapon, and if Christophe attempted to activate his cylinder of sedatives, I would simply dive in, scoop it up, and throw it out the nearest window.

Erik had torn a large section from his already-shredded shirt, folded it several times, and tied it around my mouth and nose. He'd also lent me his mask – I tucked it over the left half of my face to hold the cloth down. It was surprisingly hard to breathe. I hadn't realized how stifling the porcelain was when worn against one's face.

I'd tried to get Erik to wrap a piece of cloth around his nose and mouth too, but he had refused, insisting that it would only distract him and make it harder to concentrate on the fight.

When he clicked the lock open, I picked up the lit candle (we'd agreed that it may come in handy), got a good grip on my pipe, and took a long breath through the thick white fabric, blinking as my eyelashes brushed the inside of the mask.

"Ready?" I saw Erik mouth at me.

I nodded. Ready.

He whipped the door open, and was instantaneously gone.

I followed within a heartbeat.

Christophe and Erik were already deep into their fight when I entered the room: two men struggling desperately for the upper hand in a battle one of them would lose, both silent and breathless in their concentration. The cylinder Christophe had used earlier lay against the foot of the wall, forgotten. I went towards it, picked it up, and crossed to the window.

I had tossed it out and turned back around when Christophe stepped backwards, trying to get away from Erik's long upward jab, and stumbled into the wall. He pushed off with his free arm and stepped sideways. The knife in his hand flashed in the sunlight.

Erik tripped him, smashed the hilt of his own knife into the side of the detective's head, and let the fainting man slide helplessly to the floor.

With a disgusted look, Erik kicked Christophe's knife from his lax hand – it flew across the floor and under the bed – and knelt, reaching for the handcuffs scattered on the floor next to the bed. He snapped the metal bracelets around Christophe's wrists, took the key from the detective's pocket, and stood.

"The cylinder's gone?" he inquired, rubbing absentmindedly at his bandaged shoulder. Sweat glistened on his forehead and above his upper lip. I crossed the room (setting the candle and pipe down on the table as I passed) and caught hold of his hot hand.

"Yes, and don't do that. You'll make your wound worse. Is there anything else we can tie him up with?"

Erik looked down at the detective. He shook his head, but he was beginning to smile. He drew a hand across his forehead and took a long, deep breath. "No, but we can take his badge."

I felt a grin spread slowly across my face. "His badge. Yes, we can take his badge. As soon as we get out of here, no one will know that it doesn't belong to us. We only have to escape the hotel, show it to whoever we need something from, and they'll hand whatever we need over. We'll be detectives, after all. People have to listen to us. Oh, and here's your mask."

I pulled it free from my face, tearing the cloth off at the same moment. I held the porcelain disk out to him, but Erik only stared blankly at it.

"What?" I said.

"I don't need that," he said, shaking his head. "I've just thought of something else."

He picked up Christophe's suitcase, flipped open the latch, and dumped the contents onto the bed. Wigs, makeup, false teeth, and even a set of fake mustaches tumbled out onto the sunflower-patterned bedspread. I raised my eyebrows.

"No, you aren't," I said, grinning as I realized what he planned to do. "Really?"

"If Christophe thought he could pretend to be me," the Phantom said, picking up a container of hair gel (and wrinkling his nose), "I can certainly pretend to be him. And I promise you I'll do a much better job than he did."

And of course he did.