It was near morning when I woke the final time. Erik was sleeping, his head tilted back against the headboard. He'd washed his face: the scars lay light and shining in the darker skin.

Sleepily, I gazed up at him, lost for a moment in contemplation. There were shadows curving under his eyelids, soft bluish purple swaths of exhaustion above his brown cheekbones. It was good that he was resting. He clearly needed the sleep.

The dawn filled the room with a gray, colorless light. Sometime during the night I'd slipped away from Erik and into the middle of the bed: the sheets were curled around my feet in a cool embrace, and my head was nestled in the crook of my arm.

I sat up, blinking in the stillness of the room. Christophe's suitcase stood against the far wall, a smug, faded square of black leather, privy to more dark secrets than anyone other than the original owner would ever know. My green dress lay supine and lonely across the back of the reddish armchair, my slippers on the seat of the chair, half-hidden under the skirts.

My head felt much better, as did my stomach, but my tongue and mouth were furry with thirst. I stood, cautiously so that Erik would continue to sleep, and made my way into the bathroom, lifting my dress from the chair as I passed. The carpet was soft against my feet; the tiles of the bathroom floor were clean and cold.

I rinsed out my mouth and drank a few handfuls of the freezing water, relishing the feeling of freshness. Then I washed my face and arms, closed the door, and was about to lift the dress over my head when I saw what Erik had done to it.

The bodice, hem, and sleeves had been embellished with tiny, precise flowers: pale yellow thread woven into swirls of intricate petals and stems. I sat down on the edge of the counter and stared at the embroidery. When had he had time to do this? Last night?

As I turned it over, a note fell from one of the sleeves. I lifted it from the tiles, turned it over.

Irene,

I love you.

E.

And beneath the writing was a sketch, formed with a few short strokes of a pen. A woman turning to look out a window, her hair tumbling from a chignon, one hand resting on the curve of her hip. It was me, and somehow Erik had captured both his feelings and mine in the moment he'd drawn me: I seemed to be lost in my imagination, pensive, but I was beautiful in my unawareness.

I read the note again, letting the words fall over me like a cloak.

Then I slipped the dress over my head, folded the note tenderly, and hid away in an inside pocket in my skirts. It was because of them that Christophe had failed to find my lockpick: there were ten compartments in all, and each was well disguised. I had added them after our extended stay at the Inspector's house.

The Inspector… I hadn't thought of him for some time since Fabre had brought him up at the police station; I'd been too preoccupied with Christophe and his interest in hurting us. I smoothed my hands down the front of my gown, smiled as my fingers brushed the embroidery. My thoughts turned to the case.

It was clear enough that the copyist, whoever he (or she) was, was missing. This was probably not a lie. And if the Inspector had kidnapped him, than he was in great danger. Well, he was in great danger if he resisted doing whatever the Inspector wanted him to do. I supposed the Inspector would have forced him to copy more of Raphael's works, or have set him to creating copies of other famous paintings. If what Fabre had said was true, and this copyist's works were good enough to pass off as the originals, than the Inspector would soon have a very good black market business going.

This meant that the police would have started their investigation, if they'd been intelligent enough to do so, by looking for valuable paintings that had suddenly appeared in the hands of several well-off Venetians. Or perhaps they would have kept their eyes open for new art dealers – the Inspector would never have appeared in Venice himself – he'd have sent one of his underlings to handle that sort of thing. And he'd have sent several large people along with him to keep an eye on the paintings and make sure the dealer was bargaining for the correct prices.

And when one put all of this together, if the Inspector was truly back, meant several things. One, Christophe wouldn't have simply tossed me into the middle of the Piazza and hoped the Inspector would see me; seeing as the Inspector wouldn't have been there, this would have been completely useless. Two, we were looking for a large group of people: an art dealer, along with a carriage driver and several thugs. And three, the copyist would be wherever the Inspector was: the Inspector wouldn't have risked his prize's rescue or escape.

It seemed that Christophe's plan would have failed miserably. I tried to think: what would he have accomplished by leaving me in the Piazza for a day? Also, why were Henri and James coming with us? How could they have helped anything by loitering nearby and listening to people talk in Italian?

Why would I have needed to pretend to be mugged, and why would anyone have believed my pathetic little story, especially with a muscular Christophe sitting by, declaring he was my husband? Wouldn't they have assumed that he'd protect me? What precisely had he been hoping to get out of this situation?

And what had James meant when he'd said, "Doesn't this remind you of anything? The train, the people?"

What would Christophe have remembered, if he'd been there?

The questions were sound, and now I finally began to feel I had something to stand on. We knew the copyist had been taken, but we didn't know why, or by whom. What Erik and I needed to do was to begin our own investigation in Venice. And we needed to lose the contacts as soon as we left the train.

Erik was crouching in front of the fireplace, poking at the logs, when I came into the bedroom. He still wasn't wearing his mask, though he'd reapplied the makeup to cover his scars, and I smiled. The mask's remoteness bothered me, although I still hadn't told him this. Perhaps I would bring it up later today.

"Erik," I began, "I've just thought of something-"

But I broke off, because he stood, dropping the poker on the floor. It hissed as it hit the rug; it hadn't cooled from the fire, and the colorful fabric began to char immediately under the heated steel.

"The poker, dear," I said, forgetting what I'd been about to say. "The rug is smoking."

"Curse the poker," Erik said, quite calmly, and picked me up in his arms. "Curse everything. We are taking today off."

I looked up at him from my new angle. He needed to shave. "Off?"

"As in avoiding everyone and everything," he said. "Off, as in no more work. No more running, no more masquerading, no more talking to people we hate. Agreed?"

"I'd shake your hand," I said, grinning and dropping my head against his shoulder, "but I can't, as both of yours are occupied. I agree most emphatically, dear."

The rug was now most definitely on fire, and I was about to point this out to Erik when he turned and stamped on the flames, muttering under his breath. I caught something about things never working properly, and grinned still wider. The fire went out, but the whole room stank of smoke. I fanned the air, coughing.

"Where's the window?" Erik groaned. "How come nothing is ever where it should be?"

"And what will our day off consist of?" I said, after he'd deposited me in a chair to go find a window. "I would like to eat some food, of course. And there are no books here."

Erik wrenched open the window, and the thump of wheels on railroad tracks clattered into the room. "No violins, either." He yawned. "I could get breakfast, though. Do you want bacon?"

"And eggs," I said. I raised my eyebrows at him. "And don't put pepper on mine, you always put too much. And I'd like some tea."

Erik raised his own eyebrows. "Still as commanding as always, I see. Does her Highness require anything else, or shall I depart to gather her breakfast?"

"We would like some toast and jelly, also," I said, using the royal plural.

Erik bowed ironically, dropped a kiss on the top of my head, and tried to sneak past my chair. I leapt up and threw my arms around him. "I just remembered! Thank you for my note! And for the embroidery on my dress!"

He tried to squirm out of my embrace (I'd trapped his arms) but was unsuccessful, and so he was forced to give me a real kiss.

I waved at him when he went out, hiding behind the door so no one would see me – it would be difficult to explain to the contacts, if they saw us, that I was now in the habit of waving cheerily at my captor when he left.

Erik winked at me and went down the corridor, his hands in his pockets.

I was lying on the rug in front of the fire, writing a note back to Erik, when there was an odd clicking noise at the door. I looked over my shoulder, wondering if the train had rats.

Click…click…clink…

For a moment I couldn't place the sound, though it seemed familiar. Something to do with Erik, something to do with illegal activities in the dead of night.

Oh, I knew.

Someone was trying to break in.

I sat up, waved my paper in the air to dry the ink, and reached for the knife on the seat of the armchair. The familiar weapon (it was the very same one I had had when I'd first met Erik) fit well in my hand. The handle was smooth and warm against my skin. I stood, wincing as my head twanged with pain.

I coughed very loudly and said, "I'm thirsty, Christophe. Can you get me a glass of water?"

The clicking at the lock stopped very abruptly.

I stomped across the floor, pretending to be an annoyed Christophe getting water for his prisoner, and clomped into the bathroom. I turned the faucet on, smacked a cup into the sink, and filled it all the way up.

Putting a hand over my mouth to muffle my voice, I said gruffly, "Here," and went to put the cup on the table.

The clicking noises started again.

I took a deep breath and stared at the door. Apparently my impersonation of Christophe had failed, which meant that whoever was at the door knew him personally, which meant it was one of the contacts.

I thought bitterly, I'll bet my teeth it's James.

"Who's there?" I demanded, advancing towards the door. "I will shoot you!"

There was the sound of quiet, sarcastic laughter. The clicking continued.

"I doubt Christophe left you a gun," said James' voice. "And I'll be in there sooner or later, so you may as well open the door."

I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. I was trying to think of something suitably terrifying to scare him away, but nothing came to mind.

I glanced around the room, half-wondering why I wasn't panicking yet (then realized it was because I had been in these situations so often), trying to think of something else I could do to prepare myself for battle. Perhaps I would find a second weapon, in case James (if he ever did managed to open the door) stole my knife.

The lamp, perhaps. Or – the poker.

I went and picked it up, then held it in the flames, watching the metal turn red-hot. If James thought I'd surrender without a fight, he was thinking very incorrectly indeed.

The clicking at the door continued as James kept trying to pick the lock. I put the poker down (leaving the tip in the flames), laid the knife on my bed, and dragged the armchair over to the door. I had finally remembered that the contact had a gun. There was not going to be a hand-to-hand fight, because if I attempted one, I would lose.

It took a considerable amount of strength, sweat, and lost breath, but in the end I managed to wedge the back of the chair under the doorknob, effectively blocking anyone from entering.

The clicking stopped. "What are you doing?"

"Keeping you out, you imbécile," I said, forgetting in my fury (why did people always insist on bothering me?) that I hated cursing. "Now get out of here, or I promise you, you'll regret this for the rest of your life."

The poker hissed merrily in the fireplace; my knife sparkled on the blanket. I turned to look at the open window: perhaps I could climb out of the train and onto the roof, if it came to that.

But then I heard footsteps, and turned back around, assuming James had given up and was departing.

But instead there was a second voice, and a third, and I realized several people were walking past, talking.

"I'd rather have eaten in our room," said a female voice. "Why do you always decide to pick fights with the waiters?"

"I don't pick fights," said a male voice that oozed with superiority. "He was the one who spilled the milk all over my cravat. I only asked him-"

"Yelled at him in front of the entire car," said the woman's voice. "No wonder he glared at you so. And then you decided to go and complain to the manager-"

"I was perfectly within my rights to do so!"

"No, you were acting like an idiot! You always embarrass me in front of everyone! We can't go anywhere anymore because of you!"

She sounded as if she was on the verge of tears, and both of their voices had risen to shouts. James was either frozen next to the door or walking quickly away, because I couldn't hear anything from him. The woman continued to shout at her husband, her voice trembling. It sounded like they had stopped right next to my door.

My saviors, I thought, discarding plans of pokers and climbing out windows and wrestling with armchairs. I adore you.

"Excuse me."

It was Erik's voice, and I let out a little sigh of relief. Thank goodness. Perhaps I would be able to go back to my writing now. I pulled the armchair away from the door and began the laborious process of dragging it back in front of the fireplace.

He knocked, and I wiped a hand across my forehead, took a deep breath, and went to open the door. I was carrying my knife, just in case James knew how to imitate voices and that it was actually him outside, and not Erik.

It was Erik, though, and he was holding a full tray and glancing over his shoulder at the arguing couple, a bewildered expression on his face. I could tell what he was thinking: Who are these people? Why are they arguing with each other? Do married couples always argue like that?

"James tried to break in," I said, after he'd gotten inside and shut the door.

"What?"

"Take deep breaths, dear," I said, as he turned to glare at the door. I snatched up my note from the seat of the armchair and slipped it into my pocket. "I got out my knife, see? And I heated the poker, and I dragged the armchair under the doorknob."

Erik stood in the middle of the room, clearly alternating between going to find James and strangling him, and staying here to keep an eye on me. He chose the latter: he sat down in the armchair and lifted a piece of bacon from his plate. Methodically, he crushed it between his fingers.

I didn't think he knew what he was doing: his eyes were fixed on the door. Little pieces of meat rained down on his plate.

"He's a monster," I went on, picking up my plate of eggs and toast from the tray on his lap, "but now you're back, and you can threaten him with death if he shows up again. Eat something, dear, I don't want you to starve."

Erik continued to smash his bacon, glowering blindly into space. "I will kill him."

I shook my head, dug my fork into my eggs, and ate. I'd have to wait until he took a few more deep breaths.

After I deemed him sufficiently back to normal, I said, "Well, I wouldn't mind if you did – well, maybe I would – but you can't, dear. I'm sorry. How are you feeling, by the way? How's your shoulder? Did you change the bandages?"

Erik (who had poured himself a cup of tea and was sipping from it) glanced down at his shoulder, surprised, as if he'd forgotten it was there. "All right, I think. Yes, I changed them last night. And the headaches have gone away. But how are you feeling?"

"Good," I said. "I've decided we need to get off the train as soon as possible."

Erik nodded. "That would be beneficial, yes."

"But I don't have a map," I said. "And I don't know our nearest stop. And I'm not entirely certain we should leave."

My fiancé looked up, startled. "Why not?"

I picked up my own cup of tea and sat down on the arm of his chair. "I'm worried about the copyist, Erik. If the Inspector really is back, and he really does have him… The poor man has no idea what he's fallen into. We can't let him-"

"No," Erik said, realizing what I was saying. "No. We can't do that, Irene. We need to get away from here as soon as we can."

"Erik…" I looked away, shaking my head. "I just don't know. I keep thinking of Nicolas."

Nicolas, who'd saved our lives, though he was a common murderer and a man with no reason to. Nicolas, who had given up everything, even his life, to free us, though we were his enemies, though I'd killed his brother.

Erik's teacup clattered onto his plate as he stood. He strode to the window, shoving his hands into his pockets, his back to me.

"Irene… you don't need to do this. We don't need to do this. We could go somewhere else – do something else-"

"We can't go home, Erik. The Parisian police will lock us up. And where else would you go?"

"We could simply vanish," he said, his tone wistful. "Somewhere in Europe… we could stay on this train and let it take us far away."

I had the feeling I knew what he was imagining. I looked past him, out the window, at the meadows we were rushing past.

A long countryside, stretched out against the gold horizon; a tiny house standing brown beneath the stars, its red door open.

A thatched roof. Horses in the stable, a weathervane spinning in the blue sky. Wheat rising in long rows across the ground.

Erik, bare-faced and smiling, leaning in the doorway, his violin tucked under his chin, strains of music rippling in the earthy breeze.

A pile of books on the kitchen table. An open window. A stack of writing, my pen lying on a chair.

My throat was tight. I stood, setting my plate down on the chair.

"We can't."

Erik turned. "You're thinking of Antoinette," he said, green eyes pleading, "but she wouldn't mind. We'd get news to her somehow. And Francis – he'd understand…. So would Nadir. They only want us to be happy, Irene. They would let us go."

I closed my eyes, trying to figure out why it felt wrong. It would be so easy, so simple… A few words: they were all I had to say.

"I don't know."

He came to me, his face open and hopeful. "Irene, it's one of the best chances we've got. We can't go back to Paris. We've shirked the assignment – if we return, they'll send me to trial."

"The Opera House?" I said, thinking of his home; of my room, the roof, the auditorium. The Opera had sunk into me: I could feel its music throbbing under my skin; feel the cool wind of the roof blowing through my hair. My feet had trod its corridors, climbed its stairs. I'd cried there, laughed there, nearly died there. There I'd met my friends; there I'd met Erik; there I'd let go of revenge and chosen love instead.

"It's your home, Erik. It's my home. Would you be able to leave it?"

Erik nodded. "Yes."

I felt something catch in my throat. This was something wholly unexpected. I had never thought to hear him say that – never thought he would volunteer to leave the Opera, his only home, to forge a new path, to create a new place with me. Without thinking, I reached up and touched the scar running under his lip.

"What of your mask?"

Erik looked down at me.

He raised his hand and placed it over mine, long fingers holding mine in place.

"I'll throw it away when we leave," he said, his breath soft against my hand. "And we can start anew."