Yes, it's a miracle! I've updated this story at last!

I finally found more to write about it, so I'm going to keep updating for a while. I really hope I can finish it this time.

I hope you enjoy!

We stood on the hillside, looking out at the empty horizon.

"The rest of the train," I said. "It's gone. Our boxcar must have come disconnected – something broke, or something – maybe the links snapped? How are we going to get out of here?"

"We can walk," Erik said. He looked past me, at the people beneath us. "It's possible that the train is stopped somewhere up ahead, past those trees; all we have to do is get to it."

I nodded, slowly. Odd, though, that the train we were on crashed so mysteriously… Perhaps Christophe is closer than we thought.

"Erik, this can't be a coincidence," I said.

He nodded. "I know."

"We need to be very careful."

Lower down, the dark-eyed man looked up from besides the doctor and the boy. He was clearly watching the two of us. He brushed the back of his hand across his cheek, as if swatting away a fly, and made his way up the hillside, stepping through the tall grass.

"Are you planning to leave soon?" he asked. His voice was accented the same as Henri's – he was Italian, and his French was precise, scholarly – it was his second language. His dark eyes were canny. They flashed with interest as he looked from me to Erik.

Erik shrugged. "We haven't decided. Are you?"

The man turned both hands palms-up and shrugged, mimicking Erik's gesture but with more flair. "I haven't decided. The doctor wants to take the boy along the railroad tracks to find the rest of the train – the boy's parents were in a separate boxcar. Perhaps I will go with him, or perhaps I will go with you."

I mulled this over for a moment. "Er– I mean, Christophe-" I caught myself just in time. "So what do you think?" I went on. "Do you want to follow the railroad tracks? Or do you want to wait and see if help comes?"

"It's up to you," Erik said. He hadn't missed my slip – his eyes were wary. He smiled and said to the dark-eyed man, "I'm sorry. We haven't introduced ourselves. This is Marie, my fiancée, and I am Christophe."

The Italian bowed in a graceful manner, and took my hand in both of his to kiss it. "A pleasure, signora. I am honored to make your acquaintance. I am Niccolo Favero."

Favero. It was the name of the kidnapped copyist's art dealer. Was he related to Matteo Favero? I drew in a quick breath.

Next to me Erik laughed: a rich, mellifluous sound. The Phantom's laugh. My heart leapt unexpectedly. "A pleasure to meet you. You wouldn't happen to be related to Matteo Favero, would you? My fiancée and I have an interest in buying artwork from him – we've heard he's a fine dealer."

Niccolo started, staring at us. Then he smiled, and his face flushed with pleasure. (I relaxed: every nerve in my body had been drawn taut at Erik's unsubtle question.) "How wonderful that you know Matteo! He is my uncle, and my favorite one, too. Yes, his painters are quite good. I don't suppose you know one of his best, though, a boy named Pietro? Pietro Crocetti?"

I didn't know if it would be better to lie or to tell the truth. Erik seemed at a loss besides me; he said nothing for a heartbeat.

"Yes," I said, throwing myself into the conversation with a feeling of crazed desperation. "Yes, we've heard of him. I am hoping to buy one of his paintings, actually. Have you met him?"

Niccolo smiled, seemingly unaware of our attempts to dig for information. His eyes were sad; I wondered if he knew his uncle's painter was missing. "Yes, signora, I have. I assure you, he is one of the finest Raphael copyists in the whole of Europe. What painting did you have in mind?"

"Woman with a Veil," Erik said. His hand came to rest at the small of my back. "Marie's favorite."

"Ah," Niccolo said. He coughed, then glanced away. "I see."

"Is something wrong?" I inquired, hoping I sounded sympathetic and not over-inquisitive.

"Well, you understand," Niccolo said, shifting from foot to foot, "I'm sorry to say that Pietro has… vanished. Both he and his sister have mysteriously disappeared. Along with one of his paintings – that very one, to be precise. My uncle Matteo thinks they have been kidnapped. His sister's name is Stella. She is a small girl with a face like an angel, very beautiful, very innocent.

I was unsure of what to do, and could only stare. Yes, this was the right man. Erik shifted slightly besides me.

Niccolo sighed, probably thinking our stunned expressions equaled shared horror. "I was on my way to Venice to help my uncle in his search before the train crashed. Pietro and Stella have been missing for far too long already, and he thought, perhaps, that I could help."

This confirmed everything we'd been told by the police, and Niccolo was obviously hoping we would assist him. What better way to find out more about Pietro and Stella's kidnapping than by working with Niccolo and Matteo Favero himself?

I lowered my eyes to the grass around my feet. "I see. How horrible – and we were just going to see him."

Erik stood quite still. "That is awful," he managed, sounding as if he'd taken an unexpected blow. "I – I don't really know what to say."

Niccolo sighed again. "Yes. And I am sorry to have told you, but there was really no other way to say it-"

"No, no," I said, looking up. "I understand. Thank you. But your poor uncle – what terrible news."

"Yes," Niccolo said; his face grew even darker. "And he loves Pietro like a son. He never married, you see – Stella and Pietro are almost his adopted children."

Oh, dear, I thought. It was bad enough that the two of them were missing, but did the poor art dealer have to suffer too? We must get them back as soon as possible. Who knows what horrors they are going through?

And the fact that Stella was also missing bothered me immensely. A young girl alone with the Inspector and his amoral thugs. And it was only too clear that her wellbeing would be something for the Inspector to threaten Pietro with if the copyist balked at whatever they wished him to do. What could they possibly have in mind? Why would they want an art copyist?

"How long have they been missing?" I said.

Niccolo shook his head. "Two weeks. Too long, yes? And the police have no leads. They told my uncle Matteo they would collaborate with the French police – something about how an old case in Paris corresponds with the kidnapping – but we have heard nothing from them. Although," he amended, "Uncle Matteo's last letter was a week ago, so things could have changed by now."

As he said this, I saw out of the corner of my eye that the couple sitting on the hillside had gotten up. The man stood motionless, hands in his pockets, and the woman wandered up the hillside, her skirts blowing in the gentle warm wind, her back to us. She seemed to be surveying the forest, but as she stepped backward, closer to us, I guessed that she was actually listening to our conversation.

This was confirmed when she turned around. "Are the three of you leaving by the railroad?"

"Well, we don't know yet," I said, looking intently at her. She was the same woman whose voice had been raised in angry argument outside of my room this morning, the same depressed-looking woman who had sat with her oblivious husband at a table near ours in the dining room. "What are you going to do?"

"My husband thinks it would be best if we followed the train to Lake Iseo – it lies a few kilometers west of here," she said brightly. Her face was pointed and pale and weary-looking: her red-rimmed eyes were the color of old pennies. There were splinters of wood caught in the lace of her bodice. Her hair lay limp and faded on the shoulders of her gown. "I am Mara, and this is Dante."

Her husband had trailed up the hillside after her. I raised my eyes to his face and felt my stomach drop.

He had cold, cold eyes, and the smile on his lips seemed as false as James' had been in the dining car. He offered me his hand; I shook it without thinking, transfixed by his dead stare. He had to be ill; there was no reason for his fish-eyed gaze. Perhaps he had caught the same virus that had afflicted me last night. It was a possibility. I was being silly. I managed to keep my smile, and nodded at him.

"Marie," I said. "My fiancé Christophe. And Niccolo Favero."

Erik stiffened beside me: I remembered belatedly that I was supposed to be subservient, broken. Well. I dropped my eyes back to the grass.

Everyone shook hands around me, murmuring hellos.

Mara stepped closer, smiling brightly. "So you three haven't decided yet? If you want to, you are welcome to come with Dante and I to Lake Iseo. It is close by; we can rent a carriage to take us to Venice in the morning."

She looked penetratingly at me, then turned her manic stare to Erik. He looked back, his eyes wide. He was clearly out of his depth. I opened my mouth to save him.

"Ahrumph."

I closed my mouth, relieved. The doctor had mounted the hill, and now stood by Dante, his arms crossed. The injured boy slouched besides him, his eyes half-lidded in exhaustion and pain. "Excuse me. This boy and I are leaving now, if any of you want to come. We are going to follow the train."

Niccolo spoke up, startling me, for I'd forgotten him. He moved forward, running a hand awkwardly through his hair. "Ah, Doctor, would you mind if I came with you? I would like to accompany you."

I knew what he was thinking. The doctor was elderly, and the boy standing shaking besides him, his hurt arm cradled against his body, was quite spent. The two of them would find their journey to the train difficult, even if it had stopped only a few miles away.

As if in answer, there came the sound of a distant whistle. The doctor eyed Niccolo. "If you want to come, start walking. We're leaving now."

"Would you like to come with us?" Niccolo asked Erik and I.

Erik looked from Niccolo to me, clearly at an impasse. We couldn't just let our best lead vanish – we had to go with him. Mara was going to have to go to Lake Iseo alone. I nodded.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mara's eyes widen in shock. Instantly I felt cruel and heartless, but we needed to go.

"We'll accompany you," I told Niccolo. "Let me grab my things from the boxcar, and then we'll be off. I'll be back in a few seconds, Doctor." I glanced at Erik. "Do you need anything?"

"Maybe," he said, clearly remembering we had valuables in the boxcar. "I'll come with you to look."

I went down the hillside, the wind curling around me and tugging at the edges of my hair. For a scant moment I relished the cool air across my face, and then suddenly, sickeningly, my vision blurred. The thin spikes of grass faded into obscurity; the sky swam like a monstrous patch of blue; glistening, horrid, running in waves.

I put a hand over my eyes and stopped, trying to swallow down the nausea.

"Marie?"

He – Erik – was using my fake name, but my brain refused to comprehend this, and I didn't – couldn't – answer. I held my breath, afraid to open my eyes, knowing I'd only see a miasma of broken colors.

Not now… please, not now.

"Is she alright? Is she ill?"

It was the doctor's rough voice. I heard his stumpy footsteps approaching, and a murmur of voices from the top of the hill.

"Are you ill, Mademoiselle?"

He'd stopped before me. I could smell strong tobacco on his clothing.

"Only a headache," I managed, forcing the words out, and opened my eyes.

His old wrinkled face floated before mine, a massive expanse of cheese-pale skin, pocked here and there with tiny holes. Smallpox scars. His nose jutted out like a jagged iceberg in the middle of a gritty white sea. It was too much, too close. I closed my eyes again and prayed that he would back away.

"I only need to rest."

"Marie, let me help you." Erik's voice – apparently he'd decided this was enough. I felt him grasp my elbows, supporting me, holding me upright. I leaned gratefully against his solidity. "Thank you, Doctor, but it's only indigestion. She's not supposed to eat meat, but sometimes one must, especially on a train."

The doctor appeared satisfied with this explanation: he'd probably met frail, complaining women before (or thought he had). After a caution against eating things that disagreed with one's stomach, he stalked away through the rustling grass, saying something about leaving as soon as we could.

"Yes," Erik called after him. "But give us a few moments, please."

I drew a long breath, swallowed, and took a step away from Erik, testing my balance. My foot slipped – Erik caught hold of my elbow again, and we proceeded in tandem down the slope. My forehead was drenched in sweat, and my hair stuck to my cheeks and neck. I couldn't stop shaking; the grass was as slippery as broken shale under my feet. For a moment I considered sitting down and not moving. It would be so much easier. But I couldn't bear staying here, pinned to the ground under all of their curious eyes.

He drew me into the broken opening in the side of the boxcar, and propped me up against one of the walls. I felt plaster carvings under my damp hands, pressing into the back of my head and shoulder blades: swirls, divots, arches.

"Can you open your eyes?"

I didn't think I'd see anything, but I did so. I stared blankly in the direction of his voice: all I could see was a smudged outline of his silhouette, perhaps a terribly blurred image of his cheekbone and nose. It was dark in here; it smelled faintly of burning wood. Perhaps this wasn't the best place to hold a conversation, but it was the only way we could speak without being overheard.

"What do you suppose is wrong with me?" I whispered. "It's the second time this has happened in two days."

"I think you're having a reaction to the sedative Christophe used on us," Erik said. I felt him take hold of my chin with gentle fingers, tilting my head back to examine my pupils. "You need rest, food, and water. We should stay here for a night, and then go on to Venice. I don't think you should be walking anywhere. Nowhere as far as the train, anyways."

"I thought you didn't want to stay," I said. The trembling in my hands and legs was receding; the cool wall of the boxcar felt wonderful against my back.

Erik put the back of his hand against my forehead. His skin was dry, cool. I sighed, closed my eyes again.

"I didn't," he said, responding to my question, and pulled his hand away. "But it's necessary now." He paused. "I don't think you have a fever."

We stood silently for a moment; I tried to calm my harsh breathing. There were soft voices outside: a high-pitched younger one, and a gruff reply – it sounded like the boy was talking to Dante. I couldn't imagine why. The man hardly seemed approachable.

"What do you think of the mystery couple?" Erik said, his voice quiet. "Do you think we should go with them to the lake? Mara said it was only a few minutes away."

I closed my eyes to the darkness, trying to think. Mara's overbright, cheery eyes swam up into my thoughts, followed swiftly by Dante's dead stare. "I don't know. They seem – odd. Troubled."

Erik chuckled, then sobered. "Yes. Mara appears very interested in company."

"Yes, she does. I think it's her husband. She's unhappy with him. Or he with her; I can't tell. Perhaps we should stay on with them. I can't imagine trekking across the countryside in this heat."

"We'd have an easier go of it under the trees," Erik agreed. He moved away from me, began rummaging around in the boxcar. Something rattled, shifted; I heard his shoes crunch through glass. "Do you want some water? I found half a cup."

"No, I'm feeling better," I said and realized that my head had stopped pounding. "You're still healing. You can have it."

There was a faint laugh from the corner of the boxcar; Erik's feet crunched back to me. "Truly, sometimes I wonder why you say things like that. Have some water; you're ill." He unfolded the fingers of my right hand and pressed the smooth glass into it. "Go on. I feel quite well."

I opened my eyes, expecting to see only a nauseous blur, but now Erik stood clearly before me. His hair was still the wrong color, and his face was still entirely too smooth, but the confusion was only due to makeup this time. "Yes, my vision's returned to normal. Thank goodness. If Christophe ever shows up again, I'll wring his stringy neck."

My fiancée laughed louder this time. I lifted the cup and drank, savoring the water. It was a bit warm, but that was to be expected. "I'm afraid I can't quite imagine that. And I was hoping I'd get the first strangling in – he did shoot me, after all."

"That's true." I set the empty glass down on an overturned cushion. "But illnesses are worth more than bullets, I'm afraid. You'll have to concede."

"I refuse to forfeit my vengeance," Erik said, but the playfulness was fading from his tone. He turned and looked out, tilting his head. It looked as though he was listening intently to the conversation, something I could hardly hear. For a moment I watched him, wondering how much had changed since I'd first met him. For this was the Phantom's stance: watchful, careful, knowing.

"Let me go tell them we're staying on with Mara and Dante," he said, his voice soft. "I'll be right back. Do sit, Irene."

He slid around the edge of the jagged opening and disappeared.

I looked down at the shaded mess of belongings and furniture around my feet: cushions, broken glassware, the remains of our fireplace (still smoking gently), and Christophe's suitcase, lying open and empty on the wooden underside of the overturned bed. I sat down on the bed, cautious, but it didn't move, only creaked.

Carefully, I pulled Christophe's half-visible money bag from where it had fallen beside the bed, shaking glass and splinters from its soft leather. I placed half of the roll of money in one of my hidden pockets; the rest I put back into the suitcase, along with the battered clippings from the file – I'd found them under the bed, smashed into the ceiling.

I must have dozed off for a minute because when I opened my eyes again, Erik had returned.

He was standing beside me, closing Christophe's suitcase; he looked down at me and smiled in Christophe's manner – all teeth and no sympathy. I staggered to my feet, caught myself, and looked out of the boxcar. Mara and Dante waited outside in the afternoon light, the latter staring off at the forest, the former grinning plaintively at me, her hands clenched together.

"Coming, Marie?" Erik said.

I took a deep breath. "Yes."

We went out of the boxcar, leaving behind both the wreckage of our transportation, and our newest lead.

Dante led the way, as I'd expected he would, and said nothing to any of us. He only remarked before setting off that he hoped I wouldn't faint on the way. (Predictably, I nearly had to step on Erik's foot before he remembered he wasn't supposed to be defending me, but instead performing the part of an undercover detective saddled with a difficult charge.) All the same, he stayed rather close to my side, ready to help me in case the illness came back.

Mara tripped along to my right, her voice lilting and yet oddly tightened. I chalked it up to her dour husband, at whom she kept shooting nervous glances. She was telling us about the lake.

"We came here for our honeymoon," she said to me, holding her velvety (and expensive) skirts up with one white-knuckled hand and pushing aside low branches with the other. "It was very lovely; it was in the summer, like now, and so everything was just as green as could be. And the trees – oh, they simply seem to soar up above us, don't they? Dante and I had such a grand time."

I couldn't imagine that, but gave her a nod and a slightly forced smile. My stomach was roiling again; I tugged at the neck of my gown. "So you've been recently married?"

Mara turned a shimmering face to mine. "Why, yes." She held up her left hand to show me her ring, almost giggling with happiness.

It was a cheap-looking gold circle, with a tiny flat diamond stuck to the rim. I forced yet another smile, but this time my hesitation was due to pained sympathy. What had her husband been thinking, buying her such a monstrosity?

"How lovely," I said, the lie nearly catching in my throat. "Congratulations."

"Yes, it's been almost a year now," she went on, satisfied with my feeble response. "It will be our anniversary in August."

"I'm so happy for you," I said, and perhaps my tone was wavering now, because Erik looked sharply down at me. I gave him the tiniest of shrugs.

He frowned, but looked away, and Mara continued to talk into my ear.

I ignored her. I was concentrating on clambering over a log without tearing my skirts still further - and trying to breathe through my mouth. There was something extremely smelly nearby, something dead. Ahead of us Dante was striding smartly through the bushes as though he was determined to win a prize for walking the fastest. He had not once looked back at us.

Mara's high voice drifted back into my consciousness. "– yes, and the water is so very cold, even in the summer, but we won't be swimming, of course. Once we reach the lake we can go into town and take a hotel room – or if the lake house isn't being rented, perhaps we can go there instead; there are two sections, you see, one for guests and one for the renters. And in the morning we can go on to Venice, after we rest for a while, since I know you're not feeling well –"

"A good plan," I said, only half-listening. We'd reached yet another log; Erik gave me a hand up; and I scowled vaguely at Dante's back as I slipped over the edge of the rotting wood and into an ankle-deep mass of wet leaves. He seemed to be taking us to the lake by the worst way possible.

He was deep into the next clearing, weeds nearly to his knees, when he stopped. Erik and I had hardly noticed this; we both heaved sighs as we came to the third log: this one was almost three feet tall, and twice as wide, with wet moss sunken into every dripping crevice.

I went first, using one of its branches for balance, then Erik, and he tumbled ungracefully into the weeds after me. Both of us were breathing heavily: I shot him a quick glance, wondering about his injury. His face was calm, too calm. I needed to take a look at his shoulder as soon as we got to the lake house; I hadn't dressed it for some time. Behind us Mara was still on the log: but then I heard the rustle as she dropped into the weeds.

She'd finally stopped talking.

Dante threw a sardonic glance over his shoulder at the three of us, still facing the opposite trees. I wondered what he was doing – could he see the lake house from there?

"We're here," he said. His shoulders were oddly hunched, as if he expected a blow.

Then he turned, swift and startling, and I saw the bright black revolver in his hand. His lips parted.

"Don't move."

But it was a woman's voice that spoke, not his – I looked wildly over my shoulder.

Mara held a revolver, too, both of her hands wrapped expertly around it, one thin finger on the trigger. Her face was clear and unguarded; and now I saw, for the first time, fierce intelligence shining out of her eyes. She was not a cowering wife, it seemed.

"So, Monsieur," she said, and she was addressing Erik, "who are you, and whatever have you done with our Christophe?"