An imaginary illness is worse than a real one.

Something worse can always happen.

Quiet.

Far away, at the bottom of the cliff where the ocean met rock, the sound of the sea droned on and on through the dark. The only sounds were vague splashes, an occasional voice of a very early morning fisherman hailing a fellow neighbor, the scratch of a small fishing boat against rough, lichen-coated rocks. The sky was a dark gray color. It would be fine once the sun rose, but right now, there was no sign of warmth. There was only a lessening of darkness as night ebbed.

Far up the rocky surface of the cliff, hotels and houses clung to the earth. It was late spring, so the rocks were studded with green growing things; the soil was very rich here because of Mount Vesuvius. Now, of course, the hotels and houses and lemon trees were hidden; from the shore, all one could see was a looming mass towering above the Mediterranean and the rocks that turned gold during the day were only an indistinct uncertain black. Intermittent lights dotted the mountainside, but they were so few that from the shore they looked like misdirected fireflies.

Some of the lights belonged to the Hotel Lucia. They had been left lit on the patio in case sleepless guests came out of their rooms to roam or get a book from the catch-all bookcase near the reception area. Every guest room opened onto the patio, which during the day was light and sunny and filled with cheerful people. Now, though, it was quiet, and the breeze -- which never quite stopped here -- ruffled the budding leaves of the lemon trees and the bulb flowers Nikita planted.

Something slunk across the gray stones, stealthily sneaking around the shadows of plants and empty patio furniture. It passed quickly around a circle of light; a cat, with a not unsubstantial rat dangling from its mouth. The cat cocked its head, listening for something, waiting ... then it changed course and headed toward an open window. The cat lay the dead rat in a flower bed -- no doubt to save for later -- and sprung onto the window sill. Then silently it leapt down into the laundry room, through the door opposite and trotted through the inner courtyard.

Here, all the doors were closed against the chill of the night air but a few windows had been left open. The cat stopped again, listening, then crouched and leapt with the accuracy of a trapeze artist onto the ledge of a window.

She lay below him, sprawled across the bed on her back, one foot sticking out from the blanket. She didn't move, but something passed over her face, and she let out a little murmuring protest. Her forehead wrinkled in a frown and one hand moved across the pillow, searching for something.

The cat cocked its head, considering. Then it squeezed its narrow body through the window opening and perched on the wide footboard of the bed, waiting.

***************

There's always something better, and there's always something worse.

Pain.

It started gently, gradually, snickering lightly down her spine, tingling through her nerves, numbing her fingers. Then down further: past her tailbone, lingering in her hip joints, lacing down her long legs, pooling in her knee sockets, then finally, her ankles. Her toes went numb, her arches ached.

Nikita groaned faintly in her sleep.

It grew stronger. A little angrier. Now, instead of meandering through her body, the pain snapped out: once, twice, jerking her out of her semi-conscious state.

"Oh ..." Nikita sighed, opened her eyes, and lay perfectly still.

It was like an electric storm: the pain was lightning-fast at first, twisting her nerves into miserable knots. Then, when it ebbed, it was like thunder, aching, numbing, stretching.

She didn't move, but in the dark, she could see the cat sitting on the end of her bed, its eyes glittering faintly at her, keeping watch. She tried to greet it, to call it by name, but another burst of pain made her shut her eyes and grit her teeth.

These attacks always scared Nikita. The first time had been the worst, but really, they never got easier. At least the first time she didn't know what to expect. Now, she knew before it got better, it would get worse.

Breathe, she told herself. Breathe. In and out. In and out. In and --

Another spasm of pain zagged through her, and Nikita's breath stuttered in her chest.

It's okay, she told herself. It's okay. It's perfectly normal. Perfectly norm --

Her spine seemed to explode, pain radiating down to her toes, and Nikita arched over the bed. When she hit the mattress, the pain immediately intensified as her joints shifted and moved.

The game, she thought frantically, it's time to play the game Mama and I always used to play. Better or Worse? Better or --

Nikita whimpered as fire lanced through her.

It's better than being in Med Lab, she thought. But worse than being shot.

Another staccato burst of pain, and this time she felt something wet on her face. Nikita gritted her teeth and tears seeped from under her eyelids.

It's better than being tortured. But not much, she admitted to herself, then jerked as another wave hit her.

Okay, okay, she thought, the game. Play the game. Better than being electrocuted. Worse than surgery. Better than ... better than being bitten by rats. Worse than being beaten.

The attacks were further apart now. She counted the seconds like children counted the seconds between thunder and lightening to gauge the distance of a storm. Then, she stopped counting as the pain settled where it would: her knees, her hips, all along her back, her shoulders, her hands. She couldn't flex them and she could feel them slowly swelling.

Exhausted from the ordeal and still miserably aching, Nikita relaxed into the mattress. "It's okay," she murmured, but the cat, like so many of his species, seemed skeptical. It leapt from the bed railing to the floor, then up to a small easy chair that Michael liked to sit in.

The room began to lighten as dawn crept closer, and Nikita wearily closed her eyes. These episodes were getting worse, not better, and they were lasting longer. Still ... she sighed and continued the game, waiting for the pain to subside enough for her to go back to sleep and wishing she'd had the foresight to put her pain medication close by. It would hurt too much to get up to fetch it, and Michael wasn't here ...

Another ribbon of pain weakly pulsed through her. It's worse than being kicked in the kidneys. Better than miscarrying.

The room got lighter, and gradually Nikita slipped into a half-doze. These blinding, debilitating flashes of pain were just another reminder of Section and what they'd taken from her, just like the miscarriages had been a dozen years ago.

The first time she'd miscarried, Milla had been ... what? Eight? Nearly nine? When Nikita told Michael she was pregnant, he'd looked completely flabbergasted, as if the possibility hadn't occurred to him.

"Well? What do you think?" Nikita asked, almost dreading the answer. She'd been standing on her knees on the bed, facing him as he undressed. He'd been right in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt and his hands froze, then, slowly, resumed their task.

"Michael?"

He shed his clothing and came to stand in front of her, then, unexpectedly, he lifted her nightgown off and bent down and kissed her stomach. "It's a wonderful idea. You're wonderful," he mumbled, and her arms went around him.

"Really? You don't ... mind having other children?"

"It will be nice to see them grow up," Michael decided, kissing her again. He moved up, kissing her breastbone, then her neck, then her mouth. They made love tenderly, and two weeks later, in a rush of cramping and pain and watery blood, she lost the baby.

The second time she'd been a little further along. She'd bent down to get something out of the refrigerator, and felt something ... happen. Almost like a tremor in the earth, but this tremor was inside her.

About a year later, she'd conceived again. This time things were different. She'd passed through the first trimester and the second; to her amusement and relief, she finally began to show in her seventh month. Things were progressing so smoothly, Michael began to travel again, never for very long, but quick one- and two-day trips. She hired someone to take her place at the hotel and rested -- a lot. The doctor prescribed bed rest and Nikita faithfully followed his instructions.

One afternoon in late summer she was resting on the patio when she felt something ... that wasn't right. It wasn't like the last two times: there wasn't any pain, no blood, nothing to frighten her. But something was wrong. She'd gone to the doctor, taking only her cell phone and leaving instructions for Milla to go to Aldo's house when she got in from swimming.

The examination was quick, the verdict bad. Confused and scared without Michael, Nikita dialed his number and waited while the nurse tried to prepare her for surgery. "Michael?"

"What's wrong?"

"The baby --" she started crying, and couldn't get the rest out.

"Nikita? Nikita, what about the baby?" From the other end of the line, Nikita could hear the sounds of other people busily going about their daily lives, unconcerned with life or death. Somehow, it was reassuring -- maybe things were upside-down in her world, but there were people out there who were living normal lives, going to work, eating ice cream ...

Nikita took a deep breath and the nurse frowned at her, motioning her to hang up so they could get on with it. "It's stillborne," she said, her voice thin but steady. "And they want me to deliver it."

"What? When?"

"Now."

"I'll be there ... as soon as I can. I love you."

"I'll see you soon," Nikita said, and hung up.

They dosed her up on drugs and, floating in a half-conscious state, Nikita did as she was told. She didn't know what she expected, but when the little corpse came out, the nurse let out an involuntary sound of surprise, and the doctor cursed then crossed himself.

"What is it?" Nikita asked.

"Nothing. It's nothing," the nurse said. "How are you feeling? More pain medication?"

"I don't feel anything," Nikita said, struggling to see what the fuss was about. "I'd like to see my child, though. Is it a girl? A boy?" The sonograms had been inconclusive and Nikita had been curious about the sex.

"It would be best if you didn't dwell on it ..." the nurse came up to Nikita, held her hand and talked soothingly. "I know you must be tired ... why don't you rest for awhile?"

"I want to see my baby," Nikita said stubbornly.

"Now, dear ..."

"Show it to me. Now." Nikita raised herself on her elbows, straining to see past the sheet that covered her legs.

The nurse and doctor exchanged a look, and Nikita repeated herself. "Now. If you don't show me, now, this instant, I'll ... I'll sue you for improper health care." She didn't even know if she could do that in Italy, but the doctor shrugged and handed something to the nurse, who, after a few confused moments with a blanket, brought a wrapped bundle to Nikita.

Nikita had been seven and a half months along. She was prepared for an undersized baby. But she wasn't prepared for this. None of the sonograms prepared her for this.

Silently, Nikita looked at her child. It had a caul on its right eye; the left side of its face was shrunken, caved in. No ear on one side. Nikita bit her lip and folded back the blanket.

No arms. Her child had no arms. On one side there was a sort of growth, like a few extra fingers. Gently, Nikita touched its tiny torso, warped because of a curved backbone, and the nurse shifted a bit, revealing the lower part of the body. One leg was twisted terribly; the other ended in a knob instead of a foot. Nikita tucked the blanket up around the baby and was silent for a few minutes. "I would like to bury him," she said finally.

"Of course." The nurse, as gently as possible, covered the baby's head.

"And his name is Paul," Nikita said.

"Very well."

When it was all over and Michael brought her home, Nikita remained sad and quiet for a few weeks. One evening after checking Milla's homework and tucking her in, Michael came into their bedroom to find Nikita studying herself in the full-length mirror.

"What are you doing?" he asked softly. He came up behind her and put loose arms around her, cradling her against him.

"I was just thinking."

"About what?" Michael kissed her temple gently, and Nikita smiled faintly.

"About what else is wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong with you. These things happen, Nikita."

"Maybe. Maybe not. It's funny ... I look like a normal person outside. But inside ... I don't know what Section did to me."

"You think this is Section's fault?"

"I think it's a possibility. All the things they did to me ... the medications, the exposures to who knows what kind of biological hazards ..."

They didn't try for more children. Instead, Nikita threw herself into her family. Milla grew older; Nikita began to take some trips with Michael; during the busy season, she worked long hours at the hotel.

All in all, it was a good life. A happy one. Then, a few years ago, things started going wrong again.

At first, she thought it was stress. Milla had just gone off to college and Michael was away a lot that fall. Then, one episode landed her in the hospital and after a barrage of tests, the only thing the doctors could come up with was it was some type of neurological problem.

The sun was fully up now. Outside, the sky was a brilliant turquoise blue, and the water was a shade darker. Sun turned the patio rocks golden, and guests came out on the terrace to eat early breakfasts before going site seeing.

Nikita sighed and turned over in her bed. Across the room, the cat turned himself inside out, belly up and vulnerable to the sunlight.

****************

Trust your instincts.

When Milla had reached the dig this morning, she'd actually been chilly. Now her shirt stuck to her back. The air was hot and heavy and it wasn't even nine yet.

The landscape was rough and rocky, a dull yellow color, and the sky overhead was a shimmering pale blue. Lying half in the shade and half in the sun was a lightly snoozing brindled cat, its tail quirking up every now and then. Milla took another long drink of water from her canteen, wiped the sweat from her forehead and fanned her face, trying to cool off. May in Egypt was hot; she wondered absently if Cairo was hotter than the desert, then decided that after it reached a certain point, hot was hot, no matter what the degree the thermometer read.

The tombs were hot, too. You'd think that being underground they'd be cooler, but the truth was, it was like an oven down there. Still, she'd spend 24 hours underground if she'd had some decent murals to look at.

Milla sighed and took another breath, scanning the horizon. Nothing seemed out of place, and yet ... she felt uneasy. She had all morning, from her first cup of tea till now. She focused on her workers, first making sure that they were all accounted for, then looking for signs of heat exhaustion. Of course, they weren't really hers: everyone, including Milla, was under Professor White's supervision. But Professor White, along with every other non-Egyptian worker on this dig, didn't speak Arabic. Until they realized that normal Egyptians didn't speak English, Milla's grasp of languages had been seen as a sort of curiosity. Then they discovered how valuable she was and, instead of letting her study exquisite tomb paintings, they decided she was more suited to being a translator.

It's not fair, Milla thought savagely. Here I am in Egypt and I haven't even been close to a good undiscovered mural yet. Instead of studying the tomb paintings, which is what I'm supposed to be doing, I'm stuck out here supervising the workers and sorting pottery ...

It didn't help that Professor White's tombs didn't appear to have decorated walls. From all the clues they'd gathered so far, these tombs were of middle class citizens. There were some paintings, but they were crude. She'd been hoping for scenes of hunting, of happy families, of catalogues of wealth that high-powered individuals would take with them to the afterlife.

Instead, she got rough cartouches. In only two colors. And a lot of mediocre pottery and poorly formed ushebtis.

To put it mildly, she was disappointed.

Still, there were other, previously discovered tomb paintings she could have studied on her own. It wouldn't have been as much fun as being the first -- besides the grave robbers -- to see the lovely, bright funereal pictures the Egyptians painted on the tomb walls, but it certainly would have been better than separating pottery shards from ushebtis, the little figurines Egyptians put in with the burial goods to do the labor in the afterlife.

Milla stretched, then sat back down on the ground, lightly stroking the sleeping cat, one of about a dozen that flitted in and out of the camp. She'd been feeding them bits of left over food. This one was the friendliest of the group and had taken to Milla quickly. The others were more skittish, perhaps because they were not used to friendly people. One cat in particular Milla had her eye on - - it appeared to have been in a fight and she was concerned about its ear, which looked like it needed tending. And though she knew she wouldn't be able to tend it, she thought that if she were clever, she could catch the cat and take it to Sara or maybe Sammy, who worked at the medical outfit nearby.

She glanced quickly around but she didn't see the injured cat. Below her, the workers were clearing the latest of a series of group tombs. Two had already been partially cleared of rubble and pottery pieces; the rest of the team was excavating what remained--mostly mediocre jewelry and mummies, some in sarcophagi. Milla was supervising the initial clearing of the third chamber, which, from what she could tell, was identical to the previous two: filled with rubble and approximately 20 mummies, all from the late period, which meant they were poorly preserved.

Their pottery had survived though, and, even though it was pretty smashed up, you could tell a lot about people from their pottery. It wasn't Milla's driving interest, but she still respected the wealth of information that someone else could read from it. It wasn't hard work, but she had to be careful for some of the pottery shards were sharp as knives. Mixed in were ushebtis, little human figurines of all sizes, from an inch long to nearly five inches, some in bright green-blue faience and some in nondescript unfired clay. Occasionally she found an unbroken one, but more often she found the lower or upper half of a ushebti, feet, legs, sometimes a head. It was a little gruesome. On the other hand, it was better than sorting through smashed up canopic jars, which contained embalmed entrails.

She emptied a rush basket carefully so none of the pottery broke further and quickly separated the ushebtis from the rest of the pottery, putting them aside for later. Perhaps if she were lucky she could fit some of the ushebtis together later on. Next, she began dividing the small, medium and large pottery shards carefully, looking for any pottery designs that would help piece them together again.

"Miss?"

Milla squinted up at a tall, white garbed Egyptian. "Yes, Hassan?"

"The workers, they have found something. A door."

"False? Or a passage to another chamber?" False doors were painted on the tomb walls; occasionally they were very intricate, beautiful paintings. So far, the only ones they'd uncovered were utilitarian, just painted lintels and dark squares to fool the evil spirits. Milla stood.

"Another chamber."

Milla frowned.

"It is occurring to me --" Hassan hesitated, but Milla looked interested, so he continued. "It is occurring to me that perhaps this is a chain of tombs."

"It's beginning to look like it. Maybe we'll get lucky and this next one will be worth something."

"It is possible. Would you like to continue?"

Milla frowned again. "That will be Professor White's decision. He's in the other chamber still, isn't he?"

"Yes. I could fetch him for you." Hassan was under the mistaken impression that Milla, despite her sex, was in some way superior to Professor White because she knew Arabic; as a result, he treated her with respect that she really didn't deserve.

"No, I'll get him," Milla replied. "Keep working where you are for now. We'll have to stop work in an hour or so anyway for a morning tea break."

"As you wish."

Hassan went back to the others, and she heard him relay her message to the workers. They nodded and went back to work, but Milla turned around slowly.

Milla's uneasiness returned. A sort of nagging awareness that something somewhere wasn't right. At first she'd thought it was because last night, her tentmate had been bubbling on about the mummies and Milla couldn't work up the same kind of enthusiasm for the work she was doing. When she'd finally gotten to sleep, she'd been restless. But now ...

Milla scowled, eyes darting over the landscape. Everything looked normal. Several cats dozed in the sun, waiting for a morning snack. Milla looked at them carefully, but they appeared to be healthy -- her injured cat wasn't among them. She wondered if he'd gone off to die by himself, and felt a pang of regret for not catching him. She continued to scan the landscape, looking for something out of place. The workers were efficiently clearing the tomb. Not far away in the other chamber she could hear the muffled voices of the Americans. Further away, several miles, she could see the vague shapes of the medical team that was stationed in the desert.

Everything was as it should be. And yet ... yet ...

Milla shrugged, unable to put her finger on what was wrong. She turned, intending to fetch Professor White and ask him what she should tell the workers, when she thought she saw something from the corner of her eye and she swung around.

It was only a cat chasing a lizard. But she turned so quickly, she lost her footing and stumbled. She automatically put out her arms to stop her fall, but instead of protecting herself, she landed with one arm on the rock-hard sand and one on top of the pottery.

Milla cursed and picked herself up, checking her knees first, then the pottery. That's funny, she thought. I thought all the pottery I'd seen today was brown. But that looks like ochre paint --

More confused than anything else, Milla picked up the piece of pottery and was even more surprised to find the red paint was wet.

What on earth?

That's when she noticed that her left hand -- the one that had landed in the pottery -- was split wide open and bleeding all over the sand.

Milla took one look and fainted dead away.

**************

Always carry an antiseptic with you.

"Miss. Oh, Miss, please wake up. Miss ..."

Groggily, Milla opened her eyes to find a ring of concerned men and one curious cat circling her. Their white and brown robes swirled in the desert heat, shielding her from the sun. The cat cocked an ear at her and began bathing its hind foot.

"Oh, Miss. Your hand ..." Hassan looked almost like he was going to cry, and Milla tried to smile.

"It's all right, Hassan. Just a cut. See? I'll be fine. I'm just ... I'm not so brave when it comes to blood. Especially mine."

"We will hide it from you. Yes? Close your eyes, Miss."

Obediently Milla closed her eyes. She liked Hassan; in a way he reminded her of Michael, her step-father. Quiet, but dependable. Though he was a lot fussier than Michael. She felt Hassan began to wrap her hand, and the other men began to give him advice.

"It's too large a cut. She should see the doctor."

"Yes, the doctor. It will get infected if it's not taken care of."

"Hassan, you wrap it wrong. It should be tighter."

"No, looser. The bad blood must flow away."

"No, it should be tight so no more blood escapes."

Dizzier from their arguments than from the accident, Milla struggled to sit up. "What time is it?"

Hassan looked at her suspiciously. "It is nearly time for the mid-morning break."

"Then you should all have some tea and rest. Don't worry about the hand, I'll take care of it." She waved her wrapped hand reassuringly, but there was so much blood on her clothes -- and already seeping through the makeshift bandage -- it wasn't very effective.

"An excellent idea," Hassan approved. "And while they rest, I shall escort you to the English doctor."

"I don't think --" Milla started, but she was overruled.

"Yes, the doctor. Isn't that what I said in the first place?" one of the workers said.

"It was I, not you, who suggested it," said another.

"Yes, take her Hassan, and be quick about it." The third man nodded briskly, and the rest of the workers moved away.

*********************

The place seems good where we are not.

The medical team was located on the way to Cairo. It wasn't far away from the camp, but Hassan sensibly helped Milla into the Jeep, then proceeded to rattle most of her fillings out of her teeth with his cavalier driving.

"I'm not bleeding to death, Hassan," Milla shouted over the roar of the engine. "You don't have to drive so fast."

His answer was lost in a grind of gears and a quick acceleration that nearly popped Milla out of her seat.

She closed her eyes and hung on with her good hand, and when the Jeep finally screeched to a halt, she tumbled out the door, heading straight for the main tent.

The medical post was rudimentary. It was set up for minor accidents such as Milla's and basic health care. Since it was a mission, it was free to the poor and was always crowded with sick infants, pregnant women, children with twisted ankles or broken arms and grownups with a variety of ailments. There was always a line and today was no different. But when the group gathered in front of the open-sided tent saw Milla, she got a lot of attention. Impressed with her blood-stained shirt and mysterious bandage, she was ushered to the front of the line, behind the blind grandfather and in front of the little boy with the running sores on his leg.

The medical mission was staffed with three Britains, a French woman and three Egyptians who spoke all the local dialects. Milla knew them all well, and when she realized her favorite doctor and friend, Sara, wasn't in sight, she focused on Sara's husband. When he saw her, his dark eyebrows raised.

"What is it this time, Milla?"

"Hey, Sammy." She and Sam had a lot in common: both dark, both often mistaken for Egyptians, both good at languages. The non-Egyptian community was a close one, and she had become fast friends with Sara and Sam Sanderson. She gave him a somewhat grim smile and sat down in the wobbly chair, positioning herself so the line of locals could see what was happening. To some of them, medical care was somewhat magical, even though none of them would have ever admitted they believed in such things. In any case, since the area was open, none of the treatment was private.

"So, what happened?" he asked.

"Just a little accident. Where's Sara?"

Absently, he replied, "She had to go help a woman deliver twins. It's the woman's first birth and so Sara may have to sleep over. She'll be back by tomorrow if all goes well. She'll be sorry she missed you."

"It'll be good practice for when Baby Sanderson comes into the world, I guess," Milla said, trying to be brave about her injury. "How much longer?"

"Till our baby comes? A few months." Gently, Sam began unwrapping Milla's hand. When he saw the cuts, he let out a low whistle. "Did you wash this yet?"

"I didn't have any pure water."

Sam washed and disinfected her hand. It had begun to hurt in the Jeep, but now every time he touched her she had to grit her teeth. At least it stopped bleeding ... mostly. Milla looked away, concentrating instead on the line of people watching her with interest.

"You're going to need some stitches, Milla. I'm going to have to deaden the area and it's going to hurt."

"You're such a comfort, Sammy," Milla said, pain making her sarcastic. She watched Sam fill a syringe with some medicine he'd taken from the ice chest. "Can you at least count to three for me?" Milla asked, and Sammy looked confused.

"You want a lolly, too?"

"If you have one, that would be nice," Milla admitted. "I already fainted once and I don't really want to do it again today."

Sammy shook his head, took a sucker out of his pocket, undid the wrapper for her and popped it in her mouth. "One, two, three," he said, and on three Milla took a sharp breath in so she wouldn't feel the stick of the needle.

It didn't help.

"Hey, that hurts!" she protested, nearly choking on her candy.

"I told you --"

"When you get finished I'm going to --"

"Hold on, I need to do another on the other side --"

"Sammy! Ouch! You're killing me!"

"Milla, sit still -- you'll inhale the lolly if you're not careful -- "

She screeched again, nearly yanking her injured hand from his. "I'm telling Sara on you! You're hurting me --"

"Just one more --"

"Sammy --!"

"There. That's all." Sam was sweating almost as much as Milla, and the locals were watching them both avidly. "Jesus. I'd rather work on four infants and any number of camels, donkeys or dogs than you."

Sullenly, Milla said, "Are you telling me you're a vet, too? Because I know a cat that needs some attention. If I can only catch it."

He snorted. "You're not going to be catching anything, especially cats, for a while." Sam sat back, waiting for the medicine to deaden Milla's nerves. "Yesterday, an old chap brought in a goat. He said it was feeling bad and he wanted us to fix it up."

"Did you?"

"I don't know. We gave it some ipecac and sent them on their way. Haven't seen him today, so hopefully it did the trick."

"At least no one's brought you a snake."

"Not yet," Sam grinned, "But it's only a matter of time." He bent forward, touched her hand, and asked, "Can you feel that?"

"No."

"Good." He hesitated, then said, "You probably shouldn't watch me sew you up."

"Okay," Milla said, concentrating on her audience. She gave them what she hoped was a cheerful smile and waited while Sam threaded his needle.

"You shouldn't feel any pain, so if something hurts, let me know."

"Trust me, you'll be the first to know." Milla crunched the rest of her lollypop and tucked the stick in her shirt pocket, avoiding looking at Sam or her hand.

After a minute, he said, "It's a good thing Hassan brought you in. This could be nasty if it gets infected. Promise me you'll take good care of it. No chasing cats or anything else."

Dreading what he might mean, Milla asked, "Does that mean I can't sort pottery anymore?"

"I wouldn't advise it. Keep it clean, and that means no grubbing about in tombs. Not even to look at the art."

"Not that I could copy any of it anyway with a bum hand," Milla said, depressed. "This is just nother example of my rotten luck this year."

"Ah, it wasn't so bad six months ago. Remember? You got to muck about in all those lovely tombs, copying the artwork, breathing in so much bat dung that I thought you'd be ill."

"It's guano. Bat guano," Milla corrected him.

"Yes, of course. I remember you were quite excited. And the pictures you drew were very good. Even that magazine thought so."

"Yeah, but that was before I got put on White's team. What a waste of time."

"So, how are things going otherwise?"

Milla hesitated. "All right, I guess." Her odd feeling returned, and she asked suddenly, "Sammy, do you have a telephone I could use?"

"Nope. It's recharging. What happened to yours?"

"Sand." Sand got in everything and gummed up the works; so far, Milla had gone through three phones.

"We've got the short-range one for emergencies if you need it. Want to call the camp and tell them what happened?"

"No, I sent Hassan back already. His English is good enough to explain what happened. I wanted to call home."

"What for?" Sam glanced at her face. "Something wrong?"

"No. I don't know. I just ... want to hear my mother's voice."

He smiled. "You sound like Sara. Actually, she usually prefers to hear my mother's voice, rather than hers. But I'm afraid our short wave won't reach Italy. I'm supposed to go into Cairo tomorrow for supplies, though. Want to come? You might as well; you won't be able to do anything with that hand for awhile anyway. Sara was going to come, but I don't know that she'll be back in time. First babies are notoriously late."

Milla was silent for a moment. The line at the tent had gone down somewhat; now only four people were waiting. "Do you think we could go today?"

"Milla, you're not going to be feeling like rambling across the desert in a Jeep in a few hours, trust me."

"You could give me some medicine."

"Now, that's a first: Milla asking for drugs. I'd better write this one down in my journal," Sam laughed.

"Sammy, I'm serious. I want to go today. Please."

Sam finished her hand and cut the thread. Milla felt him doing something to her, but she didn't chance a look in case it was something nasty and she fainted again. Then she felt him bandaging her hand. "All done," he announced. "You can look now."

She looked at her hand. It was nicely wrapped in pristine white. "It looks lovely. Thanks, Sammy."

"Nearly 40 stitches. Not shabby, Milla."

Milla made a face. "It sounds worse when you put it that way."

"It'll feel worse tonight, too," Sam said seriously. "I really think we should wait till tomorrow to go into town."

"Tomorrow I'll be cranky and mad that I can't work. Now I'm just numb and anxious," Milla pointed out.

Sam sighed. "All right, Miss Stubborn. Let me take care of the last of these patients. See if you can borrow a clean shirt from one of the girls. Then we'll go."

****************

Always travel light.

The trip to Cairo wasn't too bad. Milla's hand was still nicely numb and Sam drove much better than Hassan. It was too loud to converse and the sun beat down on them unmercifully, but once they got into the city, Sam headed straight for Sheppard's and ordered them a pitcher of lemonade.

Milla had borrowed a shirt from Francoise, who was larger than she was. She'd tied the tails around her middle and Sam helped her roll up the sleeves, but nothing could disguise what she was: a working archeologist and not a very clean one at that. They sat on the porch, in the shade and away from most of the tourists, sipping their lemonade and nibbling on some cold sandwiches.

"Do you want to come with me for supplies, Milla, or do you want to stay here?" Sam asked finally, polishing off the last of the sandwiches.

"How long will you be?"

"At least an hour. Maybe more, but no longer than three."

When Milla shopped with Sara they generally did the medical errands quickly, then leisurely stopped by the candle makers and the soap store, smelling all the bars of soap and sometimes even buying one, but something told her Sam wasn't in the right mood to go shopping. Besides, Milla's hand was beginning to throb. "I think I'll stay here and make my call."

"Very well, then, I'll see you in a bit. Wait for me in the lobby, I don't want to have to search for you. And don't leave the hotel, please. You need to take it easy because of your hand."

"Aye, aye, Capt'n," Milla said sourly. "You're awfully bossy as a doctor. I liked you better when you were my friend. I don't know how Sara puts up with you."

Sam snorted. "Don't be a brat, Milla." He dug around in his pocket and came up with two fuzzy pills. "Here, take these and keep your hand above your heart so it doesn't throb as much. And don't wiggle your fingers if you can help it."

Milla watched him walk away -- the perfect English gentleman, despite his dusty dungarees, dark tan and wrinkled shirt. A few minutes later she saw his Jeep plunge into the crazy noontime Cairene traffic. She drained her glass, paid the bill with some money Sam had given her, and went into the hotel.

It was cooler inside. She found a phone booth, something that looked like it was at least a hundred years old, and began dialing.

After what seemed like an eternity, the phone began to ring.

**************

Remember your credit card. You may need it in an emergency.

David Colefield finished totaling up the bar receipts from the night before and was just adding the last few entries into the system when the phone rang.

Without looking away from the computer screen, he called out, "Dulcie, can you answer that?"

The phone rang again. And again.

Swearing softly, David jumped up from the desk and reached for the receiver. "Hotel Lucia," he said quickly.

The line was silent.

"Hotel Lucia. Can I help you?" he repeated.

Still no answer.

Frowning, David said, "Hello? Is anyone there?" Then he repeated it in English.

"Who is this?" a testy, tinny voice demanded in English.

"This is David. Can I help you?"

Another pause. Then the woman said, "I wish to speak to Mrs. Samuelle, please."

"I'm sorry, she's unavailable."

"How about Mr. Samuelle?"

"He's not here right now. Is there something I can help you with instead?"

"No. I mean, no thank you." Then, in a rush, the woman said, "I'm Milla Samuelle. Their daughter. Where are they?"

"Hey, the one in Egypt, right?" David carried the phone back to his desk, tallied up the last of the figures and hit the Enter key, watching as the figures righted themselves and the weekly inventory sorted itself out. He glanced up at the wall: a magazine spread showing precise tomb drawings in delicate shades of yellow, bright blue and blood red had been carefully mounted, framed and hung. "The one in the magazine?"

"Uh ... right. Where is everyone?"

Feeling like somehow he'd been snubbed -- after all, he was there -- David said smoothly, "Dulcie must be in another part of the hotel or she would've answered; Mr. Samuelle is out of town on business; and your mother isn't working today."

"Oh. She must be out shopping or something, I guess."

"No, she's here. She didn't feel well this morning."

"What's wrong?" Milla's voice sounded a bit strained, and David tried to be reassuring.

"It's nothing, really. Wednesday's are slow. She just felt like sleeping in."

Silence on the other end. Then, in a brittle voice, Milla said, "My mother's never slept in."

"Well, she had a bad night," he said smoothly. "And we aren't too busy right now."

"Bad night? What's wrong?" Milla demanded.

"Nothing. You know how it is. She has her good days and her bad days. Today wasn't so good."

Dead silence from the other end, and suddenly, David realized what was wrong. "You didn't know, did you? She's been off and on sick for as long as I've been here, and I've been here a year. She's usually fine, but some days she feels really bad. That's why I was hired. Mr. Samuelle wanted someone here when he had to go out of town. Not that he does a lot of traveling lately, but you know how he is. Careful."

"So, what exactly do you do?" Milla sounded a bit accusing, but David shrugged it off.

"Oh, the usual. Accounts. Make sure there's enough staff. I guess in another hotel property, I'd be the general manager, but that's an awfully grand title for someone who has to unstop toilets twice a week. Or do minor electrical work."

Milla laughed, and David found himself smiling back. "I thought Michael got the plumbing repaired a few years ago. I remember the floors being torn up and plumbers everywhere --"

"It's built on a mountain, Milla. Things go wrong with the plumbing," David reminded her.

"When is Michael due back in?"

"I don't know. Today or tomorrow morning, I think. He hasn't called in yet, but he should sometime this afternoon."

A pause. Milla evidently checked her watch, because the next thing she said was, "Damn. My wristwatch is gunked up with sand again. What time is it there?"

David checked his watch, told her the time, and Milla said, "Can you tell my mother I called when she wakes up?"

"Sure. Are you going to be somewhere she can reach you?"

"Uh ... yeah, if she wakes up in the next hour or so, I'm at Sheppherd's." Milla rattled off the phone number and said, "How often does she have these ... bad days?"

David thought for a moment. "This is the second one this month. She had a couple last month, too. But ... she didn't feel as bad as she does today."

"Can you tell me exactly what's wrong? Her symptoms?"

"I don't really know. Her joints swell up. After she's sick, she takes some sleeping medicine and tries to keep the swelling down. I think I heard your dad say it was some kind of neuro thing."

"Neurology? What, a brain tumor?"

"Uh ... I think I heard nerve damage. They didn't say anything about a brain tumor."

Silence. Uneasily, David said, "If it were something serious, Milla, I'm sure they would have told you."

"You're probably right," she said, but even to David she didn't sound wholly convinced.

"Anything else I can do for you?" David asked.

"No. Just tell her I called. But not if she's all drugged up."

"Okay." David begin making a liquor list of the things he'd need to order for the next week, and said, "So, how are things going with you? Your mother will want to know."

"Okay, I guess. Well, not really. I cut my hand pretty badly today. The doctor doesn't want me to do anything for a week till the stitches heal. But I'm all right."

"Well, take it easy. And don't worry about your mom. The doctors are still trying to diagnose her, but they've been working on it for a few months. They'll come up with something soon."

The line crackled with static, and David said quickly, "I have to go. The phone has been funny lately -- it sounds like it's about to cut --"

The line went dead. David clicked the receiver a few times, but the line remained uncommunicative. He hung up the phone and the electricity blinked off, then on, then off again. David cursed, turned off the dead computer and loped off to see what was wrong with the power this time.

*****************

It took Sam less time than he anticipated to gather the supplies needed at the medical base because some things were unavailable. Irritated, he strode into Sheppard's a little before 2 o'clock, located Milla, gave her a quick nod and headed for the phone booth.

When he emerged half an hour later, Milla was still calmly drinking lemonade and carrying on a conversation with one of the bellmen. Her hand was cradled against her chest. He knew it probably hurt; it was a nasty cut and he expected it to scar her hand. He'd have to remind her to rub lotion into the healing skin when he took her stitches out next week. Maybe then the scars wouldn't be so bad. She hadn't lost any fingers, and it seemed like she hadn't injured any of the cartilage which was a miracle, but he worried about nerve damage. He genuinely liked Milla. She reminded him of his younger sister Indira, not in looks so much but in personality. And his wife Sara adored her. If either Sara or Indira were facing possible nerve damage, he'd send her to the best specialist he knew -- and he'd do the same for Milla if it came down to it. Hopefully, it wouldn't.

"Hi, Sammy." Milla grinned up at him, and he smiled back.

"Hey, brat. Ready to go back to camp?"

Milla glanced at the bellman, who looked a little confused. "Thanks for the help," she said to him, and he shrugged, nodded, and went back to the front desk.

"What help?" Sam asked.

"Oh, he ran an errand for me," Milla said, absently waving her hand then wincing slightly.

"Did you talk to your mother?"

"Uh ... no. Not exactly. Say, Sammy, what do you know about nerve damage?"

Dreading what he thought was coming, Sam answered truthfully, "Quite a bit. Both my brother and I have studied neurological diseases; I did an extensive study about nerve damage and whether psychosomatic factors play a part in recovery. Why?"

"Psychosomatic. That means imaginary, right?"

"Sometimes," he said cautiously. "Usually it's an outside factor, like stress. Sometimes it causes actual symptoms -- like stomach ailments or headaches or, in the cases I studied, nerve damage."

Milla looked thoughtful. "What if it's not psychosomatic?"

"You mean an organic cause? Nerve damage can be caused by any number of things, Milla, not just stress. It could be something environmental. Arsenic poisoning, for instance. That often happens in underdeveloped countries with impure water supplies. Lead poisoning is the same way -- either the water has too much, or maybe people are renovating an old building with lead products, like paint, in it. They breathe it in and presto, they develop odd symptoms that turn out to be too much lead in their systems. Or maybe it's a biological thing -- the person has been exposed to something in the past that only later manifests itself."

Milla perked up. "Really? That happens?"

"Sure, sometimes. Especially with people who have been in a war or exposed to large amounts of toxic chemicals. There were a lot of documented cases of old Gulf War vets from the U.S. turning up with all kinds of odd diseases, even into their 70s. Why all the questions?"

"It's just something I'm interested in." Milla looked down and absently scratched her knee. "You know a lot about stuff like that?"

"I'm no expert on organic causes, but I know quite a bit from my research. If you wanted to find out more, I could put you in touch with my brother. He's the real expert. He's working on nerve regeneration right now."

"You mean, if your nerves are bad, you can grow new ones? Like starfish?" She glanced up at him and he could tell she was tired.

"Something like that. Come on. Time to go back to camp." Sam got up and held out a hand to help Milla.

"I'm ... well, Sammy, I'm not coming back to camp."

"Not coming?" he asked, staring at her. "You want to stay here instead? Surely you're not that tired."

"It's not that. Actually ..." she took a deep breath. "Actually, I was hoping you might do a favor for me."

"What kind of favor?" Sam's eyes narrowed.

"I was hoping you could take me by the airport." Milla cleared her throat and said in a no-nonsense voice, "I have to go home. As soon as possible. I already phoned the camp to tell them I won't come back. I called it a family emergency, but I don't really think it is. I just ... I need to go home. Now. The plane leaves in two hours."

Stunned, Sam stared at her. "You don't even have any money. I had to pay for lunch. How are you going to --"

"Credit card."

"But ... what about your work? You're just going to quit?"

"I didn't say I wasn't ever coming back," Milla said quickly. "But even you said I can't work for at least a week. Why should I stay here being bored and driving everyone crazy, including you, when I can go home for a bit?"

Put that way, it did make sense. Still --

"You don't have to worry about my stitches," Milla said quickly, as his eyes settled on her hand. "My mother can take care of it. She used to work with UNICEF or Peace Corps or something like that. She's really good at first aide."

"Milla, this isn't first aide, it's --"

"Sammy, please. I want to go home. I have to."

Sam frowned and tried to be logical. "Actually ... I was going to fly into Rome next week anyway. A few of the things we need are unavailable here."

"Really?" Milla brightened. "I don't live far from Rome at all. Just a few hours. You could come down, take out these damned stitches and check my mother for me."

"What's wrong with your mother?"

"I don't know." Milla dropped her eyes and bit her lip, and Sam frowned again.

"What do you mean?"

"They think it might be some kind of nerve damage. If you've got to come anyway ... maybe you could look at her?"

Sam sighed. He could see his quick two-day trip to Rome turning into something altogether different -- two days in Rome, a trip to Sorrento to check out Milla's hand then evaluate her mother who probably was suffering from nothing more uncommon than hormonal changes and hot flashes. Then they'd make him stay another day or two ... it would be a week before he got back to Cairo, he just knew it. And a week without Sara was too long for both of them.

On the other hand, Milla did say her mother was in the Peace Corps. There was a faint possibility she'd been exposed to some kind of nerve agent, he supposed. And, if things worked out right, perhaps Sara could come with him. They could make it a bit of a working holiday. Sara would enjoy that and it might be the last time they could get away before the baby came in a few months.

"Please, Sammy?"

God. She looked just like his sister Indira. Even sounded like her. He never could resist a person in pain, in trouble or in need. "Come on, then," Sam sighed, and Milla beamed at him.

**************

A little charm and you are not ordinary.

It was early evening, but so far only three rooms at the Lucia were occupied. They were expecting two other parties; David wondered if they'd make it or not.

Not that it mattered much. The hotel was usually empty on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Guests generally began arriving on Thursday and they saw the last of them on Monday. For the Lucia, Wednesdays were the lull before the storm.

He checked the bookings for the weekend. Almost a full house; he'd call the service tomorrow and see about getting some help for Dulcie. Maybe tomorrow he could ask Mr. Samuelle about hiring someone part-time to help on the weekends ...

David began opening the mail, setting the bills aside for payment and sorting personal correspondence for guests in a separate pile. One envelope caught his eye -- it was large, lavender, and no doubt smelled of perfume.

David groaned when he saw the familiar scrawl on the outside.

He finished sorting the mail, leaving the purple envelope for last. He looked at it carefully without touching it and seriously thought about tossing it in the trash. But he'd done that once before and the consequences had been far from enjoyable.

Best to get it over with.

He shoved up his glasses, took a deep breath, and ripped open the envelope. Sickly sweet perfume wafted into the air; he sneezed and his stomach clinched.

Breathing through his mouth, he quickly scanned the letter.

"Oh, well, hell," he said out loud, then looked around to see if anyone had heard him. He was still alone; the Samuelles were in their private quarters and would remain there the rest of the evening, and the few guests at the Lucia were dining out.

"Hell," he repeated forcefully. "Damn. Damn, damn, damn it all to --"

"Excuse me."

David's head snapped up and he forgot to breathe through his mouth; he took a deep breath of perfumed air and promptly sneezed. He dropped the letter to the counter and stepped back.

Standing in front of him was perhaps the dirtiest girl he'd ever seen. Her hair was cropped short and wiry, so it floated around her face. Her shirt was too large and tied tight around her waist, and her jeans -- what he could see of them -- were filthy and nearly worn out. At first he'd thought she was maybe 12 or 13, but a closer look told him that despite her small size and lack of curves, she was somewhere in her 20s.

David blinked and slowly came around the desk to get the full effect. Her hair was pale brown, bleached from the sun, and her skin was a dusky color. She had a sharp little chin and slanting cheekbones, giving her the look of an elf or fairy. She was covered in dust, from the crown of her head to her scuffed boots. The only thing that wasn't quite as dirty as the rest of her was her hand, which was encased in white gauze.

She dropped her backpack and tilted her head. Bright brown eyes regarded him curiously. "Are you always this rude or is it just an American trait?"

"Uh ... I wasn't expecting ..."

"Obviously not."

He remembered his string of curses, and even though technically it wasn't quitecursing, he said, "I'm sorry about the language. I thought I was alone."

"In a hotel, you're never alone. You should remember that."

"I will." The only saving grace to this whole fiasco was neither of the Samuelles had witnessed it. Being rude to a hotel guest, no matter who she was or how unsanitary she was, was unforgivable and certainly grounds for firing. Desperately trying to think of some way to placate the guest, he focused on her rucksack on the floor. It was brand new and still had the store tags on it; the top wasn't fastened and he could see a paperback book, a bottle of water and a package of cookies. "Are you hungry? The Lucia doesn't have much in the way of hot dishes, but I could get you a sandwich if you want. It's the least I can do."

"Food would be good," she said thoughtfully, still studying him.

David pushed the offending letter out of the way, which let loose another wave of perfume. The woman wrinkled her nose. "What is that?"

"My mother's way of getting my attention," David muttered, brushing the letter out of sight.

"Well, she's got terrible taste in stationery."

"No kidding. Every time I open up her letters, I feel sick to my stomach."

"Why open them, then?"

"Because if I don't, sometimes it's worse." Without bothering to explain, he pulled out the registration book and said, "I've got the honeymoon suite if you want it. I won't charge you extra, and you can have it for four days."

"Oh, that's not necessary."

"Maybe not, but I was rude and I'd like to make it up to you."

She tilted her head again, studying him. "As a way of saying you're sorry?"

"Uh ... yes."

"That's very nice of you. But you don't have to do that."

"Well ..." David paused, then said, "How long do you think you'll be staying?"

"I'm not sure. At least a week."

He refrained from making any comment about her luggage or lack thereof, but she said, "It was a spur-of-the-moment trip and my mother always taught me to pack light."

"I see," he said, not really sure of what else he could say. He looked at the reservation book, then said determinedly, "Well, I've got a really nice room with a sea view you can have. It's clean and ready to go. All I need is your signature here, and I can show you to your room. If you don't like it, we'll find one you do like."

She looked at the form he pushed over to her, then she pushed it back. "I really don't need this."

"But --"

She held out the hand that wasn't bandaged -- dirty, scraped, with a few fresh scabs decorating her knuckles. Her fingernails were grimy and broken off, and the heel of her hand was calloused. It felt small, and David found himself molding his hand to hers. She smiled politely and said, "I'm Milla. Milla Samuelle. I'll just go on back, if that's okay."

She picked up her backpack, slung it over her shoulder and strode past him, leaving a faint scent of dust and heat in her wake.

"Damn," David said out loud. "Damn, damn, damn."

************************

Always bathe when you feel sick. It won't hurt you and you'll feel better afterward.

Milla heard the splashing before she opened the door the inner courtyard, and she halted. The door would be locked.

Several years ago, one of the hotel rooms had a terrible plumbing problem. Everything from the floor tiles to the wallpaper had to be replaced. They'd even gotten new bathroom fixtures and piping in an effort to never, ever have to make any more repairs. After the room had been gutted, everything had been hauled away, except for the bathtub, a huge, ugly, claw-footed thing on rusty casters that was too big to get down the elevator.

Michael had scratched his head. "I don't know how they got it up here to begin with," he said. "But it looks like it's staying."

Initially, Michael thought he could refit the Samuelle's private bathroom for the tub, but it was simply too large for such a small space. Their apartment was tiny -- a small bedroom for Milla, a small bedroom for Michael and Nikita and a pocket living room. The bathroom had a toilet, bidet, sink and stand up shower, and no matter how Michael measured it, the tub wouldn't fit. So they'd hauled the tub to the inner courtyard, which was only available to the family and workers of the Lucia. The open space provided ventilation for the laundry, the kitchen and their bedrooms, all of which opened to the patio. Nikita had planted part of her garden here, but the rest of the courtyard was paved with slate. They pushed the tub to the middle of the courtyard, and after about a week, Milla forgot it was even there.

Then one day, she'd come home from school feeling a bit odd. The next morning, she'd had a temperature; by the afternoon her fever spiked. Milla had turned 10 that year; until then, she'd been small enough to put in the laundry sink when she had a fever.

Her mother had stopped up the tub in the courtyard, brought the hose over and filled it up from the outside faucet. Though Milla's first experience in the tub had been far from pleasant -- she'd been shivering with fever and the water felt icy cold -- in the summer, you could push the tub out to the middle of the courtyard and fill it up in the morning and by evening the water was warm from the sun and pleasant to bathe in. They'd left the tub in the courtyard ever since, and there were only two rules for using it: the first was to make sure that when you pulled the drain plug the water went down the drain in the middle of the courtyard and not into the hotel; the second was to make sure the doors to the courtyard were locked while you were in the bath. Occasionally, directionally impaired guests wandered into the family quarters and no one wanted to be caught in the altogether by a stranger.

Now, Milla stood on the outside of the heavy door. She could hear faint splashing and the murmur of voices. Then she lifted her hand and pounded a tattoo on the door. "Mami? Michael? It's me, Milla."

Footsteps. The door was unlocked and swung open. Michael was fully clothed and damp from the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt to nearly his knees. She got one brief glimpse of her mother in the bathtub beyond him, then his wet arms wrapped around her. "Milla!"

*************

God takes with one hand and gives with the other.

Michael sat back in his chair, enjoying the sight of the two women he loved most chatting about Milla's trip home.

It was late, and they were the only people on the patio. Small oil lamps flickered at empty tables which were topped with fluttering umbrellas, casting long shifting shadows across the pavement. Here and there were lemon trees in huge pots. They used the patio as a sort of extended reception area, since the weather was usually fair and people came to Sorrento to see the outdoors. Tonight, the sea was calm and dark and the sky was cloudy. They might have rain tomorrow, Michael thought, and he checked his watch. Nearly midnight. Ought to get the ladies in bed ...

But he couldn't quite tear them away from their conversation. Milla hadn't been home for a year; he and Nikita had made a quick trip to Morocco and she'd met them for a long weekend, and another time Michael had been in Cairo on business, but this was the first time in a long time that she was planning on staying longer than a few days. Always she wanted to get back to work. To look for tomb paintings, though why she thought the stuccos in Egypt were better than the ones in Italy was beyond him. Couldn't she have worked at Herculenium or Pompeii?

Maybe he could ask one of the museum curators to hire her on ...

But no. That wouldn't be right and it would make Milla furious. Not to mention Nikita. These days, he tried to lie as little as possible. It made his life a lot easier and certainly made things smoother with Nikita.

She smiled at something Milla said, and without looking at Michael, she slid her hand across the table and linked it with his. He absently rubbed a thumb across her knuckles and she gave his hand a squeeze.

Sometimes -- not often -- but sometimes on nights like this, when he was content and enjoying his family, he thought of his other family. The one he'd abandoned. Elena and Adam. And he wondered if they were half as happy as he was.

He hoped so. God, he hoped so.

Michael brushed a kiss across Nikita's hand and she turned to him, her eyes questioning. Then she smiled -- I know what you're thinking, Michael, and I love you anyway -- and she said out loud, "Does that mean you're ready for us to all go to bed?"

"It's getting late," Michael said, and Milla yawned.

"Can someone help me make up my bed?" Milla asked, waving her bandaged hand in the air.

"I will," Michael decided.

He and Nikita got Milla settled down in her own room, then leisurely returned to the patio. Michael drank the last of his wine and leaned against the balustrade, looking out to the sea. Nikita came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, resting her sharp chin on his shoulder. Michael reached up and caressed her cheek, then rested his arms against hers. "I'm a very lucky man."

He felt Nikita smile into his neck, but she didn't say anything.

"Sometimes," Michael said slowly, "I still wonder why."

"You know what they say, Michael. 'God takes with one hand and gives with the other.'"

"What do you mean?"

"My mother used to say it all the time. She meant that when things don't turn out the way you think they ought to, there's a reason and you shouldn't worry about it. Maybe you don't have Elena and Adam. But you've got me and Milla."

"I wouldn't trade you for anything."

"Well, that's a relief," Nikita said, softening the sarcasm with a smile. "Particularly since you're stuck with me. Forever."

"Good." Michael turned around and kissed her hard, circling strong arms around her. "How do you feel?"

"A little ... squashed," Nikita gasped, and Michael's grip relaxed a bit.

"Sorry. Nikita ..." He pulled away, studying her face. "How do you feel?"

"All right." She couldn't meet his eyes, and he tilted her chin up a bit.

"Still achey?"

"A little," she admitted. "I hate taking cold baths, but afterwards it seems like it helps with the swelling."

"Have you been taking your medication?"

"Some."

"Nikita ..."

"I take it when I need it, Michael," she snapped. She frowned, rubbed her forehead and sighed. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm still feeling some aftershocks. I'll be fine tomorrow."

"Mmmm." Michael folded her close and finally felt her relax against him. "Tomorrow I'll call Klaus and ask him if he can take the meeting in Madrid."

"But that's next week, isn't it? I'll be fine by then."

"I don't like leaving you alone. And I'd like to spend as much time with Milla as I can."

"Well ... it's up to you, of course," Nikita said, absently rubbing his chest. "But you've been working with the people in Madrid for months. Wouldn't you like to wrap up the deal?"

"I would, but I'd rather stay with you if you need me."

"The Madrid deal is big," Nikita said slowly, her hand resting over his heart. "Surely I'll be fine by next week. And I probably won't have another attack for a couple of weeks, don't you think? I'm sure I'll be all right alone."

Michael sighed. "We'll see."

"You sound like you're humoring me," Nikita said, sounding suspicious.

"Believe me, I don't feel very humorous right now."

"What do you feel?"

"Frustrated. Angry. I hate it that this is happening. I hate it that no one seems to know what it is. I hate it that it's you and not me."

"Well, I hate it too," Nikita grinned up at him ruefully. "But maybe in a few weeks the test results will be in and they can start treating me instead of just drugging me up on pain killers and anti-inflammatories."

"Maybe."

Nikita kissed him, then rubbed her cheek against his, curling her fingers around his neck. "Don't feel guilty, Michael. I couldn't bear it."

Michael was silent.

"Please, Michael? It's just ... luck that this is me, and not you. Please don't feel guilty about it. Just help me through it."

Michael sighed. Nikita rested gently in his arms. He closed his eyes and felt their breath moving in unison, a trick their bodies learned eons ago in Section. He felt her warm skin pressing against his, her hair tickling his neck, the fabric of her clothes warm with her body heat. "Nikita, I'll do anything. You know that. Even if I have to --" He stopped abruptly. Even if I have to track down old Section personnel to figure out what the hell is making this happen to you.

"Even if you have to what? Find someone from Section to go through our old files?" Nikita stiffened in his arms and he could feel her heart start to pound. "Michael, no. I'd rather die than bring Section here. Promise me you won't contact anyone. I won't have Milla exposed to anything that might --"

"Nikita, I would never put you or Milla in danger. I won't do anything without your permission."

He felt her relax again, and she said, "Besides, it might not even be anything from Section."

Michael sighed again. "At least we know it's not cancer."

Nikita kissed him again and this time her arms linked around his waist. Michael turned his head and looked out over the flat black sea, one hand tracing Nikita's backbone as she shivered and drew closer. "Cold?"

"Just thinking about Section," she mumbled. "Sometimes it seems so far away. And sometimes, like tonight ..."

"It seems very close. I know."

Silence. The breeze ruffled the leaves of the lemon trees and underneath them the sea was like black glass, still and inky, reflecting the moon like a mirror. Nikita sighed again and kissed Michael's neck. Then one hand meandered down his chest and Michael sucked in his breath as she neared his belt buckle. Nikita leaned back, smiled warmly at him and tugged his hips closer.

"Let's go to bed," Michael suggested, as if it were his idea.

"Will you make mad, passionate love to me?" Nikita asked curiously.

"As mad and passionate as is possible with Milla in the next room."

"That's the only bad part about her coming home."

"We will be very quiet," Michael whispered, kissing her again. "Agreed?"

"Mmmm ..." Nikita melted into him. "Quiet. Right."