Your son is your son today, but your daughter is your daughter forever.

For the next week, Michael stuck close to home. It was fun having Milla there and she clearly enjoyed being back. She teased David, their Jack-of-all-trades employee; she visited with her old friends in Sorrento and Pompeii; she did little errands David didn't have time to do; and in between, she entertained Nikita and Michael with funny stories about living in Egypt. A lot of the stories involved Sammy and Sara, and even without meeting them, Michael liked them because Milla did.

Like Michael, Milla was an early riser. One morning, he sat on the patio reading a newspaper and finishing his coffee when she wandered up to his table. "Hi-ho, Daddy-O."

The first time she'd called him anything other than Michael she'd been about seven or eight. Michael had been living with her and Nikita for a couple of years. They hadn't had a real wedding ceremony because Nikita was highly superstitious and believed Michael was cursed when it came to marriage. They had staged an elopement though, mostly for Milla's sake. Since Nikita had been using the last name of Samuelle all along, they had to tell everyone that she and Michael had been married young, divorced, then remarried. It was convoluted but Nikita thought it was relatively plausible and besides, they had Milla to consider. Nikita hadn't wanted Milla to suffer taunts or worse, censure from the nuns at her school, so they'd left Milla with Aldo for the weekend and ostensibly eloped.

False marriage aside, Michael continued to let Nikita make the parenting decisions -- after all, she was Milla's legal guardian -- and Milla always asked her mother rather than Michael for permission to do things. But one day after school, Milla had come into the laundry room to ask for help with her homework. Nikita was in the middle of a massive batch of laundry and folding sheets and towels as quickly as she could. Michael came in, toilet plunger in hand from unstopping a guests' toilet, to hear Milla ask Nikita for help.

"Sweetheart, I can't help you now -- I've got to get this done before the guests start checking in --"

"But -- the test tomorrow --"

Michael had been about to offer to help when Nikita spotted him. "Ask your father, Milla --" then she was out the door, arms loaded with freshly ironed sheets.

Milla and Michael had blinked at one another. Milla licked her lips and carefully, as if it were a foreign word, she said, "Father."

Michael couldn't breathe. Father. He hadn't thought anyone else would call him that, ever. And to hear it from Milla, whom he loved ... he swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"Will you please help me with my homework? It's spelling and I need someone to call out the words to me," Milla said.

"Of course," Michael managed to answer. And from then on, she called him whatever she wanted: Pops, Papa, Daddy-O, Dad, Michael, Big Cheese. For his part, he tried to give her as much guidance as she needed ... though now, he thought, perhaps that hadn't been enough. If he'd done a proper parenting job, her hand wouldn't be bandaged like a mummy's and maybe she'd stay closer to home.

"Good morning, little girl." Michael glanced up at her from under his paper.

"Want some more juice?" Milla asked.

"I'm fine." He smiled up at her and moved his arms out a little, so there was space between him and the paper. Milla smiled and slipped into his lap, as she had when she was very small and he was new to the family. She leaned back, reclining on him as if he were a chair cushion, and quietly read the paper with him.

"How's the hand?" he asked, turning the page.

"Okay. Mami looked at it last night and said the stitches were about ready to come out."

"Good."

"Are you going on your trip tomorrow?"

"I don't know. We'll see how your mother feels."

"What's wrong with her?"

"They don't know, Milla."

"She said they'd done some tests on her ..."

"Nothing conclusive has shown up yet."

"Milla!" From across the patio, Nikita called to them. "Milla, there's a phone call for you --"

Milla scrambled off Michael's lap. "Maybe it's Sammy. He said he might come through to look at my hand --"

"Make sure you book him a room," Michael reminded her, smiling. She scampered across the flagstones and Nikita held the door open for her, then came towards Michael.

"Morning," she smiled at him.

"Good morning." Michael put down his paper, folded it neatly and rose, kissing her soundly.

"Michael -- the guests --"

"Are still in bed," he said, returning to his seat. "As you should be."

"I'm fine. I feel ... good."

"Yes?"

"Yes." She smiled at him again, cradling her tea in her hands. "Michael, why don't you go ahead and go to Madrid tomorrow?"

He looked at her, considering. "It's a two-day trip."

"I know."

"You're sure you feel all right?"

"Absolutely."

"Would you like to come, too?"

"Maybe next time," she shrugged. "I'd like to stay here with Milla."

"She could come, too," Michael proposed.

"Well --"

The door to the reception area banged shut as Milla nearly skipped across the patio. "That was Sammy. They're coming tomorrow."

"Great," Nikita smiled. "Did you hold a room for them?"

"Yes. I put it down in the book. Number 4."

"Good. When will they be in?"

"By noon, they think. They're in Rome now, picking up some medical supplies."

"Well," Michael smiled at Nikita, "I guess that answers that question."

"Which question?" Milla asked.

"Your father was thinking you and I could go to Madrid with him tomorrow," Nikita said.

"Oh." Milla looked disappointed. "I wanted you to meet them, Michael."

"How long are they staying?"

"I don't know. At least one night, maybe two."

"I'll be back Thursday evening late," Michael said.

"Promise? You'll like Sammy and Sara. They're lots of fun."

"I'm sure they are," Michael stood, ruffled Milla's hair and kissed Nikita. "If I'm going to Madrid tomorrow, I need to get packed and call Klaus."

"All right," Nikita smiled at him, and Michael felt a sudden rush of apprehension. For a moment, he couldn't figure out why his stomach was clenched in fear and his chest felt heavy. Then he remembered: he used to feel the same way before a mission.

But missions were over. He didn't work for the Section. In all the years he'd been with Nikita, they'd never once encountered anyone from their old life, friend or foe. Michael had kept tabs on the people they'd known in Section, and most of them were either dead, insane or so completely rehabilitated they posed no danger whatsoever.

This feeling had nothing to do with Section. It couldn't. He was just worried about Nikita's health. That must be it.

Michael relaxed and went inside to pack and make his phone call.

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

Always take advantage of an opportunity.

Nikita woke up slowly the next morning, aware of Michael moving around quietly in their room. He smelled clean, damp and soapy from his shower and she smiled lazily.

"Awake?" She felt him lean over and kiss her good morning.

"Mmmm," Nikita murmured back. She felt him trace her left eyebrow and kiss her temple.

"We didn't get much sleep last night. Why don't you go back to sleep and I'll take a cab to the train station?"

"Are you complaining that I kept you from your beauty rest by making mad, passionate love to you all night?" Nikita stretched, eyes still closed. Sore muscles twinged and she felt a little twist of discomfort in her hip joint. She stretched out her leg, easing the slight pain.

"No." Michael kissed her again.

Without opening her eyes, she looped her arms around his shoulders. Then she smiled bigger when she realized he didn't have on clothes. "Ha. I caught you before you got dressed." She opened her eyes and looked straight into Michael's gentle green ones. He was wearing a towel and nothing else. Nikita tried to frown. "You're wearing more than I am."

Michael didn't answer, but he untucked the towel and Nikita reached for him. "Michael," she said, but she might as well have said "Mine," her tone was so possessive.

He kissed her lightly, then a little deeper, and Nikita purred with pleasure, her momentary discomfort forgotten. "I love waking up like this."

"Mmmm," Michael agreed, slowly lowering onto the bed. "Wish you'd come with me to Madrid."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or so my mum always said," Nikita gasped as Michael trailed a finger down her side. "Besides, it's only one night."

"I don't like being without you."

"M-M-Michael ..."

"Hush ... Milla," he warned softly, and Nikita, feeling like she was about to go up in flames, pulled him closer.

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

Had either Michael or Nikita bothered to look in Milla's room, they would have seen they didn't need to be quiet. She wasn't there.

She'd woken up at 4.30. Unable to get back to sleep, she stared at the gray square of sky she could see from her window and stretched languidly. Two cats on the foot of the bed warmed her legs and she slowly rose, trying not to disturb them.

Her hand was healing nicely. It throbbed and itched a bit every now and then, but it didn't really hurt. Hopefully her mother would take her stitches out today ...

Milla quietly went to the bathroom, washed her face, brushed her wiry hair, and returned to her room to dress quickly in sturdy boots, thick cotton pants and a sweater. She glanced out the window; the sky was lighter and she would have to hurry if she was to make it before sunrise.

She patted her cats, grabbed a light jacket and quietly left the apartment, pausing for a minute by the front desk. She had forgotten to leave a note in her bedroom. She pulled out a piece of hotel stationary, scribbled a note and then grabbed a candy bar and an apple from David's stash under the desk. She felt a little bad about abandoning David to the morning desk duties; usually they shared them. This wasn't the first time she'd slipped out to watch the sun come up over Pompeii, though, and he'd been very nice about covering for her.

Be back by 10. Sorry to stick you with the front desk duties, but I'll do your shift tomorrow. I'm taking your car. Milla.

She put the stapler on the note so it wouldn't blow away, then took the keys to David's automatic car, which was the only one she could drive with her hand.

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

First, take care of yourself. The rest will follow.

Three hours later, Nikita dropped Michael off at the train station and pulled the Citroen into the underground parking lot of the hotel. As she got out of the car, a little sniggle of pain darted from her ankle to her knee and then to her hip, where it throbbed for a few seconds before dying out.

Nikita stood still for a moment, quickly inventorying her body. She'd been a little achey this morning, especially below the waist, and a bit tired, but she'd marked that down to her evening and morning with Michael. She looked at her hands in the dim light of the garage. Her ring was a little tight, but her fingers didn't seem very swollen. Could just be too much salt. What had she eaten the day before?

Still puzzling over it, Nikita slowly walked out into the sun, then turned left to the elevator that went up to the Lucia. She cautiously rotated her shoulders and her ankles. She bent her knees and elbows slightly, checking for any pain, but nothing happened.

She shrugged and stepped into the elevator. Probably nothing. That was the problem with this nerve thing. Any time something hurt, she immediately thought it was another attack.

The elevator door opened onto the wide, sunny patio of the Lucia and Nikita got out, ignoring the sharp pain in her left ankle.

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

The seeking for one thing will often find another.

For David, mornings at the Lucia were fairly busy. People paid their bills and checked out; sightseers needed directions and usually taxicabs to take them into town; some people wanted postcards and stamps. Sometimes they got early check-ins. On the days when Milla wasn't at Pompeii, she helped out.

David liked Pompeii. He'd been twice. That was enough. He didn't understand Milla's fascination with it or why she'd want to go several times a week, but he didn't question her about it, either. So what if she was obsessed? It was a lot healthier than some obsessions he could name. Plus, she was the boss's daughter. He was lucky she felt like helping out at all.

This morning, David had taken three cancelations for the weekend, called for two taxis, helped one guest down with his luggage, sold three boxes of the special handmade lemon scented olive oil hotel soap Mrs. Samuelle ordered from the supplier in town, directed two people toward the breakfast bar and checked out a family of seven, four members of which were under the age of ten. So when the last couple stepped up to the counter, he smiled more in relief than in welcome.

"Can I help you?"

"We have reservations. Sanderson," the man said, and David ran his fingers down the reservation book. He frowned: usually he or Dulcie were the only ones who took reservations. They had an orderly system worked out between them, one that Milla obviously didn't know. She'd been filling in at the front desk when David or Dulcie had to run errands, and not only could David not read her handwriting but he had no idea what the little notations and squiggles meant. Almost like pictures, but unidentifiable to him.

"For tonight?" David asked, once again carefully going down the list of reservations.

"Yes, and possibly tomorrow."

"Absolutely for tomorrow," said the woman -- his wife, David supposed, since she was obviously pregnant. "Sweetheart, it's lovely here. Come and look at the view."

"In a moment, Sara, let me just get this taken care of."

"Well, hurry -- I'm going outside --"

"I'll be there in a minute --"

"Actually," David said as Sara stepped outside, "I don't seem to have your reservation. It's all right -- we've got a room for you for as long as you want it -- but you'll have to give me your information again."

"Milla Samuel took our reservation," the man said. "She's not good at writing things down, though. She likes to draw pictures."

"Yeah, I figured that might be the case. Any of these look like you?" David turned the book toward Mr. Sanderson, who peered at it and then laughed.

"That's us," he grinned, pointing to a series of symbols in the margin by the date. "It's the hieroglyph for physician. My wife and I are doctors near Cairo."

"Oh," David said, finally recognizing him. "Sammy, right? She's been talking about you."

"Yes, that's right."

"Okay, if I can just get your passports --"

Sam reached in his pocket and handed David two battered passports. David smiled and said, "Well, glad you made it in. Milla's been talking about you since yesterday. I don't know if she told you, but Mr. Samuelle said to not charge you for the rooms."

"Oh, but --" Sam started to protest, then he realized what David had said. "Who said the room was free?"

"Mr. Samuelle. He and his wife own the hotel."

Sam licked suddenly dry lips and managed to say, "That's very thoughtful of him. I'll have to be sure to thank him."

"Well, you'll have to wait on that," David said cheerfully. "He's out of town till tomorrow night." He motioned to the passports and said, "I'll just scan these and get them right back to you."

Sam waited while David scanned their identification. Samuel, Samuelle ... easy to make a mistake, he supposed. He'd never seen Milla's name written and with her accent he'd never even thought her name was something other than Samuel.

Samuelle. It wasn't a common name. What if ... what if ...

David came back and handed the passports to Sam. "So, I noticed on your passport -- you any relation to --"

At that moment, a tall blonde woman in a blue flowered dress and strappy sandals breezed in. "Hey, David."

"Mrs. Samuelle! You're just in time. This is --"

"Let me guess." She grinned at Sam and stuck out her hand. "Sammy, right? Milla's been talking about you nonstop since yesterday. And great work on her hand, by the way. Very tidy."

"Uh ... thanks," Sam said, shaking her hand cordially.

"But I thought ... isn't your wife coming? Milla will be so disappointed if she --"

"She's outside. Admiring the view," Sam said quickly, studying her face. Up close, he could see pale white hairs mixed in with the pale blonde ones, a surprisingly pleasing combination. She was maybe in her early 50s, stunningly lovely, with little laugh lines around her bright blue eyes and generous mouth. A sprinkle of pale freckles danced across her collarbone. Her skin was a very light, nearly translucent, and a tiny pale blue vein beat steadily at her temple.

"Oh, good." To David, Mrs. Samuelle said, "Where's Milla?"

"She should be back soon," David answered. "She left a note saying she'd be back by the time the Sandersons arrived. She took my automatic."

Mrs. Samuelle blinked as if confused, then her face cleared. "Of course. The other car is standard. Well, she'll be back soon, then. Listen, is there any aspirin back there?"

David looked in the desk drawer and pulled out a green bottle. Then he hesitated. "Did you need something else?"

"No, that'll be fine. Just a bit of a ... headache." She took two aspirin dry, smiled at Sam again, and said, "I'll just run out and welcome your wife. When you get finished, come on out ... David, ask Dulcie to bring us some tea when she has a minute. We'll have elevenses on the patio. A little early, I guess, but it's a gorgeous day out."

Sam blinked as she swirled away and through the door. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be, Sam told himself firmly.

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

Keep a stiff upper lip.

A twinge.

Nikita hesitated and waited for a moment, not quite daring to put her whole weight on her ankle. She swallowed hard and pasted a smile on her face. "Sara?" She took a few tentative steps and when the ankle bore her weight she walked across the flagstones.

The other woman turned, smiling. "Yes?"

Nikita hesitated, this time out of embarrassment, then confessed, "I'm sorry, I don't know your full name. Milla always uses your first names."

"It's Sanderson, but call me Sara. You must be Milla's mother?"

"Yes," Nikita laughed, "You can call me Nikita."

"It's so nice to meet you," Sara's smile expanded and she held out her hands. "This is such a lovely view, thanks so much for letting us crash on you for a few days."

Nikita smiled, this time genuinely as the pain fizzed out as quickly as it had begun. "The pleasure's ours. I wanted to thank you in person for the kindness you've shown to Milla. It's hard letting your chick out of the nest, but I can tell how much she's enjoyed your company. And your husband's," Nikita added.

"We've enjoyed her, too."

"So, I see you're expecting," Nikita smiled, looking at Sara's stomach.

"Yes, in a few months," Sara put a hand on her stomach and smiled back. "We're still fighting over the name, though. Sammy wants to name it after his father, but I am certain it's a girl."

Another small burst of pain pulsed through Nikita's ankle, her knee and straight to her hip. Her breath caught in her chest. "Let's sit down, shall we? Dulcie should be bringing us some tea ... soon ..."

"Nikita?" Sara looked at her in concern. "Is something wrong? You look a little --"

Pain suddenly exploded down Nikita's spine. It felt like every cell of her body was suddenly on fire, and she stumbled, swayed and dropped to the patio, her head bouncing off the stones, hard enough to jar every bone in her body but not quite hard enough to knock her out. Hitting the ground so hard when every nerve was white-hot with pain felt like a thousand hollow-nosed bullets piercing her skin at once and Nikita cried out.

Sara dropped to her knees on the ground. "Nikita?"

Nikita heard running footsteps. Voices. "I don't know. She just dropped. Sammy --" Then ... David? Nikita couldn't tell, but someone else said, "Inside. Get her inside. It may last a few minutes --"

Nikita felt her legs twist and she caught her breath as lightening zigged through her, touching every joint, every muscle, turning her body into a raging electrical storm.

Through gritted teeth, she muttered, "Electrocution's worse. Riding point ... is ... better ..."

"What did she say?"

"I don't know. Get her inside."

Nikita felt someone tuck an arm under her shoulder and she gasped as her shoulder sockets moved. They felt like they were dislocating, along with every other joint in her body. Then she was all the way up, being cradled in someone's arms that weren't Michael's. As her body shifted, she cried out.

"Sara, open the door." The voice rumbled through Nikita, starting off another set of tiny explosions in her spine, which shot up to her neck and skull. Nikita whimpered.

The game. Play the game.

"Worse than having a knee replaced. Better than ... getting caught in a parachute upside down."

Okay, that was weak, Nikita told herself, gritting her teeth as they went through shadowy doorways into her own bedroom. You can do better than that, she scolded herself. Better than being tortured by Red Cell. Worse than being in a pit with snakes. She shuddered, remembering the snakes and how she'd been sure Michael wouldn't get her in time ... nasty, slithery things ...

"Almost there," said someone from far away.

Worse than getting lost in a war zone. Better than being caught.

She tried to brace herself for the pain of being lowered into bed.

"Slowly," said a voice ... Sara? David? Nikita was so far gone, she couldn't tell.

"Medicine ..."

Nikita felt her jaws, which she'd been keeping clamped shut so she wouldn't scream, being pried apart. Two little tablets were popped in her mouth, followed by a drowning rush of water. She sputtered, choked, felt the medicine go down. Pain danced down her head, her shoulders, her arms and legs, did a quick waltz around her fingers and toes, and settled in her knuckles, her ankles and wrists, the arch of her feet.

Nikita opened her eyes and caught a sharp, clear view of David, Sara and Sammy. But where was Michael? Oh, that's right: Madrid. Pain flooded through her again, not as vicious as before, but numbing and aching pain that lasted longer. When it receded, she opened her eyes again to see David reaching for the phone. "No."

David paused and raised his eyebrows.

"I'll be ... fine ... soon. Don't call him," Nikita said harshly.

David reluctantly replaced the receiver and Nikita closed her eyes, breathing in and out, in and out. Another bout of pain swamped her and her breath stuttered in her chest, but this time, the pain didn't last as long.

In. Out. In. Out. Nikita tried to breathe rhythmically, and soon, she didn't have to concentrate so hard on it. She felt her body begin to relax. Hot, molten pressure settled in her joints and she could feel her toes begin to swell. "Take ... off ... shoes ..." she mumbled, trying to kick off her sandals which seemed too tight now.

"Of course. Sammy, darling, get her wedding ring and watch before it's too late." Cool hands slipped off her shoes and Nikita felt someone cover her with a light blanket. Larger hands rested on her wrist for a moment, fumbling with the catch of her wristwatch. She winced when he tried to twist off her ring. Her finger was already too swollen. Sara said, "Sammy ... here's some water ..."

Nikita felt wet around her finger and the ring slipped off. From far away she heard the cling of her jewelry being placed on the table. Then, the medicine took complete control and Nikita was plunged into unconsciousness.

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

Calm seas make sorry sailors.

Milla sighed impatiently at the traffic that blocked the twisting mountain road.

She hadn't meant to stay at Pompeii for so long. She'd reached the tumbled-down city just as the sun was beginning to creep up the golden stone walls and had quickly circumvated the tourists entrance to the city, sneaking past heavy iron gates until she was inside. She'd found a good spot and watched the sun come up, eating her chocolate and apple and wishing she'd brought some kind of leftovers for the wild cats that were beginning to come in from a night of mouse catching and mischief making. They gave her sullen looks and passed well out of reach, but Milla was used to their snubs. "I'll bring something tomorrow," she called softly, finishing her apple and throwing away the core.

She leaned back, watching the sky lighten. Glorious. She loved Pompeii, and it wasn't just because it was quiet at this time of day. She'd always been in love with it -- the romance of a buried city, the lovely wall paintings, the statues. They were still excavating and every now and then came across something else: jewelry, mummified people, mosaics in intricate patterns.

The first morning she'd come out, she'd stayed until the gates opened. She'd chatted with the old translators she'd worked with in college; she was introduced to the archeologists that were excavating near the edges of the city; she'd received two or three job offers.

When the sun came up fully, Milla wondered dreamily through the deserted streets, visiting old haunts and gradually coming into the part of the city that was closed off to tourists. Trying to be careful of her hand, she climbed gingerly over a few gates and rummaged around in the rubble as best she could with a bum hand, then happened to glance at her watch.

She was late.

Milla straightened abruptly, dusted herself off, and set off for the entrance, carefully climbing back over gates and barriers. She heard the first of the tourists murmuring throughout the city and she set off at a quick clip.

David would be irritated she'd stayed so long. And Sara and Sammy were coming today. Milla dug in her pocket for the keys to David's car, hopped in, and made good time until she got to the road that wound down to Sorrento. She promptly got stuck in rush hour traffic.

Move, she thought, her tranquil mood shattered. Come on, move.

Nearly an hour later, Milla raced across the patio of the Lucia, looking for any sign of Sara or Sammy. They should be here by now. But the only people around were a few hotel guests, still sipping coffee before starting on sightseeing.

She peered behind the front desk. No David, no Dulcie. The phone rang, and Milla went around the counter to answer it, took a reservation, and hung up.

On the counter was a green aspirin bottle. Milla absently recapped it and put it back in the drawer. Then, from behind her, she heard voices.

" -- sterilized. And we'll need some towels, just in case --"

Milla perked up. "Sara?"

"Milla darling, is that you?"

Milla hopped off her stool and was enveloped in a friendly hug. "I think you've gotten fatter! When did you get here? And where's Sammy?"

"He's in the back with your mother --"

From behind Sara, David said, "I'll be right back with the things you need --"

Milla frowned. "What's he talking about?"

"Don't worry, I think everything is fine now, but your mother --"

Milla groaned. "Don't tell me she had another attack."

"What do you mean, another? Have you seen her do this before?"

"No, but I've heard. Is she okay? How long did it last? Has anyone called her doctor?"

"No," Sara said. "But I'm about to. Actually, I thought Sam might, since David told us this is a nerve damage thing."

"That's what they're saying. I don't know. Is she all right?" Milla started for the door that led to their quarters.

"Milla, she's out like a light. She fell, though, and cracked her head open, so Sam's going to sew her up while she's unconscious."

Milla hesitated and Sara put an arm around her. "Why don't we let Sam clean her up before you see her?"

"That might be best," Milla admitted, already feeling queasy at the thought of blood. "Has anyone called Michael?"

"Who's Michael?"

"My step-father."

"I don't think so. David was going to call someone, but your mother stopped him."

Milla frowned. "Maybe I'll wait, then, till Sammy gets done. Dad will just worry if I call him and can't tell him enough information. He's very big on knowing every little detail."

Through the outside doors, Milla saw Dulcie come to the patio bearing a huge tea tray. She stopped and looked around, puzzled, then sat the tray down and came inside. "I've brought the tea," she said, and Sara smiled.

"Thanks so much," Sara said.

"Who's the tea for?" asked Milla.

"Us, now. We were going to all sit out and have elevenses together, but ... come on, we'll catch up with each other and when he's done, Sam will join us."

By the time Sam came out to the patio, the tea was gone, the scones were picked over and only one lemon tart remained. Sam took it and sat down.

"How's Mami?" Milla asked immediately.

"Sleeping. She'll be out for another few hours. David says the medication makes her sleepy; after reading the label, I believe it. I called the doctor on the bottle and he didn't seem too concerned about what happened."

"They are supposed to be trying to figure out what's wrong," Milla said darkly, setting her empty teacup down with an irritated snap. "They've been testing her for months and months, father says."

"Yes, that's what the doctor said."

Sara's eyes wandered to the sea. "Sam darling, what do you think about it?"

Sam frowned. "I don't know."

"You know, when she first started convulsing, the first thing I thought was epilepsy. Or maybe DTs."

"I don't think so," Sam shook his head.

"Then I remembered your mum. Remember when we first got married and she had all those problems?"

"I remember."

Milla asked, "What problems?"

Sara explained, "She'd been exposed to some sort of chemical agent years before that stayed dormant in her system. It's difficult to explain, but her doctor had just put her on some medication that acted as a catalyst. Until they figured out what was wrong, she was in bad shape." She turned to her husband and suggested, "Why don't you see if you could look at Milla's mother's medical chart? It could be something similar. You could probably request it from her doctor."

"We probably have a copy here," Milla shrugged. "Mami and Michael keep everything like that. A few years ago, my dad was tested and found to have a high probability of cancer; he and Mami both got inoculated and since then they've kept copies of their records here."

"What kind of cancer did he test positive for?" Sara asked.

"I don't remember. But he and Mami both had the same ... indicators? Is that what they're called?"

"Yes," Sara said. "It's curious that they'd both have the same type of thing ... unless it's something that's environmental. Were you tested?"

"Sure. I was clean. But my parents ... you know, they've not always run a hotel. When they were younger they were in the Peace Corps or something. I don't know where, exactly, but there were a lot of sick people and funny chemicals. That's how Mami found me."

"Found you?" Sara frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm adopted. Didn't you know? I was born in Kosovo. We think, anyway. My real parents were shot and Mami was with the Peace Corps or Red Cross or something and came across me. The refugee camps were too full, so she took me in."

"Amazing," Sara said, shaking her head. Then she grinned. "No wonder you don't favor her."

Milla laughed. "I kind of look like my dad. My step-dad, I mean. But not much. He's really tall, and I'm obviously not. Too bad. I've always feel like the midget in the family. Anyway ... you want me to get you a copy of Mami's medical records?"

"You might as well, darling, you never know," Sara said, looking at Sam.

"I suppose," Sam said grudgingly.

"Great." Milla hopped up and went inside, but Sara frowned at Sam.

"That's not like you, Sammy," she said.

"What isn't?"

"To be so ... short with Milla. Especially when you could possibly help her mother. Is something wrong?"

Sam was quiet for a moment. But instead of telling his wife what he was thinking, he said slowly, "No. Nothing's wrong."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

Milla came back, lugging a box with her. "There's a lot here. Hope it's not too much. Where do you want it?"

"I'll take it upstairs." Sam sighed. "Why don't you go sit with your mother, Milla. Call me if she wakes up and is in pain."

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

One who is long absent is forgotten.

Sam sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands, staring at the box of medical records.

Samuelle. Samuelle. It couldn't be the same. And even if it was the same, so what? Just because they'd never been able to locate any of the Samuelles didn't mean that there weren't any. Sam flipped open the top file. Nikita Samuelle. He shut his eyes, trying to remember, but the name didn't sound familiar. It didn't sound unfamiliar, either. Maybe he knew her by a different name? Because there was something familiar about it, not just her name, something a little more nebulous.

Sam began to read the medical files, part of his mind on Nikita's condition, part of his mind on why she seemed familiar when she shouldn't. He'd never met her before. Had he?

An hour passed. Two. Three. Sam read everything, even down to the illegible signature on some of the hospital release forms. Sam's eyes began to get scratchy and he was no nearer to finding answers to either of his questions than he had been at the beginning. He stood up, stretched, and felt something pinch him in his breast pocket.

Sam pulled out his passport, frowning at his name and his picture. Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number by heart.

His brother answered. "Hullo?"

Relief washed over Sam and he began to relax. "Hullo guv, it's me."

"You old sod! Where are you?"

"Italy."

"Visiting, or have you given up on Cairo? Tell me you're not coming home. The apartment's a wreck and Sara will kill me. "

Momentarily sidetracked, Sam said, "You didn't break anything, did you?"

Silence.

"As long as it's not her gran's china. She'll divorce me and kill you," Sam said.

"Not the china. Been using the plastic plates, like you suggested. But I had a little ... mishap ... with the coffee table."

"Oh, that," Sam shrugged. "She's always hated that. It's from our college apartment, remember?"

"Yeah, right, I thought it looked familiar. I'll replace it."

"Don't worry about it, it's not important," Sam said. "I need you to do a favor for me."

"Sure."

"In the top of the hall closet on the left, there's a cardboard box. It's got a blue top."

"All right, hang on --"

Sam heard his brother opening the closet door and grunting as he lifted boxes down. A few minutes later, he said, "Got it. What am I looking for?"

Sam described what he needed and set up his microcomputer to receive. In a few minutes, his brother had the information downloaded. "It should go through, but it may take a while."

"How long?" Sam asked, impatiently watching his screen.

"Hey, your guess is as good as mine. If you updated your scanner like I told you to --"

"Oh, knock it off," Sam said irritably.

"A bit touchy, are we? What's going on?"

"Nothing," Sam snapped, as the picture began to crystallize. He felt his heart skip a beat and he turned up the resolution. "Does the back of this picture have anything written on it?"

His brother read what was on the back of the picture, and Sam felt his whole body tighten.

Impossible.

After a series of forgettable comments, he finally hung up the phone. His eyes were riveted on his computer screen, and as the shock slowly wore off, he began to get angry.

Someone knocked on the door. "Sammy? It's me."

Milla. Sam reached out, flicked off the computer and answered the door. "Come on in."

"My mother's awake and sober. Did you want to see her?"

Yes? No? Maybe? Sam gripped his microcomputer, swallowed and tried to look nonchalant. "Sure."

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

A half truth is a whole lie.

Milla led Sam downstairs to the family quarters. The hotel was busy. Sam could see David dealing with a few guests; Dulcie was serving cocktails to people on the patio and in the bar, someone Sam didn't know was mixing up drinks and chatting in German to another guest. People were munching on peanuts and crackers and a table with cheese had been set up in the small dining room. A couple of children ran by, shiny apples in their hands as their mother called them to hurry up.

"You're starting happy hour early," he commented.

Milla shrugged. "Some people like to drink no matter what time it is. Are you hungry? You didn't come down for lunch."

"Maybe Sara and I'll go out for an early dinner."

"Places open at 8 o'clock here. But you're welcome to eat with the family in awhile. It'll be me, David, Dulcie, and probably Daddy if he gets here in time." She checked her watch. "I don't know what train he caught so I'm not sure when he'll be here."

"You were able to reach him, then?"

"Yes. He was delayed in Rome, so he turned right around and caught the next train back to Naples. Then he changes in Naples and comes straight here. He'll probably call and I'll run out and pick him up."

Milla opened the bedroom door and nodded. "I'm going to start dinner. I'll make extra in case you want to stay."

Sam turned toward the bed. Nikita had fallen asleep again, her face lax in the late afternoon sunlight. A cat leapt up on the window sill, regarded Sam suspiciously, and hopped down inside the room. It sniffed of Nikita and then darted under the bed. Sam could see the tip of its tail peeking out.

He didn't want to help her.

He didn't want to touch her.

He didn't want to have anything to do with her.

Nikita frowned in her sleep and whimpered. Such a small, helpless sound, like a caught animal. Or a hurt child. Sam tried to steel himself to walk out the room, out the hotel and out of Italy, but somehow, he couldn't move.

Nikita whimpered again, then she turned over onto her back, her hair tangled around her face.

If he left, Sara would be furious. Worse than furious, she'd be absolutely livid and he'd have to explain. And he knew he couldn't explain anything yet because he didn't have enough information.

If he left, Milla would be hurt. And he genuinely liked Milla, not so much for herself but because Sara loved her. Their first few months in Egypt had been very hard on Sara. There had been only one other woman at the time, and she only spoke French, which Sara didn't know well enough. Having Milla had been a blessing.

If he left, he'd be turning his back not only on Sara and Milla and this woman who obviously needed help, but he'd be turning his back on his profession. He'd promised to help people, no matter who they were or what they believed in. Maybe no one would ever find out except his wife, but he'd know. And he wasn't sure if he could stand himself.

Sam took a step closer to Nikita. Than another one. He set the computer on the foot of the bed, reached out and took her hand, his fingers settling on her pulse. Strong and steady. Nothing wrong there.

"Michael?" Nikita mumbled and turned toward him, blinking up at him, and all his charitable thoughts vanished. Michael. Michael Samuelle? "Oh. Sorry. I thought you were --"

"Who is he?" Even to his own ears, Sam's voice sounded harsh.

Nikita looked at him, confused. "Who?"

"Michael Samuelle." He nearly choked on the words. "Who is he to you?"

"He's my ... uh ... Milla's father."

"Milla's father. Your husband?"

"Uh ... sort of." Nikita, completely awake now, slid up in bed, wincing slightly. "Why?"

Sam was suddenly so furious he couldn't even speak. Instead, he grabbed his computer, opened the display, and turned it on. The last thing he'd looked at flickered on the screen, came into focus and he thrust it at her.

Nikita looked confused, then her eyes focused on the computer screen and she turned absolutely white. She didn't move or say anything for a moment, and when she finally looked at him, Sam felt suddenly afraid.

Ridiculous. He out weighed her and she was ill.

"Who are you?" Her voice was steady and strong and cold as ice.

"I should ask you the same question." Sam's eyes narrowed and he felt Nikita examining him, inventorying his eyes, his hair, his physique. He stayed perfectly still under her inspection, and was totally unprepared when she jerked up, slid out of bed and faster than he could imagine possible, whipped out ... a gun?

Sam blinked. Where had she hidden it? Who kept a gun so close by?

"Answer the question," Nikita said, her voice flat and frigid. "Now. And so help me God, if you've harmed one hair of Milla's head I'll -- I'll --"

Behind him, the bedroom door opened and Nikita's eyes grew wider and she took a step back, her gun shaking wildly. Sam started to turn, but something heavy and hard came down with lightening speed on his head, and he crumpled. His last conscious thought was, Well, at least she didn't shoot me.

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

One link snaps, and the whole chain falls apart.

Michael stood in the doorway, glancing down at the man he'd just cold-cocked. "Who's this?"

"M-M-Michael?"

He stepped over the prone body, flicked the gun out of her hand, and wrapped his arms around her. She took a deep breath and started to shake uncontrollably.

"When I left this morning you were fine," Michael said mildly. "Then I get a half-hysterical call from Milla saying you're ill. I come home a few hours later and you're holding up hotel guests and taking ..." he paused, looking at the medication on the bedside table, "probably too much pain medication. And something happened to your head."

Nikita snorted, then, unbelievably, she began to laugh.

"Nikita?" He felt of her scalp, trying to figure out what she'd done. "Did he hit you on the head? That's why you were trying to kill him?"

"N-n-no. He sewed me up. That's Sammy, Milla's friend."

"Oh?" Michael glanced behind him, but Sam was still out cold. "You didn't like his work?"

"No, it's not that -- oh, my God, Milla. Where is she?" Nikita pulled out of Michael's arms frantically.

"She's fine. She's in the kitchen making fettucine."

"I --" Nikita turned to the door, but Michael caught her.

"Nikita. She's fine. Who the devil did I just knock out?"

Instead of answering, Nikita picked up Sam's computer and thrust it at Michael. "He showed me this, and ... well, I kind of ... lost it, Michael. I don't know who he is."

Michael studied the picture. He remembered it had been a warm spring day. Snow was predicted for later that week, so they'd taken advantage of the good weather and had gone on a picnic. He'd given Elena a new camera for her birthday, and she'd set it for automatic so they could all be in the picture. The picnic things were spread out behind them: Michael with an arm around Elena's knee, Nikita sprawled on the ground beside them, Adam crouched next to her. Adam and Elena were smiling at the camera; he and Nikita looked a little ... grim. The following week, Michael had been killed.

Michael tossed the computer on the bed and squatted down, studying Sam's face, his hands, his build. Then he nodded decisively. "He's got a lot of Elena in him. But he looks a lot like my father, too."

"What?"

"His nose. See?" Michael traced the bridge of Sam's nose. "That's my dad's. And his hands are the same." Michael held up one of Sam's hands next to his. Same fingertips, same funny curve to the thumb. Then Michael patted him down and came up with the passport. "Adam Michael Samuelle Sanderson."

"What?" Nikita sank down on the bed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I just punched out my son." Michael stood up and his face lightened. "And I guess it means Elena remarried."

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

Never assume anything.

Sam felt heavy. Slowly he became conscious of his surroundings.

Hard floor. Painful head. Bloody hell, it felt like someone had swung Gray's Anatomy at his head. And the angry voices didn't help matters any.

He lay still, trying to understand what was going on.

" -- to tell him anything, Michael! Are you crazy? We can't --"

"Nikita, I want to know. Don't you?"

"I will not have Milla put in danger! I didn't pull her out of a minefield and love her for 20 years to have her be tortured and --"

"Nikita. Slow down. No one is torturing anyone."

Well, thought Sam. That sounds positive.

"He brought his wife. My God, Michael, they're probably both operatives -- Milla --"

"Nikita. Stop it."

Sam heard some scuffling, then a woman crying.

"Nikita. There is no Section," the man's voice said, very slowly. Section of what, Sam wondered.

"Michael --" Nikita whimpered.

"Let's just calm down and think this through."

... like civilized people, Sam finished automatically in his head. That's what his mother always said. Let's calm down and think this through like civilized people.

"They could be deep cover," Nikita whispered.

"Who would use them as deep cover, Nikita?"

"I don't know. Someone. Red Cell."

The man sighed and Sam heard the bedsprings creak as he sat down on the bed. "There is no Red Cell. There is no Section. There hasn't been for 20 years. You are the love of my life, Nikita. But when you lose your head like this, I could shake you."

"Me?! You're always the one who's Mr. Paranoid!"

"Hey, I'm not the one that taught Milla so much she could be a Level Three operative --"

"Michael!"

"Nikita." And this time, the man's voice was tinged with steel. "Sit down."

It was quiet except for Nikita's breathing -- dry sobs that reminded Sam of his sister when she was tiny and furious at something her brothers had done.

Then the man spoke quietly. "I want to know my son."

Nikita took a deep, shuddering breath.

His voice quiet and definitive, the man said, "And it's time you told Milla about your past."

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

Milla's hand was raised to knock on her parents' door. Once when she'd been small, she'd opened the door without knocking and had embarrassed herself as well as her parents.

Her fist raised, it took her a minute to realize something wasn't right. She heard her mother yelling behind the door and she paused.

Mami and Michael didn't fight. Ever.

Milla bit her lip. Someone was crying. Mami? She prepared to knock again, then heard Michael's voice raised in exasperation and a little bit of anger.

She'd seldom seen Michael angry, but when he got angry -- watch out. Milla's hand dropped and she stood uncertainly in front of the door. She didn't want to stay there. And she didn't want to leave. What was wrong with her mother?

Then Milla did something she hadn't done since she was a little girl.

She leaned her head against the thick door and listened.

" -- Mr. Paranoid!" Mami shouted and Milla winced. Maybe Michael was cautious. But paranoid?

"Hey, I'm not the one that taught Milla so much she could be a Level Three operative --"

"Michael!"

"Nikita. Sit down." Milla pressed her ear firmly against the door and faintly heard Michael say, "I want to know my son."

Milla blinked. Son? What son? She had a brother? Where was he? Milla's hand clapped to her mouth. Good God, Michael had had an affair! No. Impossible. He was totally faithful. Wasn't he?

Then she heard Michael say, "And it's time you told Milla about your past."

Past? What past? Milla knew all about her mother's past: she'd grown up in Australia, her family had been killed in a fire, and she'd joined the Peace Corps. Or was it Red Cross? Anyway, one of them. Then she'd found Milla. What kind of past was that? Certainly not something to cry over.

Then Milla heard another sound, one closer to her. A moan. It sounded awful; the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Behind the door, she heard Michael say, "He's waking up. Go get some ice for his head, will you, Nikita?"

Milla was across the room in a flash, and when her mother opened the door, Milla smiled brightly, as if she'd just come from the kitchen. "Ready for dinner?"

Mami looked awful. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red. Her hair was matted on one side and Milla saw a trace of blood from her head injury. She swallowed hard and pretended it was lipstick so she wouldn't get sick. "Mami? Are you okay?"

"I'm ... fine. Just a little ... Milla, love, will you go get me some ice?"

"Sure, Mami. Anything else?"

"Just the ice. Thanks."

Slowly, Milla obeyed.

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

Truth suffers, but never perishes.

Twenty minutes later, Michael, Nikita and Sam came to the interior courtyard, where Milla had set up dinner. David and Dulcie had already eaten and were back in the lobby helping guests find restaurants or nightclubs for the evening. The bartender finished his meal and put his plate in the kitchen and returned to his post, and Milla cleared off the table and she and Sara reset it.

Michael came through the door last, carefully closing the courtyard to anyone else who might wander through. When she saw Sam still clutching ice to his head, Sara cried out, her hand to her mouth.

"Sammy! What happened?"

Sam and Michael exchanged a glance and Michael said apologetically, "I opened the door too quickly and knocked him out, I'm afraid."

"An accident," Sammy said. "I'm fine."

Sara fussed over him for a few minutes and Milla and Nikita brought out plates of pasta steaming with fresh clams and shrimp.

"This looks great, Milla. Thanks for getting dinner," Nikita said.

"Welcome. Sure you're okay to eat?" Milla asked.

"I feel much better."

Dinner was strained. Michael pushed back his plate and said politely to Sara, "Sam has offered to talk with us about Nikita's illness. Would you please excuse us?"

"Of course. He's the nerve expert," Sara smiled. "I can do the dishes, if you like."

Before Milla or Nikita could protest, Michael said smoothly, "That would be wonderful. I know Milla will want to hear what Sam has to say."

"Of course," Sara smiled.

Milla rose to help Sara clear the table, but Michael said, "Milla. Sit. Please."

Milla dropped back into her chair and Sara smiled and quickly cleared the table. Milla could hear water running in the kitchen sink and knew Sara wouldn't be able to hear whatever it was Michael had to say.

She started getting a sick, sinking feeling in her stomach. Her mother looked pinched and white and Michael had a funny look in his eye. Sam looked angry and irritated. Milla swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay calm.

"Please understand," Michael said quietly to Sam, "I don't object to your wife knowing any of this. But you might."

"I understand," Sam said, his voice tight and angry.

Michael reached over and took her mother's hand. "It might be easiest if you told us a little bit about yourself."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Not much to tell, really."

"Just begin at the beginning."

"My birth father died when I was four. My mother had a nervous breakdown. When she recovered, we moved back to London. She grew up there. But you probably know that," Sam said, his voice hard.

"We had friends there," Michael said softly, his fingers lightly tracing Nikita's.

"She enrolled me in school. The kid behind me was Adam Michael Sanderson. So I went by Samuelle and he went by Sanderson. Everyone shortened it to Sam and Andy. Made it a lot easier when our parents married a few years later."

Milla's stomach clinched and she said, "I don't understand. Your last name is Samuelle, too? I thought it was Sanderson."

Michael's hands stilled.

"He adopted me and Mum adopted Andy. We have a sister. Indira. And that's all I'm telling you." Sam folded his arms across his chest.

"Fair enough," Michael said softly. Then he started talking, his voice calm and sure and soothing. Then her mother began to talk. The words cascaded over Milla.

... antiterrorist ... secret organization ... no choice ... Elena ...

Horrified, Milla stared at the two people she'd loved all her life. Michael had been married before. Sammy was his son. A son he'd abandoned.

He had never married Mami. It was a lie. Everything was a lie.

Mami ... and Michael ... had killed people. A lot of people, because when Sammy asked, the look on their faces said it all. They didn't even know how many people they'd killed.

Breathe, Milla thought furiously. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

Milla thought of all the blood that must have poured out of the people Michael and her mother had killed. Liters of it. Rivers. Oceans.

She clapped a hand over her mouth and raced for the bathroom.

"Milla!"

She heard her mother coming after her, and Milla was so ill she didn't even move away from the cool hands that held her head as she threw up every bit of dinner she'd eaten.

"Poor baby," Nikita crooned, holding a cool wet towel to her neck. "Poor sick baby ..."

Milla gagged again and reached blindly for the knob on the toilet.

"Come on, sweetheart, let's brush your teeth and get you into bed ..."

Milla threw her hands out to ward her mother away. "D-d-don't touch me."

"Milla?" Nikita frowned, blue eyes dark with worry, the towel forgotten in her hand.

Milla swept a sweaty hand across her clammy forehead. "You lied to me."

"I know." Nikita looked miserable, but Milla focused on her own pain, not her mother's.

"You t-t-told me you worked for the Peace Corps."

"It was all I could think of at the moment," Nikita said quietly, struggling for the right words. "I don't expect you to understand. But the minute I found you, everything changed. I saw a way to make up for the awful things I'd done. I was alone. So alone, because I couldn't get in touch with Michael, and when I found you crying in that little cottage ... I couldn't leave you. You needed me, but Milla, oh, I needed you more."

Milla grabbed her toothbrush and furiously attacked her teeth.

"Darling, not so hard, you'll hurt your gums."

Milla spat in the sink and her stomach twisted when she saw her mother was right: the foam was tinted pink. She quickly rinsed and stalked out of the bathroom.

"Milla -- please --"

"No." Milla slammed the door to her room and twisted the key in the lock. "Go away."

"Milla --"

Milla heard a soft thump and imagined her mother standing on the other side of the door, her forehead leaning against the thick wood. "Everything was different then," Nikita said, her voice pleading. "Please ... The minute I saw you, I knew I had to at least save you. I never thought for a minute I'd be able to keep you. But when things worked out ... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You and Michael."

"I don't want to hear about Michael," Milla said furiously. "He's just like you!"

Silence, except for Milla's sobs. Or were they her mother's? Milla couldn't tell, and she was so miserable she didn't care.

"At least ... at least let me in to clean your hand," her mother said.

"No."

"Milla --"

"Go away!"

Half an hour later, Milla heard a tentative knock on the door. "Milla darling?"

Sara.

Milla blew her nose again. She felt swollen and nasty and her head hurt. Angrily, she shoved her open backpack under the bed.

"Milla darling, it's me, Sara. Your mother sent me to look at your hand. Will you let me in?"

Slowly, Milla unlocked the door.

"Goodness!" Sara blinked at Milla, then smiled. "You look a little worse for the wear. Let me in and we'll see about the hand, all right?"

Silently, Milla stood aside. Sara put her medical bag down, sat on the bed and Milla sat next to her, mutely holding out her hand.

"I'm sorry you were sick. I guess something about dinner didn't agree with you," Sara said calmly, unbandaging Milla's hand. "Well, this looks good. You've been taking excellent care of this. Your mother was right to leave the stitches in a few more days. But I think they can come out now. You ready?"

Milla nodded, and Sara smiled, taking out a pair of scissors. "I know you've already thrown up and probably don't have anything in your stomach. You want me to get you something to suck on before I start? A lolly or maybe a sugared drink? I don't want you to faint."

"Okay," Milla said softly, and soon Sara reappeared with a glass of juice.

"Now, you just sit there and drink your juice. Don't look, darling."

"Okay." Milla sipped slowly, feeling a slight tugging on her hand.

"Sammy did an excellent job on this. We'll have to wait and see whether you've got any nerve damage. Can you feel this?"

"No. It feels like I have mittens on."

"Sometimes the loss of feeling is temporary. That's what we'll hope, anyway." Sara worked quietly. "There. All done. You can look now."

Milla looked carefully at her hand. The palm was crossed with three jagged lines. "Flatten it out," Sara instructed, and Milla did so. "Does it hurt?"

"Feels stiff."

"It will for awhile. Well. I know you'll be glad to take a real shower again and wash your hair yourself instead of having your mother do it. When you get out of the shower, be sure to rub some good, thick hand lotion in. That'll help it heal faster."

"Thanks, Sara," Milla said faintly.

"You're welcome, ducky." Sara hugged her briefly. "Hope you feel better tomorrow, Milla."

"Thanks."

Milla relocked the door when Sara left. Then she finished packing, turned off the light and lay on the bed.

"Milla?" Michael knocked on the door. He sounded concerned, and Milla stubbornly refused to answer.

"Michael, she's probably asleep." Mami sounded tired and worried, and Milla pinched her lips together.

"Sweet dreams, sweet girl," Michael said softly, and Milla turned over in bed so they wouldn't hear her cry.

It was easy to wait without moving. Mami had taught her how to be still when she'd been about five. And she'd taught her how to be self-reliant when she was six. Michael had taught her how to be patient. So Milla waited one hour. Then another. Then, when she was sure the hotel was asleep, she got up quietly, grabbed her rucksack, and flitted out of the apartment without a sound.

The hotel was silent. Small pools of light from the patio were meant to orient guests if they should wake in the night. Milla drifted up to the front desk, tucking a Hotel Lucia postcard in her pocket and liberating David's car keys from the peg they hung on. She skirted the outdoor lights, fit the elevator key into the elevator and called the car.

The doors opened with a sigh and Milla quietly got in, went to the ground, and sent the car up to the top again, carefully locking the bottom doors to the elevator.

A few minutes later, David's car slowly tracked down the mountain.