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you’d like to eat or drink,” he said. “Still trouble with speech?” Swiftly, he injected me with something.
    “Augh,” I grunted. The needles were getting old, fast.
    “You should be able to speak in a moment or two,” he said. “Any type of food you’d like, just ask. Sky’s the limit.”
    I felt warm prickles run from my neck and along my spine, down into my arms, legs. I tried wriggling my fingers. Mobility had returned.
    I tested my voice: “Any food at all?” I asked, an idea forming.
    “Yes,” he replied. “Whatever you feel like.”
    “Sourdough bread.” The effort required to speak faded entirely.
    “Sourdough bread?” he asked. “No problem. You want butter? Cheese?”
    I didn’t answer, thinking hard.
    “Just bread, then,” he said. “Okay, anything else? Coffee?”
    “What time is it? And where am I?”
    The blue eyes dropped to his feet. He wore Brooks running shoes. A very expensive pair. “I can’t tell you that.”
    I scowled. “How am I supposed to know if I want coffee when I don’t know what time it is?”
    He gave no answer.
    “Can you get hot chocolate for me?” I asked.
    “Certainly.”
    “I only like Ghirardelli,” I said.
    “Not a problem.”
    “I want chocolate–syllaberry,” I added, hoping my request sounded innocent. “And some butter and jam.” I held my breath, waiting to see if anything I’d asked for struck him as odd. Apparently it didn’t. “I’m very hungry,” I said. “How long will you be? Or is that a question you can’t answer?”
    He frowned, looking at the list he’d written. “Shouldn’t take long at all.”
    I sighed with relief as the door closed upon the odd smell I’d managed to place.
    Kelp—he smelled of seaweed.
    The black trail of sand left by his shoes confirmed I’d identified the odor correctly. Mr. Room Service had been running recently. With spendy Brooks like those, he had to be a very dedicated runner. One who ran daily and appreciated the challenge of running on sand. I looked at the tiny grains leading to the door. Black and grey. I knew of only two places with black sand beaches. Hawaii and San Francisco.
    This was what made me ask for chocolate–syllaberry cocoa and sourdough bread. Although you could get decent sourdough anywhere in the state of California, the stuff baked in the San Francisco Bay Area had a unique tang. One I hoped I’d be able to identify. And the cocoa? You could buy Ghirardelli hot cocoa at any major grocery store. We even had it in Las Abs. But you could only get special flavors from a Ghirardelli Chocolate Store, and only three of those carried my dad’s syllaberry syrup. The stuff was obscenely expensive and made in very small batches.
    If Room Service brought back what I asked for, it would mean we were within easy distance of three possible locations, all in Ghirardelli Square, San Francisco. If only I could tell Christian where to find me!
    I quieted my mind. Until the man trailing black sand returned, I determined to silently call for Christian. I repeated his name over and over in my mind. I even risked speaking it aloud. But it was useless. No one could hear me. I was alone. At least until the guy in Brooks returned.
    But in the end, he wasn’t the one who brought my meal. Hans delivered it.

Chapter Six
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    BACK FROM THE DEAD
    · WILL ·
    We took a train from Paris to Rome because, according to our French friend, “Only mad–men drive in Rome.” But also because Sir Walter’s Citroën lay under the rubble of his ancestors’ castle. My sister buried her nose in one of the journals we’d recovered from Helga’s car, currently under the same rubble. The only time Mick looked up was when we passed through Nice, France.
    “If I ever get the chance, I’m coming back here to see the Marc Chagall Museum,” she said.
    Sir Walter smiled. “It is well worth the visit, Mademoiselle.”
    They had to explain Chagall to me, and they showed me pictures on Sir Walter’s tablet