A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own the Inkheart series. That belongs to Cornelia Funke.

Notes: Okay, apology time. I'm really sorry I haven't updated this. My Inkheart fanaticism waned for a little bit, and just came back recently. I still ship Elinor/Darius though…so, here's an update! Thanks to everyone for their kind reviews. This chapter is for all of you!

A second note, on the format of this story: You all may have noticed that each chapter is named after a corresponding chapter in the book. The events that each chapter of this fanfiction covers can be found in that chapter in Inkdeath. But, as we get further in, in the near future you're going to be seeing chapters entitled "Author Addition #1" and so forth. These chapters are fillers—events that I have made up for the sake of filling out the story and developing the romance that I think Cornelia Funke should have included in her story. Just a heads up for everyone, so that no one's confused when these start entering the story.

And one last note: I am absolutely, 100% terrible at writing romance. So please, please, please bear with me. I know it's bad romance writing, but this isn't my strong point, and this is going to be a very innocent romance. No yucky scenes...

Please read/review!

"Darius! You did it!" she whispered, hugging him so hard that his glasses slipped.

"Thank you! Thank you so, so much!"

Inkdeath, pg. 278

He hadn't read aloud since leaving Capricorn's village. He hadn't read aloud for pleasure since the night before the day that Signora Agosti's letter arrived, eight years ago, with the news that broke his heart and his spirit.

Reading aloud this time was a roller coaster. In the last few minutes in which Elinor dashed about making sure she had everything she wanted and telling him that he was amazing and wonderful and most certainly the best thing that had ever happened to her, he managed to fit in small panic attack in the bathroom down the hall. Five minutes later he started reading and…and it was beautiful.

Inkheart was beautiful world, despite all the pain and horror it had brought upon their lives. The words that Orpheus had used to read himself into the story were lovely as well, and they rolled across the tongue like waves of pleasure. He felt drunk—his ears were ringing so much that he couldn't hear his own voice; his fingers were tingling, and he crumpled the paper in his hands and tried to give himself a paper cut so that he could feel anything; his insides were heaving.

Darius didn't have a word to describe how they left their world behind and entered Fenoglio's. It was a very sudden switch, like one of those old-fashioned medieval secret doors, where the fireplace or the bookshelf would spin around and take you into a different room. The couch beneath him was suddenly cold, hard ground, as if it had been zapped with magic. The candle that Elinor had forgotten to extinguish ceased to smell like eucalyptus and suddenly morphed into the scent of manure. Suddenly, suddenly, they were there.

He bumped into something as he pushed himself up on his hands, and found that he was beneath a cart. A manure cart, most likely, since the whole place reeked of dung. But it was quiet and secluded, and it gave him to opportunity to do what he'd been wishing he'd done when he had his panic attack in the bathroom—throw up. Beyond the cart, he could hear Elinor laughing like a giddy child, and he tried to time his vomiting with her louder outbursts so that she didn't hear him. It worked, though it was time consuming, and when he crawled out, as controlled as he could make himself, she was still happy.

She was deliriously happy.

"Darius! You did it! Thank you! Thank you so, so much!"

His glasses went askew on his face, and everything except the red fabric of Elinor's dress went blurry and out of focus.

He wished that she'd been a little less happy, so that he could have told himself that she hugged him because she loved him.

"Hey, you there, where'd that dog come from?"

The moment was ruined. Which, in a split second retrospect, was probably for the best, as she'd acted far too much like a love-struck little girl. You're a little old for hugs, don't you think, Elinor? The situation, in their world, would have been terribly awkward—her standing there looking confused, while Darius pushed his glasses back into position.

Everything from that moment on happened too fast. The men were menacing—almost as frightening as the black jackets had been—and Cerberus' constant growling throughout the ordeal set her even more on edge. Things were blurry, rather like she'd always imagined it must for Darius when he didn't have his glasses (she'd always meant to ask what that was like), and Darius' voice was a throbbing pulse in her ears that she couldn't understand, and the men were too loud and too coarse, and Cerberus wouldn't stop growling until suddenly Darius had her hand in his and was yanking her down the street with a terrified "Quick, Elinor!" that seemed to echo down the alleyway.

That night was beautiful for several reasons: first, because she was in the Inkworld. She was there.

And secondly, because, just for an instant, Darius had returned her hug, and she liked to believe that maybe he'd understood the emotion she'd accidentally conveyed.