Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise is mine. The witch is. But then I don't suppose anybody else would want to lay claim to her. Illya and Napoleon remain resolutely unpossessed by me. Which is a shame, but there you go...

I also apologise if this brings back bad memories for anybody. Just in case of anyone I know getting wind of this, I would like to point out that my piano teachers were never like this, and nor am I. Well, not much like this. Well, not often... ;D

Illya could hear the voices in the corridor long before he identified the speakers. As the voices came closer, he allowed a slight smile to appear, quickly quashed before the door opened.

'Pavel Nicolaievitch!' he cried happily, ignoring the puzzled look that danced briefly on the face of the man who was pushed into his cell, 'Are you not happy to see your old friend, Yuri?'

'Uh...' said the man Illya had addressed as Pavel.

'No, no, Pasha, you must not think of speaking Russian. Our hosts here don't like it. But it is good to see you.' Illya rushed in, not giving the other man a second to interrupt.

'Get on with it,' snapped one of the guards. 'Quit the chatter you two. You have two days to get up to scratch, so quit wasting time.'

'All right!' Illya's accent was thick and almost incomprehensible, 'How do you think we can work under such circumstances? The great duo of Levovitch and Galany do not practise under observation. You will leave us alone, or we will not practise and then, oh such beautiful music you will be missing out on. Artists such as ourselves are not to be pushed, Even our great Soviet masters leave us in peace to practise. They understand what it is to work to produce such art.'

'I was under the impression that your government had banned your kind of music. I thought they wouldn't let you play. That's why you're here, isn't it?'

'Our government is none of your concern. We are here at your master's request. This is all I understand. Now leave us...and before you go,' he said as the guard turned to leave, 'You will remove ridiculous camera I see up there, and also microphone hidden in piano. This is not for people such as you to listen to. Until we are ready, no-one listens to what we do.'

'I'm not removing anything.'

'Then we do not play, and is your fault. The worst they can do to us is kill us. I wonder what is worst they can do to you?'

They guard looked extremely uncomfortable and left the cell abruptly. Illya watched him leave anxiously, shaking his head slightly when his companion made to speak. In a minute or two, the guard returned, looking sullen. He went to the camera and disconnected it, then to the microphone. He turned to leave again. Illya coughed,

'And?' The guard turned and shrugged. Illya beetled his brows at him. The guard sighed and went to the other corner, sliding back a grating and removing the little device hidden there. Illya smiled a very false smile and nodded,

'Spaseeba,'

'You speak English or you lose this privilege,' said the guard.

'Da,' replied Illya with a flash of wicked eyes. The guard harrumphed and left.

Illya waited for a minute or two, then relaxed.

'Okay?' he asked, his accent lightening a little.

'Pavel Nicolaievitch?'

'Ach, I needed something I could remember easily.'

'So I end up with your patronymic? I'm honoured. But Pavel?

'Well, it's got the same diminutive I...would use for you, so if I slip up it's easy.'

'Ah...Yuri, you never slip up.' Illya looked back at him steadily.

'This one isn't so easy Napoleon.'

'Pavel!'

'Yes, yes,' Illya said with a wave of his hand. 'There's no surveillance left in here. I know. I did a sweep earlier. I just wasn't sure where that third one was. We're fairly safe, but we do have to do as they asked.'

'Yes, I was, ah, going to ask you about that. What were you talking about, practise?'

'The piano, Napoleon. You are now one half of the talented duo of Russian pianists, Levovitch and Galany.'

'Who I sincerely hope don't actually exist.'

'No. I have no wish to be hunted down by outraged fans. These little birds have no idea what they're talking about when it comes to music, which is just as well. My piano playing is distinctly rusty, I don't know about yours?'

'Mine...?' Napoleon spluttered, 'Illy-uri, I have never played the piano in my life.'

'Well, in that case, you have a very intensive couple of days coming up.'

'I'm sorry?'

'I said you could play. That was all. Tomorrow night, we are to perform as the entertainment at a top-level dinner. It's the only way I could find to get into the dining room and stay there throughout the meal. Since you were so eager to join me, I had to make it a duet. I rather got the idea that any agent I attempted to introduce into the situation would either be kicked straight back out, or disposed of in some other way, which would not be good for your health. So now... now they've decided our duetting is a condition of our remaining here in relative comfort.'

'Comfort?' Napoleon laughed humourlessly, gesturing around at the stone walls and bare wooden bunks. Illya gave a facial shrug.

'I did say relative. Oh, come on Pavel, we've both been treated to far worse than this. I was quite enjoying it. Life's been rather hectic lately, what with chasing those wretched gun-runners across the mountains, and your stint in the sewers... I thought this was rather civilized.' He grinned and Napoleon's face lit up in an answering smile. His smile soon faded, however, as he remembered what Illya had promised their captors.

'Illya, my piano playing is limited to eight bars of 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' and two variants of 'Chopsticks', each as annoying as the other. What do you expect me to do? Charm them with the next two pages of 'A Tune a Day'? Because that's all we've got time for.'

'I told them you were a little rusty and persuaded them to let us practise.

'Illya, they'll never believe that I am some sort of international concert pianist.'

'They don't need to. I didn't promote us as material fit for the Bolshoi. We are touring players with a great belief in our own ability. All you need to play is the left hand part. It will be easy and repetitive. I can even whisper the notes at you as we go along. There is no choice, Pavel.'

'Okay, I hear you.'

'Oh, and you've been living in the States recently, which is why you've lost your accent. It is also why we have been apart for a long time and therefore require a lot of practising time together, which we are wasting. Come on.' He pointed to the piano. Napoleon rolled his eyes and Illya frowned.

'Pasha, if you do not do this as well as I know you can, you will be leaving in a bag. Don't forget it.' Napoleon nodded and made his way to the piano. He sat on the long stool. Illya came up to him and gestured,

'Move along, you're playing bass notes. Here, start with scales, get your fingers used to moving properly. He looked at Napoleon. 'For goodness' sakes Pasha, sit up straight and move forward on the stool, it's not an armchair. You should be perching, it gives you more freedom of movement.'

'Okay, okay. If you're going to fuss, this is going to be hell, Yuri. Uh, why Yuri?'

'An uncle of mine.'

'Oh. Nice man?'

'I hated him. He's memorable. But I've got to fuss. You've got to look like you can play. The rest of it is easy.'

'Huh!' said Napoleon, disbelievingly.

'No, really. Put your thumb on C. That's the one before the two black notes together. No, not middle C, you're too far across. I'll take everything from there up. You get the bass notes. I'm going to teach you about six different things to do with your hands that should see us through the evening.'

Napoleon shot a sideways glance at him.

'Okay. Go ahead. You're onto a loser, but I'll do my best.'

'Yes, you will,' replied Illya menacingly. Napoleon put his right thumb on the 'C' in front of him. Illya nodded.

'Now, your second finger on D, that's the next white note along, third on E, fourth on...'

'I get it!' said Napoleon, placing his fingers as instructed. Illya raised an eyebrow.

'Peg fingers!' he teased.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'It means you've got wooden fingers. They bend in the middle you know?'

'Right. Am I going to have to put up with this level of sarcasm for the entire two days?'

Illya sighed slightly ruefully and shook his head. 'No. Come on. Just relax a bit. Curve your fingers. Look.' He showed Napoleon the curve of his own fingers. Napoleon copied him, the tips of his fingers resting on the five keys he had been shown. 'Now play those notes in turn, one two three four five.' He watched Napoleon depress the keys, as instructed, and noticed the slight change in posture, a shift in attitude that told him Napoleon had switched on his training brain. Hopefully, thought Illya, the facility for speedy learning that Napoleon shared with most other field agents would be evident here. Otherwise it was going to be a very long two days.

'How was that?' Napoleon asked, no longer railing against Illya's nitpicking, but ready and anxious to learn.

'Not bad. No feeling though.'

'Five notes, Yuri. How can you get feeling into five notes?' Illya dragged his hair back off his forehead and placed his own right hand on the keys. He took a moment to think. It had been a long time since he had last had the chance to just sit at a piano and play. The last time he had dared to step up to the piano in a dark jazz club where nobody would ask questions was a misty memory. Even without that though, the teaching methods of Yekaterina Ivanovna were not easily forgotten. He could still hear her words, screeching in his ears as his young fingers struggled to cover the distances she demanded on the keys, to make the fine distinctions of tone, to achieve the reckless speeds necessary to fit the fastest trills, the most complicated ornamentation, into the time signature. He had never been good enough. Not for her, not for the schools that might have altered his destiny. Had he only been better.

Not that he would give this up for all the world, he thought as he played the five notes in turn, glancing to the side as his fifth finger slowly depressed the last key, seeing Napoleon's head cocked to one side, listening, nodding slightly in understanding that yes, five notes could be played with depth and meaning.

'You see?' he asked unnecessarily.

'I see. How d'you do that?' Illya played his version again. Napoleon watched and copied, but his notes sounded staccato and childish after the ringing, quivering tones of Illya's playing. Illya considered it and played the phrase softly to himself again. What was it that made the notes sound so good? His memory provided an image. Himself on the floor, rolling under the piano stool to hide from his teacher's quick hand. 'Foolish boy! Dolt! Is there for you only up or down? Where is the inbetween? Where is the nuance? You think these strings only know how to play when they are struck like any lazy ass? Find the place where first you can hear their sound. Learn to listen. Learn to feel. Idiot.'

'It's... you need to feel when the note starts to play. They don't just play when you hit them hard like that. They play when you hardly do anything at all. It's all about how hard you play and how fast you strike the notes. Try just playing one note, so softly you don't think it will play at all.' Napoleon nodded and tried. Not a sound left the instrument. He frowned and tried again. Still nothing. He hit it harder. The piano gave out a blunt, shapeless note. He sighed.

'I don't know how.' Illya hitched an encouraging little half-smile onto his face and nodded at the piano.

'Well, this isn't the greatest instrument. It lacks sensitivity. If you had done that on a Steinway, you would have got something. All pianos have their own limits. Here. Let me try with you. May I?' He got up to stand behind Napoleon, hovering his hand over the back of Napoleon's, hardly daring to believe that Napoleon would let him coddle him like this. Napoleon nodded and Illya brought his own fingers down to lie on top of the corresponding fingers of Napoleon's hand. He felt the ghostly touch of ancient, bony fingers pressing down on his own, scratching his young skin with broken splinters of fingernail when, together, they put light pressure on the note, then grinding his fingers hard against grubby ivory as the key bottomed out. A lesson against being so hopeless next time. His nostrils seemed to fill with the scent of unwashed old woman and the effects of gallons of shchi. He leaned forward to replace the phantom scent with the more pleasant, familiar smell of Napoleon. To be honest, even that was a little tainted today; the four days they had been on this job had not been good for either of their personal hygiene routines, but it was familiar nonetheless, from countless previous missions, and Illya inhaled deeply as he pushed down slowly with his thumb, waiting to feel the key's resistance transmitted through the flesh and bone beneath his own.

A soft note drifted out from under the piano's raised lid and Napoleon turned his head to grin at Illya, who grinned back, letting that smile warm the icy places inside him. He continued to press down, sustaining the note without the pedal, hearing it die away.

'So, you see? We'll try the next one a little harder, notice the difference.' Napoleon turned back to watch their fingers. Illya rested his left hand on Napoleon's back, improving his balance so that he could play more effectively. This time he knew when the moment should come, and he pushed on past it, feeling the note bloom, that little bit louder, enough to echo slightly off the nearest wall.

'Understand?' He did not wait for an answer, but brought their third fingers down on E, feeling the vibration of the louder note race minutely up his arm.

On the fourth note, he could feel Napoleon's little twitch of recognition at the moment the key took, and the slight pulling away that suggested his pupil was trying to go a tiny bit faster than his teacher. 'No! You do as I say. No faster, no slower. Just this speed. You think your orchestra conductor will think you know better than him how fast you should go? Slower. Each note is a thing of cut diamond. One tiny flaw and it is worthless.' He felt the stinging blow across his ear and struggled not to jerk his head to the side.

'Now the last note, but we are playing this the loudest, so you must be careful not to let it sound rushed. Just push further at first, then hold it, not all the way down, just... Ah, I don't know. You learn with practice, you can feel it. It's hard when you're just beginning.' He pressed down on the nail of Napoleon's smallest finger and felt the sweep through the first fractions of a note. Then the resounding swell of the G rolled around the cell and died away, leaving them pressed together at shoulder and fingertips, staring at their hands.

They waited in the silence, Illya trying to work out how to proceed, when Napoleon spoke,

'Shall I try it on my own now?' Illya pushed away from him and swung his legs back over the stool to sit next to him. He nodded.

'Yes. Try it. Try it in a different order though. See if you can make the quieter notes in between the louder ones.'

He watched as Napoleon repositioned his fingers on the keys, and pressed his thumb down.

The note was still a little rough, still a little uncertain, but the improvement was impressive. Illya nodded, not daring to speak in case he broke Napoleon's concentration.

The second note was softer, more rounded, and Illya smiled. The third note was a failure. No sound whatsoever came from the still strings. Napoleon shuffled on the seat and tutted. He tried again. This time a faint note, a sigh of broken song, danced across their ears, and Napoleon gave a curt nod of satisfaction.

The fourth note was louder again, but better than the first. Illya heard it grow, bloom and die in the few seconds of its existence. He clenched his fists in his lap, willing Napoleon to succeed with the final note.

The fifth note was a kiss. A soft, sweet note that obviously delighted the learner. He took his fingers off the keys and looked to Illya.

'Better?'

'Much,' replied Illya, shaking himself. They had too much to do to allow themselves to get carried away by a simple, single note. 'What about your left hand?'

'My left hand?' He tried it. The results were not quite as good, but passable, nevertheless. He repeated the exercise a few times, learning different ways to play the notes, new ways of holding back, ways of rolling his fingers that created a slightly different sound. Illya listened and waited until he was sure Napoleon was comfortable before continuing.

'That's enough. We must move on. As I said, scales.'

'Why? I'm not going to sit there and entertain the world's most evil men with a load of grade-exercises.'

Illya pointed an accusatory finger at him,

'Pavel Nikolaievitch! You will never learn to move your fingers correctly if you do not play your scales.'

'Illya Nikolaievitch! You will never learn to move your fingers correctly if you do not play your scales. Now play! Starting on D. One two three, one two three four, one two three, one two three four five. And back down. Play! Poor! Now starting on F. Up and...How is it that your right-hand little finger has ended up on F? Have you learned nothing? Always, in F, and F alone, your fourth finger finishes it. Again! Again! Again!' For hour, after hour, after hour...

Napoleon broke into Illya's train of thought.

'Hang on, I'm meant to be your partner here and I don't even know your patronymic. That's not going to look good. What is it?' He raised a questioning eyebrow and Illya hesitated before revealing what he had given their captors as the centre-piece of his full name.

'Aleksandrovitch,' he said.

'After the old man?' asked Napoleon. Illya nodded, faintly embarrassed to have been caught in what might be taken as mild hero-worship. 'Good choice,' said Napoleon softly. Illya coughed to cover his discomfiture.

'Scales,' he repeated.

'Scales,' agreed Napoleon.

'Right hand first. Thumb on C. Two octaves; one's not worth the effort. Or the time.' Napoleon did as he was told, placing his thumb on C. Illya rubbed at his nose and muttered, 'I think I can get away with us playing most things in C. If we vary the tempo and the style enough.' He put his on thumb on middle C. 'Copy me. There are rules for how you do this.' He played the sequence slowly, waiting for Napoleon to copy him. The first three notes were fine, but as he brought his thumb under his other fingers to play the fourth note, he watched Napoleon's playing descend into chaos. He stopped.

'It's called "turning the thumb under", Napoleon. It's not that difficult. You just swing your thumb across your palm, like this.' He demonstrated, holding his hand up in front of Napoleon's face, waving his thumb back and forth like a windscreen wiper on high speed. Napoleon looked slightly bemused, but brought his own hand up to copy. Illya threw up his hands in pleasure,

'You see? Easy!'

'So easy! A child half your age could do it better. Are you deformed? Does your thumb not move as it should? No? So move it! See, like this–' Grabbing his thumb, digging her stick-like fingers into the fleshy pad at its base, twisting the joint until he thought the digit would break off. Replacing his hands on the keys and watching him turn the thumb under to the second key along, then the third, then the fourth, then all the way past his little finger, leaving his whole hand aching and swollen with the unaccustomed actions and the bruising from her prodding and manipulating.

'Now try it on the keys.'

Napoleon played the first three, then his face screwed up in concentration as he carefully turned his thumb under to play the fourth note.

'Don't twist your hand so much. It should be level. You're meant to be able to balance coins on the back of your hand, play a scale and not have them fall off.' 'That's twenty kopeks resting on your hand. That's more than this miserable job of teaching you will bring me today. You drop that into the keyboard where I cannot get it and you will regret it. Now play.' 'Sorry, I don't have any coins with me, but you understand what I mean?'

'I think so.' Napoleon tried again, making an effort to keep his palm horizontal, only moving his fingers. Illya nodded,

'Yes, like that, but don't let it make you stiffen up.' Napoleon shot him a glance, but Illya merely pointed to his own hand and demonstrated the rest of the scale.

A couple more demonstrations, and Napoleon was ready to add his left hand. He watched as Illya showed him the fingering sequence and screwed up his face in disbelief.

'How the hell do you do that?'

'What?'

'You're doing two completely different things with your hands!' Illya looked at his hands, puzzled.

'No. They're both going in the same direction.' He frowned. Napoleon grasped at the air, trying to articulate the problem,

'But your fingers are doing...' He gave up. 'Okay. Show me again.' Illya showed him, realising as he did so that actually, turning the thumb under on one hand while the other hand was still merrily continuing with simple finger progression, and then bringing the fingers of the left hand over the thumb instead of vice versa this many times in succession with alternate hands was not as simple as it seemed to him now.

'And why is your left hand moving there? Have you lost your first and second fingers on that hand? No. Imbecile. You play up to your thumb, then bring across your third finger. Ignore your right hand. It should know what it is doing by now, unless you are more stupid even than I thought. Again. Play!'

'You might be able to ignore your right hand, Pasha.' He felt a little jolt of pleasure at the freedom to speak the friendly diminutive he so often longed to use. 'It's amazing how quickly it learns the sequence and it sort of does it by itself. Try it. Concentrate on your left hand and see whether your right hand does the correct thing.' Napoleon looked doubtful, but he tried and on the way up the scale, his right hand did indeed look after itself. Illya blessed U.N.C.L.E.'s programme of continuous training, which seemed to work in keeping their brains receptive to new ideas and skills as they got older.

Napoleon flexed his fingers and Illya grimaced as they clicked slightly.

'Cold?' he asked.

'My fingers are,' replied Napoleon ruefully.

'Try the scale faster. It'll warm them up,' said Illya, huffing on his own fingers, which had started to cool down as well. He watched Napoleon practising the scale until it was nearly perfect. Then he stopped him.

'Good. Arpeggios.'

'Huh?'

'Um...broken chords?' He demonstrated, fingers flicking up and down lightly over the keys. Napoleon groaned,

'Slow down.' Illya rested his hands on the keys and took a breath.

'They improve your sense of where the notes are under your fingers and get your hands to move more smoothly over greater distances. They're important.'

'I'm sure, but can we do them more slowly?' Illya nodded, trying not to smile too much. The temptation to grin like an idiot at the whole situation was making it hard to focus.

'Of course.' He waggled his head from side to side. 'At first,' he added. 'They also improve your stretch, so slow is good to start with. Thumb on–'

'C, I know,' Napoleon interrupted. Illya let it go.

'Second finger on E, third on G...actually, how is your span?'

'What?'

'With your thumb pressed down on C, what's the highest note you can reach with your little finger? Can you reach the next C?' Napoleon's large hands made the octave easy. He stretched his little finger further and covered three notes over the octave. Illya grinned,

'Well, at least we don't have to worry about that, Span-length is clearly not a problem for you. Although...'

'What?'

'If you had had my teacher, she would have said it was not enough.'

It was never enough. 'What is this? An octave? What good is that to you when you are trying to play complex pieces? Stretch your fingers. You are not trying. You are not making any effort.' Tears tumbling down his cheeks as she yanked at his little finger, dragging it away from his other fingers until the tiny web of skin at the base of the finger, dried out by the cold of the Soviet winter, split and started to ooze blood. His thumb clawing at the side of the note next to the one it held down, willing it not to slip, because that would infuriate her. Crying, not for the physical pain, which he was able to endure well enough, but for the accusation of laziness, because he was trying, trying so hard to get it right, to stretch to that extra note, but his six year-old fingers were simply too small to reach.

'Illya?' He jerked back to the present, rubbing unconsciously at the knuckles of his fourth and fifth fingers.

'Yuri,' he corrected, wondering why Napoleon had forgotten. It was unlike him to drop out of an identity.

'I called you that. You didn't respond.' Illya swallowed, letting the memory recede. Suddenly feeling very daring, he reached across and took hold of Napoleon's little finger between his thumb and second and third fingers. He pulled it across, pushing it gently down on the G.

'Ow!' said Napoleon softly, but he was smiling.

'Baby,' Illya retorted, 'You could have stretched to that yourself.'

'Did I need to?' asked Napoleon. Illya shrugged. Napoleon nodded slowly. 'You just...' he shook his head and played the notes, C and G. G and C. He tried the arpeggio. Illya nodded, frowning slightly at the unfinished sentence.

'Good. Faster.'

'Faster?'

'Faster! What point is there in playing at this speed? Agility! Speed! Accuracy! Any fool can be accurate playing largo. I shall clap, one, two; see? Now fit into that time your arpeggio, up and down. One, two. Play!'

'It's to improve your accuracy. You have to try it faster or there's little point in doing it at all.'

Napoleon took a deep breath and let it out again between close lips. He tried it faster, missing the C as he tried to hop to the next octave.

'Again! Cretin! What is so difficult?Here, here is where your thumb goes. You do not practise enough. If you practised you would not fail.' Biting his cheek to stop from crying as she slammed his thumb down on the key, because he did practise, every day, an hour on the out-of-tune piano, left over in the shared apartment by the amateur pianist who had lived alone in those five rooms in more decadent days. An hour a day with Vladimir Alekseivich banging on the wall of his room, yelling at him to shut up, an hour of Olga Pyotrevna sitting in the corner with her sewing, swaying back and forth to his hesitant playing, waiting at the apex of every sway until he was ready to start the next bar. An hour of his mother hovering between overseeing him, checking he was doing everything he should, and trying to cook on the temperamental stove, promising a little food if only he kept playing for the full hour.

'Don't worry about it, you'll get it eventually. Then I'll show you the first phrase to learn.'

Napoleon's shoulders relaxed slightly, releasing his own irritation at not getting it first time. He tried again. Illya watched, holding his breath without realising. Releasing it as Napoleon's thumb hit C, dead centre. He watched as he tried with his left hand, struggled to play both hands together, stopped when it went wrong, tried again, played over and over, faster and faster, until it was perfect.

'Show off,' muttered Illya softly. Napoleon raised an eyebrow at him.

'So, can I learn something we can actually use now?'

'Yes, but I don't want to rush too much. You've been going for two and a half hours. If you were anybody else I'd be amazed at how much you've achieved.'

'Oh, so you're not impressed?' Napoleon grinned. Illya recognised the tease for what it was, and repaid it in kind.

'Not in the slightest. You should be thankful I'm not teaching you at headquarters, or I'd have expected you to take your grade one at this point after a comment like that.' Napoleon reached out a hand and squeezed Illya's knee.

'You're a good teacher, Yuri Aleksandrovich.'

'I'm what, Illya Nicolaievich? How dare you presume to say such a thing? How can you know whether I am good or bad at your age? Of course I am good. What? Do you think I might have doubts of my own ability, that you should try to appease me like this? I suppose your mother told you to say that did she?' Nodding miserably, not knowing what was wrong with what he had said, not wanting to get his mother into trouble. 'Bah! It would take more than a good teacher to turn you into a good pianist. Now I want silence from you. Play for me the first twelve bars of your exercise, and you will play it well or I will leave and your chance will be gone.' She never did go, of course, and he was never sure whether to be grateful for this or not.

'And you are a master crawler. Get your hand off my leg and back on the keys where it belongs.' He took a sharp breath, not entirely certain that was something he had wanted to say out loud. Napoleon's eyes narrowed slightly and his lips twitched, making the dimple in his chin dance with shadows. He returned his hand to the keyboard and waited.

Illya thought for a moment, considering the first piece he wanted to play. The guard had been right. Back home he could never have considered playing this kind of music in public, nor even in his own home. Who knew what the others in the apartment would pass on? His mother heard him once, the slightest syncopation in his playing, a chord fleshed out with tensions that gave it that certain sound. 'No! Illyusha, you must not. They will come and take you away from me. Only play what Yekaterina Ivanovna teaches you. Please Illyusha.' 'Yes Mami, whatever you say. I will be obedient.'

He swallowed.

'This is...simple, but it sounds complicated. They won't know the difference.' He put his little finger on C, his second on G and his thumb on A. 'Like this.' He played the notes. The blues rhythm started his left foot tapping and he pressed his heel down, stopping himself. He chewed on the inside of his lip, feeling the old desire just to keep playing, to follow the simple chord progressions, making them more and more complex until he was lost in the midst of a rainstorm of loosely associated notes, the banned notes, the rhythms that could literally make you disappear.

He turned to Napoleon, to show him. Napoleon was watching him shrewdly.

'I thought you weren't allowed to play that sort of stuff back home?'

'No,' agreed Illya. Napoleon nodded, then placed his little finger on C, his second on G and his thumb on A. Illya nodded, 'Do it with both hands.'

'Huh?'

'Use you right hand as well. Thumb on C, fourth on G, fifth on A. Do exactly the same with both hands. It's boring, but I don't think even our combined...even we can get you playing full blues phrases with both hands in just two days.'

'No?'

'No.'

Napoleon tried the notes as Illya had played them. C, G, A, G; C, G, A, G... Illya shook his head,

My teacher would have been proud of you.

Not of me. 'Illya Nicolaievich, where are these lost half-beats coming from? Play on the beat. On the beat, always on the beat. Dah, dah, dah, dah. I can...oh yes, little Illka, I can tell someone that you try to play this way, that you play this music when you think I am not listening, and they will come and take you away.' Eyes wide with terror. No, no, Yekaterina Ivanovna, I will play just the way you tell me. I will not let this rhythm that flows through me like the blood in my veins rise to the surface. I will crush it. Whatever I am doing wrong, I will not do any more.

'What do you mean?'

'It was excellent. If you were playing a Mozart Sonata.'

'Eh?'

'Listen to me again.' He played the notes, playing the second note before his foot tapped out the second count of the bar, syncopating the phrase, fighting the desire to add in a few notes with his right hand. 'Do you hear? The notes should be off the beat.'

Napoleon still looked confused, but nodded and tried again. Illya shook his head,

'Pasha, if your sense of rhythm is as bad as this in the bedroom, I don't know how you got your reputation.' Napoleon's eyes widened and Illya returned his gaze steadily. 'Syncopate. Feel the beat and listen to what you're playing. I will clap it for you.' He did so, but Napoleon's notes still fell in the wrong places, sounding flat and uninteresting. Illya started to look concerned,

'Pasha, stop it. I know you can do this.' Napoleon suddenly looked very tired. Illya looked at the clock, high up on the wall. Three hours. Three hours of intensive playing. No wonder Napoleon was starting to flag, the concentration required...

'Three hours, that is all. If you ever shock me and make it into the school, they will make you play eight hours at a time. What will you think then of your stupid hour-long lessons? Three hours today so that you are ready when you go to be examined tomorrow. You will not be ready. You will not get in, no matter what, but I will try to see that you do not disgrace me. You will though. So now we practise for another hour. Stop snivelling and play.' But I am so tired. My fingers ache and my brain hurts and is full of dust and wind. Please. If I could rest, or eat something. I am so hungry. We had no food this morning and Anna Ilinichna stole my soup at lunchtime, but I cannot tell Mami, because she told me I would get into trouble. 'Stop your drivel. It has nothing to do with the piano. Play.'

'Let's stop for a while. You're getting tired.' Illya started to get up, but Napoleon grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

He felt her strong fingers close around his arm, digging in; the queasy feel of her paper-skin on the rose-petal softness of his own wrist. She dragged him back down onto the stool. 'I said you will stay for another hour. Sit still and play, ungrateful brat.' He cried out with tiredness.

'Yuri?' Illya inhaled sharply, shocked at the faint cry that had escaped his own mouth.

'Sorry. Cramp in my leg,' he lied. Napoleon's grip was gentle and undemanding, and his fingertips brushed softly across the smooth skin on the inside of Illya's wrist a couple of times before he let go, putting his hands back on the keys, ready to play.

'I need to get this, then we can stop for a while. We don't have long.'

'There's no point pushing it. It doesn't work.' 'This is no better than the last time. What's the matter with you, idiot? You play to get better, not to stay at the same level. Again!'

'I'm okay. Teach me how to do this. Once I've got it, I'll be fine. I can hear it, I just can't get my fingers to do it yet.'

Illya leant his elbow on the sharp corner of the hard wood in front of the keys, chin on his hand and looked at Napoleon. Then he sighed, sat up and nodded.

'Okay. Try it again. Listen and just...just let your fingers relax. You're making a meal of it, don't force them down, just let them play naturally.'

Napoleon tried again. The notes no longer fell right on the beat, but the timing was wrong and Illya cringed. Napoleon felt the movement and suddenly Illya felt an arm snake around his shoulders, imparting a brief squeeze before retreating again.

'Sorry. I know it's bad. I will get it.'

Illya sat very still. Napoleon had put an arm around him. He was teaching him to play the piano, and out of nowhere, he had given him that unmistakable sign of friendship and tolerance.

'They will not tolerate this sloppiness at the school. You will fail tomorrow. You will enter that room and they will hear you and they will tell you you are not good enough.'

'Perhaps if you play with me, like you did for those first notes?' Napoleon threw a questioning glance in Illya's direction. Illya's mind started to wander again, but he nodded and shuffled closer to Napoleon.

He laid his fingers over the back of Napoleon's hand, shifting his fingers until they fitted comfortably, joints overlying joints so that their knuckles could move in unison. His hands looked terribly pale against the darker hue of Napoleon's skin, and he rocked them slightly, wondering why he had never been so captivated by the difference before, and noticing that despite their differing physiques, their hands were roughly the same size. He rested the pads of his fingers on Napoleon's beautifully manicured nails, feeling only one that had suffered during this mission – a chip out of the tip of the nail on his middle finger. He ran his own finger lightly over it and Napoleon grimaced,

'Don't fiddle with it, you'll only make it worse. Somehow I neglected to bring any nail clippers with me. You don't happen to have any stashed in here do you?' Illya shook his head,

'Concentrate,' he said, trying to ignore the fact that his own concentration had gone out of the non-existent window. He glanced at the clock: midnight. They really ought to get some sleep, but Napoleon was right, they needed to get something under their belts before they went to bed, or they wouldn't have time the next day.

'You will fail tomorrow. You will enter that room and they will hear you and they will tell you you are not good enough.'

'One, two, three, four,' he counted them in, then began to play, pushing down on Napoleon's fingers, feeling the slight give of the skin, repeating over and over, the same phrase, drumming it into his partner until it could not have failed to sink in.

Gradually he reduced the pressure of his fingers, letting Napoleon do the work, until he was doing nothing but rest his fingers lightly on the back of Napoleon's. He allowed himself to enjoy the sensation now that he no longer needed to focus his attention on the notes. Placing his right hand on Napoleon's had brought him so close to him that much of his weight was resting on Napoleon's side, their arms brushing together from elbow to fingertips, warm and friendly, and making him tingle head to foot with pleasure. He wondered idly whether the sensation was the same for Napoleon, or whether, for him, it was more the way it had once been for Illya.

That smell, the smell that would haunt him forever: shchi and the faint tang of urine. The smell of the stairwells, intensified in the old woman pushed hard against his side and back, watching him, prodding his fingers into place, pinching his side when he got it wrong. Yanking his hair, his beautiful, soft, little boy's hair when she thought he was not concentrating. 'You are so vain with this hair, but it will pass. You will become a man and this hair will turn dull brown and coarse. If you were so vain about your playing, you might stand a chance at least of keeping that.' Illya felt Napoleon's gaze on him, his eyes flicking up to look at Illya's hair. He always watched his hair like that. Whatever Napoleon's feelings about him, Illya knew he loved his hair. At least he was right to be vain about it in that respect: it gave pleasure to at least one person. Her bony elbows digging into his as she positioned his fingers; her sharp ribs jabbing into his back, bruising the muscles between his ribs; her soft, formless breasts, bags of heavy flour swinging in their loose casing of rough cotton fabric, resting on his shoulder, pendulous against his neck. Knowing by rote that it was wicked to think about them, but not knowing why anyone would want to think about anything so unpleasant. Her harsh voice battering his eardrums. 'Play! Again! Again!'

Illya pushed away from Napoleon to sit up properly. He rubbed his knuckles in one of his tired eyes. It made him feel like a little boy. He opened his eyes to see Napoleon looking at him with an expression that was half amusement, half concern.

'Yuri, you, my friend, are too tired. Let's call it a day. I've got that now. I guess that will make it easier tomorrow.' Illya nodded and rose to his feet, yawning.

'I'm just going to see if we can get a bit more heat. Care to join me in a little anarchy?'

'Never let it be said I failed to cause anarchy within a Thrush building. What sort of anarchy were you considering?'

'Oh, nothing very interesting. Just enough noise to get the guards back here. You have to yell like crazy to get them to pay attention.'

Napoleon's expression changed to a satisfied grin and he stood up, brushing down his travel-soiled trousers and stretching, flexing his aching fingers. Together they walked to the door, then, on the signal of Illya's raised eyebrow, they began to shout and bang on the door for all they were worth.

It took a good five minutes before the guards obviously became bored of the unceasing noise and they heard the sound of heavy boots clumping down the corridor. The flap over the window in the door was pulled back and they were facing with a grim looking thug of the usual Thrush type, a different man to the one who had shown Napoleon in earlier.

'What do you want?' he asked nastily. Illya's accent returned full strength as he replied,

'Want? Deserve, need, merit, you mean. Is freezing in here. How do you expect us to play in such cold?'

'Huh! From what I heard, you can't play for toffee. I heard rubbish. You'd better be better than that tomorrow or you'll be strung up.'

Illya appeared to fly into a rage. Red and spluttering he answered between shallow, angry breaths,

'I have for that two answers. First, you clearly do not know how great music is made, how it is built. Second, you cannot...no, you...ach, how is it said? Pavel? Vi ne dolzhni slushat...'

Napoleon's eyes widened and Illya wondered just how much of his basic diplomatic Russian Napoleon could recall.

'He says you should not be listening,' translated Napoleon, allowing the faintest of Russian accents to colour his speech.

'Yes, that's it.' Illya jabbed his finger through the bars at the guard. 'You have locked us up when we are guests who deserve a proper room, and I have told you not to listen to what we do, is not for your ears, but you do, and also we are left cold and hungry. What way is this to treat great musicians?'

The guard rolled his eyes and slammed the flap down. Illya and Napoleon at once started up their banging and shouting again.

The guard was gone for about ten minutes. When he returned, he opened the door, waving a gun at them as he did so, barking at them to step to the far side of the room and not think of escaping.

'Well, that's put any ideas of escape out of my head,' Napoleon whispered in Illya's ear. Illya had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He still had some anger to vent.

'And the cold? Is enough to make our fingers drop to the floor.'

'The heating plant runs in the morning only. You'll get heat then, just like everyone else. You've got blankets. Use them.' The guard put down a tray of food, then left, slamming the door behind him. They waited until he was well out of the way before they started to speak again, keeping their voices lower, just in case.

'Why the drop into Russian?' asked Napoleon.

'The angrier I get, the harder it is to remember English,' replied Illya. Napoleon snorted in disbelief.

'What rubbish. You forget your English? I'm more likely to...'

'There are some constructions I had problems with when I was younger. It helps to remind them that I'm not word-perfect in English. They might let something slip, you never know.'

'Smart Russian,' muttered Napoleon. 'What's the food like here?'

'I don't know. They were extremely unresponsive yesterday. I think they were more concerned about getting you in here.' Napoleon looked at Illya with mock-shock,

'You must be starving to death,' he gasped. Illya swatted his arm lightly.

'Don't joke Napoleon, I'm too hungry to play that game.' He pulled the cover off the tray and sniffed. 'Smells okay. Here.' He passed a plate to Napoleon and took the other for himself, grabbing a piece of bread and stuffing it into his mouth, before helping himself to the unidentifiable stew in the bowl next to the bread. Napoleon waited for him to finish dishing up before he took the spoon and started to fill his own plate.

Contrary to expectations, there was plenty of food, although that didn't stop Illya from finishing the lot. They returned the plates and the cover to the tray and Illya glanced at the piano. Napoleon shook his head.

'I'm too tired, and you certainly are. Which bunk do you want?'

'I wouldn't recommend either of them.' Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

'No?'

'I tried them both last night, and halfway through, I decided the floor would be much more comfortable, and I was right.' Napoleon walked over to the nearest bunk and lay down on top of the blanket, looking contemplative. He nodded slowly,

'Yup. I think you might be right. Feels like Thrush is making its mattresses from nuts and bolts this year.' Illya grinned and grabbed the blanket and pillow from the other bunk.

'Come and keep me warm,' he said. Napoleon swung his legs off the bunk and pulled the bedding after him.

'Uh uh. You can keep me warm. You're built for the cold.' He squatted down next to Illya, laying the blanket on the floor and his pillow at the top of it. They lay down next to each other on it, and Illya spread the second blanket over them. They automatically wriggled closer, tucking the blanket around themselves to keep out the draught. Napoleon blew a few strands of Illya's hair out of his way.

'Night, Teach,' he muttered, rolling his head down into the pillow, out of the way of the persistent tickle of Illya's hair. Illya laughed softly, wishing it were as simple as Napoleon made it sound. And tomorrow they would have to do it again.

'Again! Again!' He groaned as the voice repeated in his head. Napoleon tutted and threw an arm over him in the old signal he often used: "tell me what's wrong, or shut up so I can sleep." Illya concentrated on the arm pinning him to the hard floor, and wondered what it would be like never to have to get out from under that familiar weight. Deciding it would be a welcome relief, he allowed himself to slide into sleep.

(There will be tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Reviews are most welcome and make me write faster :})