"Illya! Illya, stop!"

But he wouldn't stop. Illya ran as hard and as fast as he could. He ran until his side spasmed with pain. He ran until his breath came in deep whooping heaves in his thin chest. He ran, not even feeling the branches as they whipped his face and body, leaving bright red streaks on his arms and legs.

Finally, spent, he fell to his knees, ignorant of the sticks and rocks that dug into them. No pain could be any greater than the one in his heart. He began to wail, giving his pain a voice with his sobs. Illya cried until he could not shed another tear and still sorrow poured from his soul.

Abruptly there were arms around him, comforting and warm. For a moment, he longed to bury himself in them, seeking shelter there. But these were the arms of a stranger.

Illya pushed away and studied the clothes and jewelry before him. Finally he located a face half hidden by hair and one of his hands found a stick, just in case he needed to fight.

"Who… who are you?" he demanded bravely, although his voice quaked just a little.

"My mother named me Vadoma, but my friends call me Lyuba." Her voice was kind and her smile warm. "Who are you, little one?"

"I'm not little!" he snapped before catching himself. "I'm Illya Nichovetch Kuryakin."

"Ah, you're Nicholas' oldest. You're the terror we've all heard about."

Illya set his jaw and for a moment he forgot his sorrow. "I'm not a terror!"

"All right, Illya not-a-terror Nichovetch, why do you cry so?"

"My grandmother…"

"Zoya?"

"Yes, she has… she's…" Illya tried to be brave, but his bottom lip started to tremble.

"You don't have to say it, Illya Nichovetch. I understand now. Why are you out here when you have a nice warm bed and no doubt two very worried parents back at your home?"

"They don't understand. Papa says I mustn't cry because I am a man. Mama says I must be brave for the sake of the other children. Why can't I just be what I am?"

"A sad and scared little boy?"

"I'm not scared… but I am sad," Illya conceded that point.

"Then prove it by putting that stick down. You are more likely to hurt yourself than me with it. That way we can talk as civilized people."

With a sudden blush of embarrassment, Illya dropped the stick as if it had bitten him. "Why are you out here?"

"I live here with my friends, the trees, and my family, the plants."

"You're a gypsy!" Illya gasped. He'd only been this close to a gypsy once before. All his fear and sorrow fled with this realization.

"That's one name people attribute to us, although we prefer Romani." Luyba gestured to a nearly invisible trail. "I was fetching some water for dinner and heard you crying." She stopped and leaned forward. "What are you wearing, little one?"

"I'm not –"

"Little, yes, I know. You've told me so. What do you wear around your neck?"

"My babushka gave it to me. She told me to hide it away, but I wear it today to honor her."

"May I see it?"

"Papa says you are all thieves and liars."

"And he'd be the first one to come to us for help with a drought or a fallow cow. I merely wish to see it, Illya Nichovetch. I will not take it from you. Here." She held out a bracelet, heavy and intricately woven with fine threads of gold and silver. "This is worth three times what your necklace is worth."

After a moment, Illya took the medallion off and dropped it into her outstretched hand without taking her bracelet in return.

"I trust you," Illya said, softly, but his eyes remained on the bracelet as it shimmered in the light of the setting sun.

"You have a good heart, Illya Nichovetch. It will see you through many hard times ahead. She was a believer?"

"Yes, that is why no one must see me wearing it." Illya had felt uncomfortable when his grandmother had given him the medallion not that many months before. She had pressed it into his hand and promised him that they would see each other again. He knew what a religious icon was and meant. "I have failed her for you have seen me and will now report me to the authorities."

Luyba handed the necklace back to him. "I have seen nothing, Illya Nichovetch, except for a boy honoring his grandmother and surely that is not of concern to the government." She smiled at his obvious relief. "Are you hungry?" He was always hungry and there was never enough food to go around. He tried to make do with his meager portion, but the truth was many nights his belly burned with hunger. Then the woman smiled at him kindly and offered her hand. "Let's go see what's in the stew pot."

There was a knock at the kitchen door and Yuliya Kuryakin wiped the moisture from her eyes with the corner of her apron and looked at it from where she was seated at the great table.

The day had been a heartache from the gray light of dawn when she discovered her mother lived no more, to now. There had been the public duties to perform and some very private ones that no one could know about. The children did not understand and were both confused and anxious. Well, Illya realized what had happened. He was the closest to his grandmother, and the sorrow he struggled with finally sent him racing from the dacha. Now he was missing in the night and Yuliya was very nearly frantic as she waited for the men to return from their searching.

She put on her best face and opened the kitchen door slowly. A woman, obviously a Roma, stood there, her shawl pulled tightly about her to keep out the cold night air.

"I'm sorry, Little Mother. I have nothing to share with you." It was more than true in this case. Tomorrow there would be a gathering and with it, food, but not tonight.

"I am Luyba and I have something for you." She looked away and gestured. A tall man appeared and in his arms, Illya slept.

"Illyusha! Oh!" Yuliya grabbed the doorframe to keep from collapsing. "I feared…"

"We found him in the woods, mourning for his grandmother. He ate, but I suspect the day was too much for him." Luyba caressed the impossibly soft blond hair as her oldest son carried the small boy into the house and through to the living room. He was placed gently upon a bed already filled with other sleeping siblings and immediately he snuggled against the nearest one.

The man squeezed a shoulder dwarfed by his hand and returned to his mother's side.

"I'm sorry if he –"

"To the contrary, he was no bother at all. He seemed quite taken with us."

"Illyusha has had a love of all things gypsy for a very long time."

"He must visit us."

"Nicholas might… object." Yuliya looked towards the living room, even though the man had not yet returned.

"But if Illya were to return something he'd found, it would be acceptable?"

"I suppose so…"

Luyba took off her bracelet and held it to her. "Then when he wakes, have Illya return my bracelet."

Yuliya took it and smiled. "I will see that it is done. Thank you… Luyba, for everything."

"Earth to Kuryakin. Are you there, Kuryakin?"

Fingers snapped in front of his nose and Illya jumped slightly before scowling over at his partner. "What is wrong, Napoleon?"

"You had completely zoned out. Are you ill?"

Illya looked at the bracelet on display in the museum case and shook his head slowly. "I know this bracelet. A good friend of mine had one just like it."

"Sort of unusual. Could there be two of them?"

"No, it is unique." The voice behind them was dusty with age. Illya turned and grinned.

"Luyba?"

After a moment, the old woman nodded and returned the smile. "Hello, Little One."

Illya gathered her into a gentle embrace. "Not so little anymore, eh? What are you doing here?"

"They invited me to come and talk about the ways of our people." She cupped Illya's face with arthritis-gnarled fingers. "I never thought it would bring me to you again."

Napoleon drew Illya's attention with a good-natured humph. "So… are you going to introduce me, Partner?"

"Napoleon, this is Vadoma, a very old and dear friend. She found me when I was very lost. Luyba, this is my partner and my friend, Napoleon Solo."

Napoleon took a hand and kissed it carefully, mindful of her aching joints. "I am pleased to meet you, Ma'am. You knew Illya as a child?"

"I did."

"Then we need to talk." And talk they did until late into the night and early the next morning. The old friends parted with a promise to keep in touch, but as was often the case with his life, the next day Illya was sent on assignment and, when he returned, the exhibit and Luyba had left.

Illya was lounging in front of the fireplace, more asleep than awake. It was a drowsy, rainy afternoon and he could think of no place that he would rather be. Napoleon was beside him, reading and sipping a glass of something. Just for the moment, they were both content to be still and let the world move around them.

There was a sharp knock on the door and both men sat up.

"You were expecting company?" Illya reached for his holster and weapon, currently draped over the arm of a chair.

"Not me." Napoleon mirrored the action and rolled gracefully to his feet. As he walked to the door, he checked the clip of the pistol. "May I help you?" He peered out the peephole in the door at the man waiting on the other side.

"Napoleon, it's me, Deke." Napoleon recognized a fellow Section Two agent and disengaged the alarm system. He opened the door, keeping his weapon hand resting lightly on the back of the door.

"Deke, what's going on?"

"That's what we were hoping you could tell us. Is Illya…?" Illya appeared at that point and Deke let out a sigh. "You're a hard man to track down, Kuryakin. We got this for you a couple of hours ago. The courier said it was imperative that it be delivered to you promptly." Illya took the brown paper and twine wrapped package and shook it. Something rattled inside. "It's been cleared through security."

"Thanks, Deke."

"No problem. It got me out of the office. Anything beats sitting around and watching Jim file."

Then he was gone with a wave and Napoleon closed the door. By the time Napoleon had relocked and re-engaged the alarm Illya was in the kitchen, cutting through the heavy twine with a knife.

"That's a good way to take an edge off a steak knife, Illya," Napoleon groused as Illya tore through the paper and ripped open the box. "I ought to…" he stopped at the expression on Illya's face. "Illya?"

Inside were a bracelet and a note, scrawled in a spidery handwriting – 'Return it to me when you can, little one. Luyba'

And for only the second time in his life, Illya wept.