Anya Kossova tossed her hair and stared at her reflection in the glass. She had come all this way to be with Illya, and found him unavailable. She couldn't return home. She had burned her bridges. If she returned it was likely she would be accused of defection and arrested. She thought back to the evening she had arrived.

She had been so confident that she and Illya would run into each other's arms, he would sweep her off her feet and they would get married and live happily ever after. She ought to have known that things would not be that simple. When had things ever been simple, for either of them?

She remembered the first time she had seen him, when he had arrived at her camp with his mother Alina, and his siblings, he had been just six years old. She remembered overhearing the adults talking about how badly Alina and her children had been treated after her husband had been killed. She had been turned away by her own father, and so had had no option but to search for the Gypsy tribe her husband had left behind for her sake, in the hope that they would take pity on her.

Young six-year-old Illya had been cold and skinny and hungry when she first saw him, and so painfully shy that he had burst into tears when she had tried to talk to him. She had not seen him for some time after that, as the elders had escorted Alina Kuryakina and her family to her husband's tribe.

At the gathering three months later, when the different tribes met, Illya had approached her shyly and said hello. The two children had quickly become fast friends, each looking forward to the gathering so that they could play together. Viktor Kuryakin, Illya's uncle, had taken note of the little boy's intelligence, and had taken him in hand. It had been Illya's uncle Viktor whom had first approached her father about their joining. The ceremony had been quickly arranged, although at the time Anya recalled having no clear understanding of what was going on. It had been later, when they had heard of the destruction of the Kuryakin tribe by the Nazis two years later that her father had explained to her exactly what it was she had lost.

To have found, then lost and then found him only to find that she had already lost him. He was twenty-three, she was twenty-four, and he had to wait until he was forty years old before he was free to live his private life in his own way? What kind of life would that be? Would she be able to wait for him for another seventeen years? It had been almost fifteen years since she had lost him that awful night when the Nazis had raided his camp, and she had believed him dead. Was it fair that she would have to wait over thirty years for the man she loved? Or should she say goodbye to him now and make an end to it?

She had already made her choice, it seemed. She could have sent Illya a message through his grandfather without burning her bridges home, but she had been so confident that he would be waiting for her. And so, in a way, he had. Was he not wearing a ring for her? A signal to the world that his heart was not his own?

That evening they had sat and wept together, but he had refused turn his back on the job that was separating them. Surikov had told her of all the skills and qualifications his grandson had achieved since she had last seen him. Despite the trials and difficulties of his life, he had gained a good education, and had letters after his name. Surikov seemed so proud of him, and so confident that Illya Kuryakin could do anything in the world he wanted to. It was Surikov whom had told her that Illya worked for the U.N.C.L.E, but he had been so sure that she would come first. That he would leap into her arms, so to speak.

She had learned how wrong Surikov had been.

So now she was here, stranded in this strange place, where it seemed one could get anything they wanted just for the asking. All you needed was money, or the means to earn it.

Illya had made some calls, and found this apartment for her, just a few blocks away from his own, and he had promised to pay her bills for her until she was able to find employment to support herself; but what could she do? What skills did she have that someone would pay her for?

That evening, although Illya had been infinitely kind and caring to her, she had become angry with him for not being willing to drop everything for her, after all she had left behind for him. Her last words to him had been barbed, and thrown in anger. She now bitterly regretted them. She had no idea where to begin to look for employment. She had envisioned herself living in America as a wife with a home to take care of, not a single, working person.

She swiftly tied her hair back and secured it with a blue ribbon, and turned to the table. She had two options, as she saw it. She could contact the Ambassador once again and explain that all was not well, and let him find her work, or find a way to send her home without recriminations; the other choice was that she could call the number Illya had left for her. He had offered to try and help her himself, but she had thrown his offer in his face in her anger and misery. What should she do? Did she really want to go home? Would she choose that option if it was possible? Was she willing to hang around for seventeen years in the hope that he did not find someone else in the meantime?

Her head whipped round as someone rapped loudly on her front door. Her heart thumped wildly. Would it be Illya? She hurried to the door, and her heart dropped. It was not Illya.

The handsome, dark haired man on her doorstep smiled, his eyes crinkling at the outer edges. He had a dimple on his chin, and a mole on his cheek.

"Anya Kossova?"

She nodded. His smiled widened.

"Pardon me, but do you speak English?"

"Yes, who are you?"

"My name is Napoleon Solo. I understand you are somewhat an expert in languages?"

Anya frowned.

"Somewhat…how would you know that? Who do you represent?"

"I work for the U.N.C.L.E. I am second in command of the New York Office. We have been looking for extra support staff for our translations department, and Mister Kuryakin told me he knew of someone who would be perfect and might be available."

He handed her a yellow card, which she took and examined carefully, then finally nodded and stood aside to let him enter.

"Mister Solo? Are you truly looking for extra staff, or did Illya send you here as a favour?"

Solo looked serious.

"Truly, Miss Kossova, we have had three members of staff leave in the past six months, so we are truly looking for second and third language speakers. You speak English very well, and I gather you speak Russian as your mother tongue?"

Anya nodded.

"Do you happen to speak any other languages?"

She nodded warily.

"Polish, Hungarian, Hebrew and Romany."

"All fluently?" he looked impressed.

"Of course."

"Then subject to background checks, are you interested in working for UNCLE, in translations?"

Anya looked at him, and then round at the small apartment. Illya's apartment was smaller than this one, and right now he was having to pay for them both. She had to make a decision. Stay here in America or attempt to return home to her tribe?

Solo watched the young woman, wondering how Illya knew her, what their connection was, and what was making her hesitate. Illya had been almost diffident when he had spoken of this woman, but there had been something in his eyes that told Solo how important it was to him. Illya had not told him anything about who she was, or why she had come to this country without any clear objective in mind, but personally, he had his own suspicions. Illya was such an intensely private individual though, to ask him directly would be to invite a snub. He knew better than to ask the young woman herself. He simply waited, watching her closely.

Anya knew that if she agreed, she would be able to stay, earn a living, and be what she had always dreamt of being: independent. And yet, she would likely see Illya every day. Would that make things easier or harder for them both? Would it not be kinder all round for her to simply go home and let them both try to forget? She remembered something Illya's mother had once said to her:

"You must follow your heart, Ani. Always follow your heart. Sometimes it will go well, sometimes you will be hurt, but you will never regret. To regret is to be ripped into two pieces. That is what hurts the most."

She remembered what Alina had given up when she had left her wealthy father to marry the penniless Gypsy boy she had fallen in love with; but she had never regretted her decision. What did Anya's heart tell her?

Screwing up her courage, Anya smiled and nodded.

"Thank you, Mister Solo. I am very interested in your offer. When do I begin?"