It was a cold, still morning. Illya stirred from the bed, feeling sweaty after being bundled against Napoleon under the blankets, and aching a little. He slipped his feet out onto the carpet and shivered. His dressing gown was there over the back of the bedroom chair, right where he had left it, so he slipped it on and walked over to the bedroom window. When he moved the curtain a little light glared into his eyes, and he winced. He wasn't sure where he had put his sunglasses last night. He just closed his eyes instead and slipped through the gap between the curtains so he was standing at the window. He pressed his palm to the glass, and shivered. It felt cold enough that he wouldn't be surprised if there were ice on the other side. He remembered the beautiful swirling patterns of ice that had crept over the apartment windows back home sometimes, when it had been really cold. It didn't get that cold often, but those few times were something precious. The swirls of ice like feathers and leaves all over the windows, and the gold of the morning sun glinting on all of those lines. It had looked like etched glass.

He wanted to see. He wanted to see just so he could tell if there were swirling frost leaves on the window, and the rising sun glinting on them. There wasn't any way to feel those patterns. An ache rose and swelled in his chest and filled his throat. He pressed his palm harder on the glass and wondered if the heat of his blood would be melting the ice that must be on the other side. Then he slipped his fingers over the slick surface until he felt the frame and the handle, and he tried to open the window a little. It stuck, at first because of ice and then because there was something soft and heavy in the way of the opening pane, and he pushed his fingers out into the gap and felt soft, freezing snow piled at least eight inches deep on the sill.

'Wow,' he said softly. It was so bright out there he was sure the sky must be clear. He wished so much that he could see it, but wishing didn't work. He knew that by now.

He shut the window before it let in too much cold, and crept back across the dark room to find his clothes. That, at least, was one benefit here. He could find his clothes without switching the light on and disturbing Napoleon, who was still deep in sleep, and probably would be until later in the morning. If he could, he liked to sleep off his jet lag that way. Illya gathered up thick slacks and a poloneck, and a sweater to put over the top, and crept out into the living room, where he stood near the warming heater and pulled his clothes on. He found his cane near the door and when he pulled on his coat he found the sunglasses in the pocket. He was sure he would need them this morning. He rummaged in the closet for a scarf and hat, and pulled them on, not entirely sure what the scarf was like but reassured in the fact that it was soft and warm. Then he took a piece of paper and scrawled a quick note to Napoleon, in case he woke up, and left the apartment with a shoulder bag slung over his arm.

'A lovely morning, Mr Kuryakin,' someone said to him as he tapped across the lobby and made for the door, 'but the snow's deep. I'd watch out.'

He paused, running through the neighbours in his head until he had identified that voice. 'Good morning, Mrs Garetski,' he said. 'Have the sidewalks been cleared?'

'They've been trodden down some, my dear, but not cleared by any means. Are you sure you want to go out in that?'

Illya grinned. 'Mr Solo is just back from abroad. I need to get him his breakfast.'

'Ah, you're a kind man, Mr Kuryakin,' she said. 'Well, you take care out there, won't you?'

'I always take care,' he assured her.

And he found his way over to the door and opened it, and the freezing cold hit his face like a slap. He pulled the scarf up over his mouth and nose, reflecting that really there was no reason why he shouldn't wrap it all the way around his head. He didn't want to muffle his ears, of course, but it was only convention that made him leave his eyes uncovered. Still, he went along with that convention. He couldn't quite bring himself to walk around outside looking like an Egyptian mummy.

Mrs Garetski had been right. The snow was deep, only broken in a narrow line where people had followed in each other's footsteps. But that suited him well enough. It made it hard to use the cane, but he could slide his feet along one after the other in the broken path. He was glad that there were railings and buildings close up against the sidewalk on his right to provide him with a solid shoreline to navigate parallel to, because it was almost certain that the kerb would be totally lost in the snow, and all the usual echoes from the hard surroundings would be muted to almost nothing.

He could do this, though. He hated the idea of being trapped by any weather, so he would go out in the snow just as he would if the streets were clear. At least there wasn't a curtain of rain hissing from the sky, although rain had its own benefits in the way it made a contoured soundscape when it hit surfaces. Today the air was beautifully clear and cold in his lungs and there were almost no cars on the street. Everything was so quiet. He could hear children shrieking a distance away, but that was almost all the noise.

It didn't take too long to get to the bakery a block away, and he stood in the warmth and the rich scents of yeast and butter and dough while the genial baker wrapped up six croissants and six pain au chocolat in paper, and then in newspaper, and then in more newspaper, and then tucked them into Illya's shoulder bag.

'I'm not sure I want to go outside again,' he commented as he felt for the money in his wallet and handed it over.

The baker laughed and said, 'Here's your change, Mr Kuryakin,' and he put it in Illya's open palm. He gave it only a cursory check before shoving it in his pocket, then he pushed his gloves back on and slung the bag onto his shoulder, and gave the baker a light salute.

'Thank you,' he said, and he went back out onto the frigid street.

He stood there a moment facing the road, just breathing in the air. The insides of his lungs seemed to cringe at the cold. Then he turned right and tapped towards the next shop. The bakery had been easy to find despite the way snow altered the landscape, because of the scent of baking bread that filtered out through the door. The expensive little grocer's that Napoleon loved was just a few doors down, but it took a moment of feeling along the building's façade to find the door because the rubber doormat that was always outside was covered in snow. He went in there and the scents instantly told him he was in the right place. He asked the girl behind the counter for a tin of Napoleon's favourite hot chocolate, and then went back into the cold, pleased with his morning's work.

'Illya, I am so proud of you,' Napoleon said, very close by and low in his ear.

'God, Napoleon, coming on me like that you should be grateful you're not lying on the ground with a broken arm!' Illya said indignantly, adrenaline surging in his veins.

'As if I'd let you break my arm,' Napoleon replied genially. 'Ah – you know, that tartan scarf looks lovely on you. Very fetching. I didn't know you had Scottish blood.'

'I have warm blood,' he replied, 'and I wanted to keep it that way.'

'I thought that all Russians had blood made of antifreeze. What are you doing out here in the cold, Illya?'

'What are you doing out here? I left you sleeping,' Illya growled with mock anger.

'Ah, well, I turned over and there was a cold space in my bed where previously there had been a very warm Illya-shaped package, so I got up to find you. And being a cunning spy I followed the marks your cane made in the snow.'

Illya grimaced a little. 'It's nice to know I'm so easy to track down. I came out to get you some breakfast. It's currently losing all its heat in my bag. Why are you proud of me, Napoleon?'

'Ready to head home?' Napoleon asked, and Illya nodded, so Napoleon slung an arm about his shoulders and turned him in the right direction. It struck Illya as they started to walk that Napoleon must be walking in the unbroken snow so that he could take the narrow broken path. 'I'm proud of you, my clever little Russian popsicle, because if I try to imagine closing my eyes and heading out into this lot I know I would either be flat on my behind or hopelessly lost within five minutes. I'm proud of you because you've spent this last two years fighting so hard to regain your independence, to the point that you will even brave this kind of weather just to get me breakfast after a long flight. I'm proud of you because you're mine, and I love you.'

'Hmm,' Illya said, but he glowed a little inside, not so much at Napoleon's admiration but at his love.

'As gracious a response as I ever expect to get,' Napoleon replied indulgently.

'Tell me what it looks like out here,' Illya said, drawing his scarf a little more firmly up over his face. 'I thought it must be a beautiful morning. Was there frost on the windows?'

'Beautiful frost, like a paisley shawl,' Napoleon told him.

'And here, now?'

'And here, now. Well, the sun is just coming up, and where it filters through the buildings the light is all golden. It's beautiful, very pure. The sky's clear, absolutely clear, very pale down nearer the horizon and darker at the zenith. A few airplane trails catching the sun. There are long shadows in the street, and those tongues of light. All the little hollows in the snow are blue. Not a single vehicle has gone down the street yet, so it's like a white blanket. There are a few footprints in the snow. It's about a foot deep. But no tyre tracks.'

'But people have trodden down the snow on the sidewalk,' Illya said, poking at it with his cane.

'Yes, people have trodden that snow down. There are heaps of snow at the sides where it's been scraped and shovelled. There are cars under little blankets of snow. All the trees are leafless and they look very black. There are a few places where steam is puffing out from vents on the buildings. All those red brick façades look like blood in the sun. A lot of curtains are still drawn, but some are open. I can see some kids looking out of one of the windows. They probably want to come out and play.'

'They'll come out and play later,' Illya said. 'We'll hear them from the apartment. They'll be screaming blue murder.'

Napoleon's arm squeezed over his shoulders. 'Grumpy Russian. Did I describe it to your satisfaction?'

And Illya smiled. 'Yes, Napoleon. Thank you. I can imagine it now. It's just the way I thought, but now I know. Thank you.'

'After the operation,' Napoleon said, 'You'll be able to see it yourself.'

Illya went very quiet. He blinked his eyes behind the shading lenses of his glasses, looking into that dim blur. After the operation. Napoleon made it sound as if it were really going to happen. And perhaps it was really going to happen. How strange that would be. How strange for these scales to fall from his eyes and to be able to see the world around him again. It was almost too strange to believe in.

'After the operation,' he repeated, slipping the tip of the cane across the trodden down snow and into the soft stuff at the side of the path. If he could see that path he could throw the cane away, he could pick up his pace, he could even run. And perhaps he would run. Perhaps he would shout to the world and whirl and stare at the sky and the sun and the blood-red brick and the black branching trees. He could have his gun again, go on missions again, claw back his old life again.

'It's going to happen, Illya,' Napoleon said.

He still couldn't believe in that. He just couldn't let himself believe that was the truth. It was such a fragile hope to pin everything on to. He was doing all right, with his cane in his right hand and Napoleon's arm around him, taking careful steps on the icy ground. He could do this, he could manage. He could see in his mind's eye the world that Napoleon had described, and it was beautiful, but if he hadn't described it he could be content with what he had; the fresh cold air entering his lungs; the cries of playing children; the soft, muffled sound of a world under a blanket. It still felt amazing, even if it made navigation hard. Snow made everyone's lives hard once they had got over the novelty. Napoleon would be complaining about it later just as much as he.

The hope felt as delicate as a snowflake. It would be so easy for it to melt away. He didn't need that in his life. He needed to keep going forward, to keep living as he was, being satisfied with what he had.

'There is one thing I'm certain is going to happen,' Illya said, carefully putting that hope away and pressing a hand against the bag over his shoulder. 'We are going to go home and you're going to make that hot chocolate that you love, because I have a fresh tin in my bag, and we're going to sit in front of the fire and drink, and eat fresh pastries that are still, I hope, warm, and we're going to spend the day together listening to music and watching television and pretending that nothing else exists. Tomorrow we're going to go into headquarters and work through all the reports that need to be done, and we're going to carry on with our lives. I'll go and see Dr Bruner's colleague, and he can perform his tests, and perhaps good things will come of them. But whatever happens, there will be you and there will be me, and we will be all right. You always told me it would be all right.'