It was the smell that triggered the memory.

"I remember this place."

"Tell me about it."

"I went to school there. At recess, we went out into the playground. It was late fall and it was cold and there was a fog. We were so cold. Everything was broken, except for a couple of swings."

"Why didn't you go in?"

"Couldn't. It wasn't permitted during recess. Being outside made us healthy. In this case, it wasn't true."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the teacher stayed inside and he was consumed."

"Consumed? By who?"

"The monster."

"Anything you'd like to add, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya was startled from his thoughts, but outwardly he didn't show it. He hadn't thought about that day in years, decades, even. What had brought it back with such clarity this morning?

"No, I think you covered all the important points." It was a dodge, but he'd already known the meeting's purpose.

"All right, that's it, everyone. Remember that Semyonov is considered dangerous and he will not think twice about killing an UNCLE agent. Thanks for coming and be careful out there. Remember, it's Halloween and anything is possible."

Illya stayed seated and watched the dozen or so junior agents file quietly from the room. Outside in the hall, they would explode into conversation, but not in front of senior agents.

"So, what's her name?" Napoleon slid into the seat beside him and smiled slyly. "When a man daydreams like that, there has to be a woman involved."

"Me? A woman? When do you give me the time?" Illya stood slowly. The abrupt dip in the temperature outside had aggravated old injuries. It was time for a handful of aspirin. He'd preferred to have washed it down with vodka, but not at work and not today. He needed his wits about him today.

"Illyusha, what's on your hands? Is it paint?" His mother dried her hands on a rag.

"I… I don't know… I was playing." His voice was adult, but he was his eight-year-old self.

She took one of his hands and stared at it. "Illya, what did you do?"

"I… I was playing." He remembered squatting just outside the circle, Dima and Garold were inches away, waiting. He remembered aiming, then the scream, the horrible, horrible screams.

"What were you playing?" His mother interrupted.

"Knives." It was a common game, designed to increase accuracy with weapons, improve attention span and even create a sense of caution. They would each draw a circle in the dirt and the object was to throw your knife into the other person's circle to gain as much territory as possible. While Dima and Garold would toss there over their shoulders, Illya always tossed his over his head. The shortest one in his class, it gave him an edge.

"Did you hurt someone? Did someone hurt you?" She'd seen the stains on his clothes.

"Mr. Semyonov hurt Afanasiia, a lot..."

"What about him?" Napoleon's voice again intruded. Now they were in the canteen. It wasn't crowded, but they still picked a table well away from everyone else.

"I'm sorry?" Illya sipped his ice cold coffee.

"Semyonov. You just mumbled his name and I wondered what was going on."

"It's an old Russian family name, so it's not all that unusual. I had a teacher by that name once, and I suppose hearing it again triggered some memories."

"Favorite teacher?"

"Not exactly. He was more of a 'spare the rod' type."

"I had a couple of nuns like that." Napoleon pulled apart his doughnut with no real delight. "I'm amazed my knuckles aren't scarred from their rulers. It wasn't as bad as some of the others though."

"Oh?"

"Not our school, but I heard stories. One of the nuns, if you were caught touching yourself, she would heat up a paperweight and make you hold it."

"That's torture."

"Close enough. When my folks found out, they pulled me from that school and shortly after it was shut down. Guess there were lots of other things going on there that weren't quite up to snuff."

"You would think in a private school, you'd be safe."

"If anything, they were worse. I'm honestly amazed that I made it to graduation." He held up his hands, palms out. "Unscathed."

"That's Solo luck for you."

"So what's your story with this Semyonov guy? I've never seen you zone out the way you have today. I'm hoping that won't happen on the mission tonight."

"Don't worry." Illya snagged a piece of Napoleon's pastry and proceeded to cut it into tiny pieces. "He was a horrible teacher and a worse human being. He was closer to our age and that seemed to make him angry. He should never have been permitted to be a teacher or even a father. He hated children. One day, while we were outside, he was severely beaten. His attacker was never found and he was sent away. The new teacher was strict but fair. We liked him much more."

"That sounds like a sanitized version of the story." Napoleon made a face at Illya's actions. "That tells me there was more to it. Are you going to eat it or destroy it?"

"It was the official one. I suppose they felt that all the abuse and maltreatment of some of the students didn't need to be discussed."

"You?"

"He wouldn't have dared touch me. My father was an important man and I'd already come to the attention of the Government, although I didn't know it at the time. I was protected, but not all of my classmates were as equally spared. We were kids, we just figured no one would understand." Illya pushed the plate aside and propped up his chin with his hand...

"I bet you students understood more than anyone."

"There was a girl, Afanasiia. The rumor was that her mother had been stolen in the night by gypsies and while she managed to escape, it left her in the motherly way. Her husband led a search for the man responsible, but nothing came of it. The child was born and raised as his own, but there was always something about her. Something different from us. Afanasiia always seemed to…" Illya paused. "It was like she was listening to music that no one else could hear and there was always a scent around her, like wildflowers or the forest. Does that make sense?"

Napoleon nodded and his smile was wistful. "It does, actually. I've met a person or two like that in my life. Was she a girlfriend?"

"Not in your sense of the word. Because we were both the shortest in our school, we often ended up in each other's company. She was a girl and, yes, she was a friend. Everyone else shunned her because of what they said was her gypsy blood, but I was fascinated by them and her. We would meet in the woods not far from their camp and join in when they permitted."

"I guessing that's not the end of the story. Did you date?"

"I was ten, Napoleon and not thinking of such things. For some reason, Comrade Semyonov took an instant dislike to Afanasiia. He went out of his way to make her life hell. I remember once, we had to do sums, she had twice as many and they were much harder. I found her in the woods on my way home, sobbing."

"I bet you helped her out."

"I did. What's good about being clever if you don't spread it around? Yes, I helped her a little bit, but she almost immediately understood it. She was so proud of herself. She turned in her answers and he came unglued."

"Unglued? I don't think I've heard you use that word before."

"No other word for it. He screamed that she'd cheated, although I knew she hadn't. I tried to protect her and got a backhand across the face for my efforts. He sent us running from the room and we could hear her cries. We never saw her again after that and we decided that he must have killed her and buried under his desk."

"His desk?"

"We were ten or thereabouts. It was not long after that he was attacked. The police and the government officials questioned us for hours, but we hadn't seen a thing. They concluded that he'd been the target of wandering gypsies, as they were an easy target, like Afanasiia had been."

"Although if they were her people, I think they would have taken exception to how she was treated. From what you've told me, they didn't suffer fools."

"Perhaps. In any case, it was justice from our point of view." Illya sighed. "Poor Afanasiia. She didn't deserve any of it."

"Do you think that this Semyonov character is related to our guy?"

"No idea, but probably not. It's not that unusual a name."

Still, his thoughts lingered even as they approached their target. The house was isolated, THRUSH would have it no other way.

Illya crouched by a statue in the garden and peered in with his binoculars. He would see shapes against the curtains, but they moved an odd repetitive manner.

"What do you think?" Napoleon was close by, his communicator lowered.

"I don't know. Maybe mannequins rigged to make it look like there are more guards than there are. From what I've read, I wouldn't put anything pass this guy."

"Checkpoint Bravo, do you have the target in view?" Napoleon frowned at the instrument. "Bravo, do you copy?" Only a blast of static greeted him. "I'm going to go around back. Turner isn't picking up."

"I'll go with you."

"Illya, I'll be fine. Trust me."

"Then you go left and I'll go right." It was said with such finality that Napoleon knew better than argue. He merely nodded and headed out.

Illya wasn't sure what he was expecting behind the house, but suffice it to say, it was not a remnants of a child's playground. Only the swings looked to still be usable, but Illya wasn't inclined to try them.

Instantly, he was transported back to their school yard, the screams of their classmates and their horrible split second decision.

"You remember this place, don't you?"

Illya didn't have to turn. He knew who stood behind him. "How could I forget? What you did to her was unspeakable."

"She was filth, the spawn of gypsy scum, her mother was a whore."

"She was an innocent." Illya spun and stared daggers at the man holding the gun. Even after all these years, Semyonov still carried the scars. He'd been in a terrible accident, according to his THRUSH dossier. Illya knew the truth.

"You did this to me." He limped forward. "You and your horde."

"You did it to yourself," Illya spoke softly. "I helped Afanasiia with those sums. You couldn't beat me, so you went after her yourself. All I did was make sure everyone who mattered knew."

"You told them where to find me."

Illya smiled at that. "Yes. I was lucky. The gypsies trusted me and they believe what I told them, even if our parents didn't. They knew what it was like to be hated without cause."

"And now so will you. I am going to enjoy this, Kuryakin." He fairly spat out Illya's name. "I will kill you slowly."

"I'm not alone."

"Oh, but I think you'll find that you are. Even the esteemed Mr. Solo will be of no help to you."

Then Illya saw her up stand from behind the tilted merry-go-round. She had been the one he'd been sensing all day. Strangely enough, she was still eleven, still a young girl who would never live to become a woman. She was behind him, although Semyonov seemed to sense something.

"I wasn't talking about Napoleon." Illya smiled at her. "All Soul's Eve, when the veil is the thinnest."

"Stop it!" Semyonov raised the weapon, but Illya looked through him.

"I've missed you, Afanasiia."

"And I've missed you, Illyusha." Her voice was like a song. "You were always a friend to me."

"And you to me. I'm sorry he hurt you."

"You tried to save me. I remember."

"Who are you talking to?" Semyonov spun and started to scream.

Illya turned and stole into the night. This wasn't his fight. It was hers and Semyonov. From the screams, he had a feeling he knew which one would survive.

He came back around the front of the building and saw a heap on the ground. Cursing, he ran up to it and felt for a pulse. Napoleon's skin was warm to the touch and his pulse steady. His cold fingers seemed to stir the man back to consciousness.

"What happened?" Illya helped him to sit up.

"I don't know. One minute I was heading around the building and then nothing."

"Semyonov is back there."

"Trouble?"

"Not for us, but Semyonov is dead." A soft wisp caressed Illya and he closed his eyes. Goodbye, my Afanasiia, he thought. "Poor Semyonov forgot one thing." He got Napoleon to his feet.

"What's that?"

"He forgot that Afanasiia means vengeance. Let's go get you cleaned up."