The phone rang in long, drawn out trills. Illya made his way over to it carefully, remembering that the Christmas tree was in the corner where the telephone table usually stood so the room was a little different in its arrangement. Christmas day had come and gone, but the tree still gave out its scent of pine. He really got very little from it beyond that scent, and Napoleon's joy, but Napoleon's joy was enough. They had shared the decorating of the tree with many touches of hands, with Napoleon's fingers over his to guide him to the branches, Napoleon's body close against his and his breath warm and voice low as he described the ornaments that Illya was handling. For that alone, it was worth it.

He picked up the cold phone receiver in his hand, cleared a little roughness out of his throat, and said, 'Kuryakin.'

'Herr Kuryakin,' the voice on the other end said. 'You are speaking to Eva Schmit, appointments secretary for Dr Bruner. We have acquired a suitable donor cornea and you are required to attend the clinic for transplant into your right eye. We will need you at the clinic on Thursday at nine forty for a physical examination prior to the surgery.'

Illya's heart gave an odd kind of jerk. For a moment he didn't know what to say. He stood there rubbing his fingertips on the wooden phone table. And then he stuttered out, 'Yes, of course. Of course, I will be on the first available flight.'

'You have read through the literature sent to you?' the secretary checked. 'You know what to expect and where to come?'

'Yes,' Illya said. 'Yes, I have read – ' Well, Napoleon had read the literature to him since it had been in conventional type; but he had taken it all in. 'Thank you, Fraulein Schmit,' he said. 'Thank you.'

Such a short phone call. Such an odd dropping feeling in his stomach. He stood there for a moment just holding the receiver in his hand with his mouth part open, dazed. Then he quickly depressed and released the cut off and dialled another number. Napoleon was in the office today.

'Solo here,' came Napoleon's voice, and Illya said, 'Uh – Napoleon – '

'What is it?' Napoleon asked, instantly on the alert from Illya's tone.

'Napoleon, the clinic have a donor cornea. I need to be on a plane as soon as possible. I must be there on Thursday morning.'

The pause on Napoleon's end was probably very much as Illya had sounded to Dr Bruner's secretary. Then he said very quickly, 'Illya, I'll go see Waverly. Don't worry about the flights. I'll get one of the girls here to book them. You start packing, okay? Get your stuff packed and I'll be back as soon as I can and throw my things into a case. I'll be back soon. Okay, Illya?'

Illya smiled. Napoleon sounded more nervous than he was, if that were possible. Perhaps this was what it were like when a couple were having a baby.

'All right,' he said. 'I'll see you soon.'

Then he put the phone down and stood there very still, marvelling at all of this. It was hard to believe in the truth of this happening. He stroked his fingers over the smooth, cool plastic of the receiver, feeling its curves, and then suddenly he moved away into the bedroom and pulled his case out of the wardrobe and began to pack. It was hard to believe in the reality of this, but it would never happen at all if he didn't get to Munich.

((O))

The aircraft engines droned through the air and Illya was slipping in and out of sleep in his seat. Napoleon sat there watching him, finding himself drifting off too. There was something so soporific about flying. The cabin was warm, the air was stuffy. There were even a few beads of sweat on Illya's forehead.

Napoleon just watched him, looking at his slightly parted lips and the soft rise and fall of his chest. His cane was leant up beside him and he had fallen asleep with his hands resting on a Braille book, having decided this time to take one in his carry on luggage despite the bulk. It was worth it so that he had something to read on the long journey.

Napoleon reached out a hand idly and touched the raised dots. In all this time he had not yet managed to be able to distinguish one letter from the other by touch; but, as Illya was fond of telling him, necessity was a good teacher. Still, he was in awe of Illya, and so proud of him. He had worked so hard, so ceaselessly, at becoming literate again.

He rested his hand lightly over Illya's still hand for a moment as the aircraft droned on. It felt very private, sitting like this in their paired seats. The people across the aisle weren't looking and no one else could see, so he just let his fingers rest on Illya's. His hand was as warm as his forehead looked. The cuts on his palm and fingers were healing well; Napoleon had checked and dressed them just before they left, worrying that an infection would cause the operation to be cancelled. But still, his hand felt warm.

He bit his lip into his mouth and chewed on it a little. Illya had been working very hard since Christmas and there had been a lot of illness going around headquarters. Sarah had been bedridden for the last few days with a heavy cold and Illya had been complaining so much about not being able to get anything done without her that in the end Waverly had told him to go home too.

His heart felt as if it were sinking down into the depths of his abdomen. If Illya were sick...

Suddenly he felt so angry at this whole thing. How could any of this have happened to Illya? From that very first moment in that lab when Illya had been screaming with pain and the world had been turned upside down; how could that have happened? He remembered seeing that man throwing the beaker of acid, remembered seeing it hit Illya's face and how Illya had instantly given such a terrible sound of pain and fallen to his knees. He shouldn't have left him. He should have stayed with him at least long enough to get water on his eyes. He shouldn't have forged on after the enemy. Illya's life had been taken apart in that split second and the minutes and hours that followed.

He knew that was a useless argument. If he hadn't left Illya they both could have been killed. Surely it was better for Illya to be blind than dead? That wasn't a question that even merited an answer. And Illya had fought so hard ever since. He had come so far.

He touched Illya's hand again. It was warm in this busy cabin. Unsurprising he was hot. Anyone would be. He stroked the back of his hand lightly and Illya stirred and blinked and turned his face towards Napoleon with a smile. Napoleon smiled back even though Illya couldn't see it. The Russian pushed a finger under his collar and then dropped his hand back to his book, feeling it as if he had forgotten it were there.

'Is there a fan up there, Napoleon?' he asked.

'Oh, er – yeah,' Napoleon said, and he reached up and turned on the little air vent and angled it towards Illya. 'Better?'

Illya smiled again. 'Yeah. I'm warm.'

'Yes, I know,' Napoleon said, and he didn't manage to keep the worry from his voice.

'Huh?' Illya asked, catching the tone. 'Napoleon, it's just warm in here. Nothing to worry about. It's always warm on flights.'

'Yeah, it's always warm,' Napoleon murmured very quietly. He raised his voice. 'Want me to get you a drink?'

'I'd like some coffee,' Illya said. 'I feel like I need some caffeine. I keep dropping off.'

'Yeah, I noticed,' Napoleon said with a wry grin. 'All right, tovarisch. Coffee.' And he pressed the button for the stewardess and waited for her to come.

((O))

The feeling of dread was like a lead weight in Illya's chest as he sat in the cab on his way to Dr Bruner's clinic. Much as he could pretend that the heat he felt in his skin was just because it was warm in the cab, he knew the symptoms of a cold well enough. He knew the little aches and pains and the feeling of having water down the back of his nose and the occasional shivers. He knew the real source of that headache that he was trying to pretend was just a result of air travel and too much coffee. He had slept terribly in the hotel after getting off the aeroplane and he only felt worse this morning.

'They aren't going to take me,' he said finally as the cab pulled into the kerb and stopped. Traffic kept moving past their stopped car.

Napoleon's hand pressed over his and squeezed. 'Now, you don't know that. Let them see you first. Nothing's definite. Stay there while I come round to you. You're on the road side.'

Illya sat still while Napoleon got out of the car and came around to open his door. The air was damp and the sound of traffic in the road got louder. He got out cautiously, tapping his cane onto the road surface and taking Napoleon's arm quickly because the shushing of the cars in the street made him nervous.

'Come on,' Napoleon murmured. 'We're going round the back of the car. Here's the kerb. Can you manage? The sidewalk's level and clear.'

'I can manage,' Illya nodded, finding the kerb with his cane and stepping up. He felt as if he were going to his executioner. His nose was starting to block up and the scents around him were deadened. He could feel the sweat on his forehead. He felt shaky. There was a tickle in the back of his throat.

'They're not going to take me,' he said fatalistically.

'We'll wait and see,' Napoleon said again. 'Now, we're right outside Dr Bruner's clinic. It's a modern building, very square, lots of glass, only two storeys high. Come on, let's get inside. We won't find out anything by standing here.'

((O))

Illya sat in a huddle in the chair by the hotel room window, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, his forehead resting on them.

Napoleon didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. It had been terrible. They had come all of this way and Illya had sat down in an examination room and the doctor had looked at the cuts on his hand and taken his temperature and looked into his throat and announced that the operation could not go ahead. The cornea would go to the next viable recipient. Illya was feverish and to undergo such an operation with both a feverish cold and a wound was an unnecessary risk. There was another suitable candidate who could take the transplant, and Dr Bruner was anxious to operate on the patient with the highest chance of success.

'Illya, do you want to go get something to eat?' Napoleon asked after a while.

For a minute Illya didn't respond, and Napoleon was about to ask again when the Russian murmured, 'I'm very tired.'

'Well, you're not well, and it's been a very long couple of days,' Napoleon said softly, and Illya made a strange little noise that was almost a sob.

Napoleon crossed the room to him in an instant and put his arms around his partner and held him. Illya turned his head against Napoleon's body and breathed in deep, shuddering breaths.

'I suppose we should get the next flight home,' Illya said at last, and Napoleon said, 'Illya, there'll be another chance; at a better time of year, too. Everyone's sick in the winter. We're staying here tonight. You need a chance to rest up and sleep off that fever.'

'Oh, Napoleon, let's just get a plane,' Illya sighed, and Napoleon shook him a little.

'Illya,' he said firmly, then he put his hand under Illya's chin and turned his head. 'Will you listen to me, you stubborn Russian? This is not the end. It's not that the transplant didn't work. It's just that you're not well. But another one will come up, and you will be well. You know that.'

Illya lifted his head and smiled. 'All right, Napoleon,' he said. 'All right. I'm sorry. I do believe you. And you're right, I'm not well. I feel awful.'

He sniffed and pressed his handkerchief to his nose, then sneezed hard.

Napoleon ruffled his hair and then looked at his flushed cheeks critically. 'Oh, you are a sick Russian,' he said sympathetically. 'You need mother's chicken soup and a soft bed. Aren't you glad you're not going under the knife, dear?'

Illya grunted and shrugged. Napoleon kissed him on the crown of his head and said, 'I'll tell you what. I'll go down and see if I can persuade someone to make you some soup. I'll look after you. Don't you worry. Come and get into bed.'

And he took Illya by the hand and led him to the broad bed, then fussed around him, settling him under the covers and then kissing him softly on the lips.

'You'll catch my cold,' Illya warned him.

'I never catch colds,' Napoleon said flippantly. 'I'll get you that soup,' he promised, and Illya said mournfully, 'I need Ukrainian soup. They will not be able to achieve that in Munich.'

Napoleon smiled. 'You never know. Maybe they have a Ukrainian chef. Never say die, Illya.'

And he left the room thinking about Ukrainian chefs, and then instead of going straight down to the restaurant he went to the telephones in the lobby.

((O))

Illya had the first inkling that something was going on when the lady at the check in desk spoke to him in Russian. It was such a surprise that for a moment he didn't answer, and she repeated her question in English in a perplexed tone.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' he said rather confusedly in Russian, then asked, 'Napoleon, what is going on?'

'Oh, er – ' And there was a rustling of paper. 'Well, gee, would you look at that? I meant to get tickets to the U.S. but I seem to have gotten them to the S.U. instead. The Soviet Union, that is.'

'Napoleon!' Illya said in amused frustration. 'Napoleon, how on earth did you – '

But Napoleon pressed a hand on his arm in just the right way that Illya knew to stop talking. He meekly presented his passport for scrutiny, and then handed over his U.N.C.L.E. card too, when asked.

'What is this on the surface?' the woman behind the desk asked, and Napoleon said lightly, 'Oh, Mr Kuryakin's card is marked with Braille. I guess you do have Braille in – '

'Of course we do,' the woman replied rather tersely, and she gave the card back to Illya. 'You are free to board, gentlemen. Thank you.'

'Napoleon, I don't understand how you managed to secure the paperwork,' Illya began quietly as he followed Napoleon's arm away from the desk. He was all too aware of just how many hoops needed to be jumped through normally to travel from one side of the Iron Curtain to the other, even if the other side happened to be his own country.

'Rank hath its privileges, comrade,' Napoleon murmured in a self-satisfied tone, then clarified, 'I managed to scare up a little work in the Kiev office. I can't do anything to make the flight more direct, but we're travelling on U.N.C.L.E. credentials.'

'Kyiv?' Illya echoed. He hardly knew what to think, but an enormous sneeze overtook him and he felt for his handkerchief. He still felt unwell, unwell enough to be relieved in a way that he was not about to undergo surgery.

'Kiev,' Napoleon confirmed, pressing a hand over Illya's where it held his arm. 'Come on, sweetheart,' he murmured. 'You're going home.'

Illya almost forgot to use his cane as he followed Napoleon's guidance out of the terminal building and towards the plane in the stream of other passengers. The air smelt of jet fuel and snow, and it was biting on his face. He felt feverish and shivery, and so full of questions that he didn't know where to start. This time when the stewardess asked him to leave his cane with her he didn't even argue, partly because he was so distracted and partly because he knew better than to argue with Soviet officialdom. It was a miracle that Napoleon had secured their passage in the first place. It would be a long flight because they would be forced to travel to Moscow and double back, but it would be worth it.

'Where – er – where are we staying?' he asked as he edged into his seat, his mind running through the various possibilities he was aware of in his home city. He ran his fingers over the seat fabric, over the arm rests, and found the ends of the seatbelt before he sat on them.

There was a smile in Napoleon's voice, or a grin, by the sound of it. 'We are staying with a lovely couple. A Mr and Mrs Kuryakin.'

Illya tried to speak, and coughed instead.

'Try not to look too ill, dear. I don't want them to refuse us entry,' Napoleon said, still with that glee in his voice.

'Napoleon,' Illya said very seriously, in a warning tone. Napoleon was as affectionate as he could be without outraging common decency, but Illya was very well aware that their relationship would be viewed with a much more dangerous censure where they were going. 'Can the endearments,' he said in an undertone, 'for both our sakes.'

'All right,' Napoleon replied softly, touching his hand very briefly. 'I understand. Illya, we are staying with your parents. I called HQ and had them look up their number. Your mother is very excited to be seeing you.'

'Yes,' Illya said rather pensively. 'I'll just bet she is…'

He hadn't seen his mother in years, since long before that terrible incident that took his sight. He had spoken to her on the telephone often, but he wasn't sure how to process the idea of walking in through the door of that little apartment, of trying to live with his mother and father like this. His mother had not yet been able to have a phone conversation with him without crying. It was all odd. Just odd.

'How – how long are we staying?' he asked.

'I have secured us a whole two weeks. Mr Waverly must be feeling generous, and besides, the business in the Kiev office is real. It needed some Western agent to attend, and it's going to be us. Which reminds me. Is there really Russian Braille, Illya?'

'Yes, of course,' Illya said tentatively, 'but I've never tried reading it. I spoke to someone at the Braille library, asking about Russian books. He couldn't source any in New York, so I haven't had a chance to try. Russian and Ukrainian both use slightly different character sets to represent the Cyrillic letters, and I'm spending so much time learning Grade 3 and Nemeth that I hardly have room in my head for another set of codes.'

He rubbed his fingertips over his knee, thinking of how that Braille might feel and wondering if he might be able to source something in his own language in Kyiv. It would be fascinating to try.

'Well, I doubt that the Kiev office is equipped with a Braille printer and you didn't bring your brailler this trip, did you?' Napoleon asked, and Illya could feel his shrug because Napoleon was sitting so close to him, leaning closer to him than was necessary, he was sure.

'No. I brought my slate but not the brailler. I didn't expect to need to use it.'

He had not expected to need it at all. He had expected to be in the hospital by now. He had dared to hope that he might not ever need to use the brailler again.

'Well, it's some very routine stuff that needs doing,' Napoleon assured him. 'You'll only need to come in once or twice to satisfy any over-zealous officials who might be watching and you can dictate if you need to, I'm sure. They need a couple of Western men to oversee the initiation of a few new recruits, since the Kiev office is so new, and there's a little paperwork on the side. It's nicely spread out over these two weeks. And the rest of the time will be our own.'

'Our own,' Illya echoed, leaning back against the seat, feeling the slight burning of his lungs and the aching of his head that told him he was still unwell. His mother would fuss over him. How strange that would be, to be in his parents' apartment, in his childhood home. How many of his friends would still be in the locality? How much would the place have changed? He knew the streets around the apartment block so well he had always thought he would be able to navigate them blindfold. Well, now he had the chance to find out if that were true. But he would have to be careful. He knew that. It was so easy to rely on memory when in reality so much could have changed, and so much must have changed since he had been home. It always did change, in subtle ways. He wouldn't be able to go out without a guide. It would be foolish to try.

'Hey,' Napoleon said, nudging his arm. 'Don't look so pensive. It'll be fine. I told you you need mother's chicken soup. Well, I'm sure your mother's got a carcass on the boil as we speak. She was so excited to be seeing you.'

((O))

They landed in Moscow at last, and Illya felt exhausted. He was so relieved to have their U.N.C.L.E. credentials to take them out of the usual line of passengers waiting for entry to the country, but even so he and Napoleon spent an hour in a small private room trying to assure the officials that their business was legitimate before they could board the Aeroflot flight to Kyiv.

'Never let it be said that my country is not thorough,' Illya murmured to Napoleon when they were finally released. He followed Napoleon wearily to wait for their connection to Kyiv in an area of milling passengers.

It was so odd to be here, to hear the Russian voices all around him, to hear the distinctly Soviet sounds that he hadn't even realised existed until now. He boarded the smaller plane that would take them to Kyiv and sat there feeling an odd kind of adrenaline fuelled nervousness. He fiddled with the edges of the seat and traced his fingers over the window and wished he had a book, although he knew he wouldn't be able to focus on it if he had.

They landed at Boryspil, almost twenty miles out of Kyiv, and now they would have to get a bus. Had they been able to fly directly to Kyiv they would have been here hours ago. It was early evening and the light was dimming and the air was chill, and he was feeling his cold badly now. He followed Napoleon's guidance to the bus terminal and helped him when he floundered at trying to secure tickets, but he fell back against the seat in tired relief once they were aboard and the bus was moving.

'Tired, huh?' Napoleon asked him, and Illya nodded. He felt hot and shaky and exhausted.

'Very,' he said simply.

He closed his eyes and leant into the seat and let everything drift, and then suddenly he was jerking awake and Napoleon was saying, 'We're here, Illya. Time to wake up. Can you manage coming behind me? I'll take the cases.'

So Illya followed Napoleon down the aisle and took the steps carefully, and then he was standing in Kyiv, and it felt so strange. He breathed in the air and listened to the sounds of people talking his language, people's feet moving about on the paved ground, the sounds of cars and further away a train's wheels squealing on rails. He knew this place. He could visualise it in his mind's eye, perhaps not perfectly but well enough.

'Is there snow?' he asked. 'Is it very dark?'

'Some snow around the edges. Looks like there's been a bit of a thaw after a while of good snow. No, it's not too dark yet,' Napoleon said. 'You think we can get a cab around here?'

Illya chuckled tiredly. 'A marshrutka, at least. There used to be a route that went by close to the apartment block. Come back to the bus stop and I'll ask someone to help. It will be perhaps fifteen kopeks each, although it might be best to buy an extra seat for the cases. I'll make sure the driver knows where we want to get off.'

'And this – er – marshrutka is – ?'

Illya grinned, feeling ridiculously nostalgic despite his tiredness. 'A minibus. A routed taxi. Probably a RAF-977. Oh, I wonder if they still smell the same...'

'What do they smell like?' Napoleon asked dubiously, and Illya laughed.

'Just – I don't know. Nothing bad. Just – like a marshrutka. Like home...'

((O))

It was another half hour before they finally disembarked from the minibus and Illya stood wearily on the pavement as Napoleon gathered the cases.

'All right, Illya?' he asked. His partner was pale and looked exhausted.

'I'm all right,' he nodded. 'You don't need to fuss over me, you know.'

Napoleon smiled wryly and looked around. It was almost dark, and lights shone in various windows around them.

'Er, do you know where we are?' he asked.

'Supposing they haven't moved the stop, we are only a block away.' Illya took Napoleon's arm and nudged him forward, tapping his cane over the pavement and turning his head a little to listen to the echoes.

'What're you grinning about, tovarisch?' Napoleon asked, grinning too at the sudden delight on his partner's face.

'It all sounds just right,' Illya said with a great air of contentment. 'It smells just right. It's like stepping into a memory.' He stood for a moment just listening, then said, 'We should be on the right side of the road. We'll walk about a hundred yards and cross a side street, and the apartment block takes up the whole of the next block. We'll find it.'

Napoleon peered ahead. He could see a large building looming in the distance, and the darkness of nature to their right. 'There's what looks like open space on the other side of the road,' he said.

Illya smiled. 'Yes, I can feel it. That is the park.'

'You can feel it, huh?' Napoleon asked, looking sidelong at him and then turning his face towards that empty space. 'Tell me again what a park feels like?'

Illya laughed. 'It's – I don't know – there are subtle sounds and a lack of sound. The hours I spent there...' He had perked up considerably. 'We're here, Napoleon. We're in the right place.'

'Come on, then,' Napoleon said with a grin, leading him forward. Illya tapped his cane on the hard ground and followed him, and it wasn't long before they had crossed the side street and came upon the door of the vast apartment block.

'I think this is it, Illya,' Napoleon said. 'There are steps, okay?'

Illya nodded. 'Six steps. I remember.' He put his hand on Napoleon's arm then to stop him going in. 'Napoleon,' he said very seriously. 'The authorities know where we're staying, of course.'

'Of course,' Napoleon echoed. 'I had to tell them.'

'Yes. Well, you will have to sweep for bugs in my parents' apartment, and sweep again any time the place has been left unoccupied. You'll have to check my clothes for me.'

'Oh, of course,' Napoleon said pensively. It was naive to think that just because U.N.C.L.E. was government approved they would not be monitored. 'We'll have a little competition to see who's best at the bugging game. Shall we get inside? I want to meet your parents.'

Illya gave a slightly uncertain smile. 'Yes, let's get inside.'

Napoleon led him up the steps carefully and Illya followed him inside and breathed in deeply, as if the aroma of the shabby place were the perfume of summer flowers. He let go of Napoleon's arm and moved unerringly towards a flight of concrete steps. There was a sudden clattering from somewhere, and Napoleon was astonished at the smile that lit Illya's face; he himself was already reaching for his gun.

'Someone's using the rubbish shoot,' Illya tossed over his shoulder at Napoleon. 'I'd almost forgotten that sound.'

He reached his cane ahead of him and it clattered against the first step. He reached out and touched the chipped paint of the stair rail and smiled again.

'Come on,' he said. 'It's only four flights.'

'No elevator?' Napoleon asked rather ruefully.

'No elevator,' Illya confirmed. 'What does a good Soviet citizen need with an elevator when he has legs, Napoleon?'

'I thought you were feeling ill,' Napoleon said plaintively.

'I am,' Illya said, 'but I am also happy to be home.'

'So – er – what's your parents' place like?' he asked tentatively, following Illya up the first flight of stairs with the cases hanging heavily from his hands.

Illya shrugged. 'Not bad,' he said, 'although I think you'll see soon why I saw my New York apartment as an unthinkable luxury when I first arrived. But with that new apartment – we moved there some time after the war, I don't remember when – we were lucky enough to avoid shared amenities and to have soundproofing. There is one bedroom. We have our own kitchen and bathroom, and a balcony.'

'Well, imagine the luxury,' Napoleon said rather cynically.

'It is home,' Illya said simply. 'Or, it was home. It was a better home than the old place, where everything was shared. We did relatively well because mama and tato are well respected in their fields. You could fit that apartment into your living room, I think, but it was home.'

'So, if there's only one bedroom,' Napoleon began.

Illya smiled again, waiting at the second landing for Napoleon to reach him. His hand was on the rail, fingering the rough holes in the flaking paint as if he were touching velvet.

'My parents are just as resourceful as you would expect, Napoleon. They'll have somewhere for us to sleep, perhaps on the sofa bed or in their room. There will be somewhere. But there will not be much privacy wherever we sleep,' he warned him.

'Ah well, I will just have to savour sweet memories of our bed at home,' Napoleon murmured. It would be worth it, he was sure, for the joy that Illya was showing at a time he hadn't expected him to be able to feel any joy. He seemed to have forgotten the cancelled operation entirely, at least for now.

'Come on, Napoleon,' Illya said, leading him up another flight of stairs, and then another. 'Here, this should be the correct floor.'

He tapped across a small flat space and moved into a long corridor that smelt faintly of damp.

'Napoleon, help me here,' he said. 'The corridors are not always clear.'

'No, I can see that,' Napoleon responded, looking down the long corridor that was lit with flickering fluorescent bulbs and cluttered in places with possessions and bags of rubbish and various miscellaneous items. 'Is this the Soviet dream, Illya?'

Illya smiled rather cynically. 'Have you ever known a dream to transfer successfully to reality? Even capitalism?'

Napoleon moved his shoulders a little self consciously.

'Watch out here, dear,' he said in Illya's ear as they reached a cluttered, narrow table outside one of the doors. 'Someone's put a table out here.'

'Tovarisch Shevchenko,' Illya said with a fond smile, brushing his hand along the edge of the table. 'Yes, there is a mark right here.' He rubbed his finger into a nick on the table edge. 'He will always keep his shoes outside under here.' He crouched and felt under the table. 'Those are his boots. But – ' He felt over the other pairs of shoes and grinned. 'A woman's shoes? A child's?'

Napoleon bent to look. 'Both, I think.'

'Well,' Illya said with a strange smile. 'After all these years... And is there – ' He felt over the top of the table. 'Yes, there are his plants. Tovarisch Shevchenko,' he said with great satisfaction. 'Three more doors, Napoleon.'

And he picked up his pace again, touching his hand to the wall to feel for the doors, until he reached the third, and traced his fingers over the surface as if he were greeting an old friend.