The world seemed very muzzy and confused and mostly focussed on the tight pounding in his head and the foul taste in his mouth. Illya lay there for a moment trying to work out if he could really be dying, then he recalled mistily the long night with so many different drinks. He could feel the weight of Napoleon in the bed beside him. Every now and then there was a little snore.

He slipped his legs out of bed and realised that he was naked but for his underpants. He got up and wavered, then moved carefully over to the chair where he always put his clothes. There they were, shirt and trousers and jacket, his tie draped over the back of the chair and his cane leaning up at the side. He smiled, overcome with affection for Napoleon as he picked up his shirt. It was last night's and it stank of cigarette smoke and alcohol, but it was there. Napoleon must have been exhausted last night after going on a mission and then – yes, he had come to bring Illya home, hadn't he? He had walked him home through the freezing streets and put him to bed, and he had carefully laid out Illya's clothes so he would know where they were.

He put the shirt back on the chair and felt around for a new pair of slacks where they were hung on the back of the door. He pulled on a clean polo neck and the trousers he had found. His hair still stank of last night but at least his clothes would be clean.

It was quiet in the living room and he turned his head on one side, wondering if his parents were awake. He didn't have his watch on and wasn't sure what time it was. Then his mother said, 'Well, Illya. Did you enjoy your night out?'

She sounded amused rather than disapproving, and Illya grinned ruefully.

'I did last night,' he said. 'This morning, I'm not so sure.'

She put a hand on his arm and kissed his cheek, then made a noise of disgust.

'You stink, Illyusha,' she said plainly. 'Go and wash, and when you come back I will have tea for you.'

So he went into the bathroom and turned the taps on in the bath, washing himself in refreshing, running water as he had always used to before getting used to American ways. He stood at the basin with a towel around his waist and shaved carefully, then re-dressed and felt his way to the kitchen.

'Mama?' he asked, listening.

'Illya, I'm in the living room,' she called. 'I'm making you tea properly, with the samovar. Do you feel able to eat, or did you drink too much last night?'

He grimaced. 'I think I drunk more than is humanly possible,' he said. 'I just want good, sweet tea at the moment. Is the sofa put back together, mama?'

'Be careful of the table. The samovar is boiling on it,' his mother said anxiously as Illya started to move across the room with his hand held out before him. His knees bumped into the low table, and he stopped, trying to get his bearings.

'No, the bed is still out,' his father said, his voice coming from low down. 'I don't want to be folded into the sofa, Illyushka.' He patted the mattress. 'Come on, little boy.' He laughed at Illya's expression. 'I will always be able to call you little boy, Illyusha. That is my privilege, even if you do go and drink like a man with your friends. Come on, come into bed with me and your mother will bring us tea. Is your head tender this morning?'

'Just a little,' he admitted, and he let his mother help him over to the bed, grateful because it was hard to know where things were when the bed had caused the room to be rearranged. He slipped in under the covers and settled on the creaking mattress, and his father ruffled his hair just as he used to do with his broad hand.

'There, Illya. Are you snug? It's funny, isn't it, how a man can be a grown up and an international agent, and still climb into bed with his father and be a child?'

Illya laughed at that, but then his communicator beeped in his pocket and he quickly got it out and assembled it, thinking it would be someone from the Kyiv office.

'Illya,' came Sarah's voice. 'I was feeling insomniac and I knew it was morning there, so I thought I'd call and see how you are. I know you were so disappointed – '

'You've been talking to Napoleon, then,' Illya grumbled. 'I am fine, Sarah. I am quite all right. Yes, I was disappointed, but I'm all right. I suppose you're getting an easy few weeks with me out of the office.'

Her laugh was loud through the communicator. 'Mr Waverly doesn't give out easy weeks, Illya. You know that. When I'm not finishing up loose ends in the office I'm transcribing to Braille for you, and the rest of the time I'm putting in secretarial work for other agents. I'll be glad when you're back. I think I do less work.'

'Well, I'm sure I'll be back soon enough, Sarah,' Illya promised, 'depending on how work here goes.'

'And Napoleon's looking after you?'

'Of course. Just as much as I am looking after him,' Illya nodded, but he felt wary of Sarah saying anything about his relationship in front of his father, who was silent next to him, listening. His father understood more English than he could produce. 'Listen, Sarah. My mother has just made tea, and I should let you get to sleep. Don't worry. I'll come back just as blind as I went away. You won't be out of a job for a while yet.'

'Oh, Illya, I would never – ' she began indignantly, and he said quickly, 'I know. I was joking. But I must go. Goodbye, Sarah.'

He put the communicator back in his pocket and accepted the cup of tea his mother handed to him, and answered his father's question about who that was on that strange, tiny telephone.

'My personal assistant,' he said. 'I've told you about her, tato. Sarah. She helps me all the time in the office.'

'Ah,' his father said slowly. 'She's pretty, this girl?'

Illya shrugged, concentrating on the hot cup of tea in his hands. The aroma rose on steam that drifted past his face. 'I really don't know. Napoleon says she has dark hair, wears it up on the back of her head. She's about my height. She generally wears a pleasant perfume.'

'Well, she has a nice voice, though? You like her?'

Illya sighed. 'I like her,' he said. 'She is very useful to me. I couldn't manage in the office without her. But that is all, tato. I do like women. I can like women. But I like men too, and I love Napoleon. You do understand that, don't you?'

His father sighed too, a longer, deeper sigh. Then he said, 'I don't know if I can understand, Illya, but as long as you're happy. I know you're a strong man, a real man. But – Well, I had always hoped for grandchildren.'

Illya snorted. 'I would be very unlikely to give you grandchildren in any case, tato. I'm not in the right business for having children. The chance of leaving them without a father is too great. Tato, let's not talk about this. Drink your tea. Enjoy it. Talk about something else.'

'Very well. Very well then. This mission your Napoleon went on. Are you allowed to talk about that?'

'Not really,' Illya admitted. 'Tato do you happen to know if Napoleon swept for bugs last night?'

'Yes, as soon as he came in,' his father confirmed.

'Well, then, I know it won't go further than you and mama. Napoleon went with some other agents to collect samples of water from various organisations. Factories and the like that wouldn't permit collection. Even with supposed government approval of U.N.C.L.E. activities the red tape can be disabling. Last night Napoleon went to get those samples, and I suppose they're being analysed this morning. It's almost certain that something is being put in the water supplies of some institutions which is designed to enhance anti-American feeling. Thrush are trying to provoke a war.'

His father was very silent. His mother came to sit on the edge of the bed, and she put her hand out and laid it over Illya's. They had been through enough wars, he knew. The world wars, the civil war, the long, cruel war waged by the Soviet government to keep Ukraine under their control. Just before Illya's birth his parents had lived through the terrible man-made famine that killed millions, when Ukraine's famine relief was restricted so as to bring the people under the yoke. There had been too many conflicts, too much death, and Illya supposed he was lucky to have grown up in a time when the worst of those atrocities had eased, that he had been too young to understand the Purges when people disappeared in the night and never returned. But the crisis in Cuba was so recent and so terrifying that this threat was very real too. To Illya, who was privy to all the inside information of that conflict, the threat felt even greater. He knew how close the nations had come to launching nuclear missiles.

'Don't worry, mama,' he said, stroking her hand. 'We fight every day against Thrush and they never win. They won't win now. We know about this scheme and we're working to stop it. Don't worry.'

'Is there any way we can help?' she asked, concerned. 'After all, your father and I are both chemists. If we can help...'

He pressed her hand, feeling the tendons under the ageing skin, feeling her short fingernails and the softness of her palms. He wondered how she had aged in the years since he had been home.

'No,' he said. 'Thrush is a dangerous organisation. I won't have you put yourself in harm's way. It's bad enough having us living with you. I've been wondering if we should move to the Intourist...'

'No,' his mother said immediately. 'No, I have not seen you for almost five years, Illya, and look what has happened to you in the meantime. I'm not having you stay at a hotel.' She patted her hand down firmly on his leg. 'No. You'll stay here, both of you. I'm going to make you borsch later, Illyusha, just as you like it.'

Illya grinned. 'In that case I will help you cook. That way I will be closer to the smells.'

((O))

When Napoleon got up it was to the sight of Illya cramped into the little kitchen with his mother, his poloneck sleeves pushed up to his elbows, holding a vegetable knife in one hand and carefully cutting up potatoes into slices. Perhaps his mother was supposed to be doing the same herself, but she wasn't. She was watching Illya's hands with eagle eyes as if she were waiting for something to happen. Every now and then she said something anxiously in Ukrainian, and Illya responded with a murmur and a shrug.

'Having cookery lessons?' Napoleon asked, coming up to the kitchen door with a grin on his face.

Illya laid the knife down, keeping his hand on the potato he was cutting.

'We are making borsch,' Illya said. 'If there are any lessons occurring, it's just that I'm trying to teach my mother that I'm quite capable of handling a sharp knife without slicing my fingers off.'

His mother said something in Ukrainian again and Illya responded, and then said to Napoleon, 'Really, I have faced men with guns, I have defused bombs, I have had knife fights and fist fights. I have used a parachute and flown planes and helicopters and jumped from moving trains. I have seen flesh dissolving foam and lethal hiccup gas. I have been stabbed or shot more times than I care to remember. But my mother thinks that this four inch blade is the most dangerous thing I have ever encountered.'

Napoleon leant against the wall and grinned, 'Well, I have to say, I was pretty nervous the first time I watched you use a kitchen knife when you couldn't see.'

Illya made a low, grumbling sound. 'I thought you would be on my side,' he said rather petulantly.

'Illya, I'm firmly in the camp of people who love you,' Napoleon said, 'and one of the key roles there is to not want to see you cut your own fingers off. I know you're perfectly safe with knives now. Have you told your mother that you've cooked borsch quite a few times in the last two years?'

'Repeatedly,' Illya said. He turned back to the chopping board and continued to cut the potato into thin slices and his mother continued to watch him like a hawk.

'Want me to try to spirit her away?' Napoleon asked in a low murmur.

'Much as I hate to admit it, I don't know the kitchen well enough,' Illya replied. 'I don't know where everything is.'

'Ah, well, then you have a problem,' Napoleon grinned. 'I – er – don't suppose you've room to make me some coffee? And when we've devoured this delicious borsch we should call in and find out how Dmitry is doing with those samples.'

'Oh,' Illya said, sounding as if he were thinking hard. 'Was there something – something I told you last night?'

'Ah, about your friend,' Napoleon said.

'Give me a moment,' Illya said, and he spoke to his mother in Ukrainian.

She kissed him on the cheek and started to fill the kettle, and Illya moved to the sink to wash his hands and then pulled down the sleeves of his top and turned to Napoleon.

'Let's go somewhere with a little more room,' he said, touching Napoleon's arm and following him into the living room. 'Where's my cardigan? I left it on the chair just – '

'Here,' Napoleon said, grabbing it from the chair.

Illya shrugged it on, and smiled as Napoleon smoothed the collar with his fingertips.

'What colours am I wearing this morning?' he asked.

'You are wearing the light grey polo neck and the rather mustard cardigan,' Napoleon told him, fiddling with the fold of the high shirt neck affectionately, wishing he could kiss his cheek too. 'And I am in a yellow polo shirt and my sports jacket. We make a delightful pair.'

Illya gave him a crooked smile, then walked carefully through the little living room to the end where the doors to the balcony looked out over the park. He ran his hands over the catch and tried to open the door, then frowned and said, 'Napoleon, give me a hand. I don't quite remember how the catch works.'

'Oh – er – there's a couple of bolts top and bottom,' Napoleon said, investigating the door. 'I think they're relatively new.' He slipped the bolts open and opened the doors and stepped into the freezing air outside. 'Well, it's refreshing, anyway,' he said with a grin.

Illya followed him and closed the doors behind them. 'Refreshing,' he nodded. He reached out until he touched the damp concrete wall that fronted the balcony. 'It's more a useful space than a luxury space. It allows us to dry washing and so on. But I always liked it, especially in summer. We're lucky to have such a view. I suppose the view is still there, since the park is still there.'

'The park's there,' Napoleon nodded. 'It's all black trees and snow and I think I can see a bit of the lake all frozen over. Yes, it must be the lake. I can see people skating.'

'Ah,' Illya said with something of a sigh.

'Did you ever skate?' Napoleon asked him.

'Most winters. I remember how excited I was when tato got hold of a pair of old skates for me. Sometimes I'd go on the lake, sometimes on the river. Those were good times. I felt so free...'

Napoleon put a hand softly on his arm. Illya's face had changed from a look of happy nostalgia to sadness.

'I'm sorry, Illya,' he said. 'I'm sorry for all the things you can't do like you did.'

Illya shook himself and gave a rather forced laugh. 'Don't be silly. I haven't skated in years. It's not like the rivers in Cambridge ever really froze, and I'm past that point of life now.'

'I'm sorry, Illya,' Napoleon said again, because he knew that Illya felt it deeply. 'You'll get another call from the clinic, you know.'

'I know,' Illya said, rubbing his fingertips on the rough concrete wall in front of him. 'I know I will. I just get so – frustrated sometimes with this – this muffling veil over me. I get so sick of feeling around in a fog. I wish I could just go out into the world and live.'

'You are living,' Napoleon said gently. If he let himself Illya would build this up into either a brood or a sudden rage, and Napoleon hated seeing him so distraught. 'But I know. I know how hard it is for you.'

He bumped his shoulder against Illya's gently, wishing he could hold him instead but so conscious of how visible they were on this balcony and how Illya's parents were just inside.

'All right,' Illya said almost roughly. 'All right, that's enough. Last night, when I was so drunk I probably wouldn't have been able to see even if I weren't blind. What did I say to you?'

'Ah. You told me about the friend you met at the party. Mikhail, was it? He was showing anti-American feeling. He worked at the textile plant.'

'Oh!' A look of remembering flooded Illya's face. 'Yes, that's it. Yuliya said he's in love with America usually, but last night he was afraid America would destroy Russia.' Then he frowned and said, 'You told me you'd give me the moon to hold.'

Napoleon smiled. He took Illya's hand and very quickly kissed his fingertips. 'I did, Illya. And I would, if I could. I would give you the moon and the sun and the stars.'

Illya dropped his head, a most endearingly shy smile on his face. 'You're an idiot. I'd burn my fingers,' he said. 'At least I would on the sun and the stars. And you would throw the entire solar system into disarray.'

'Well, maybe I'll stick with more earthly promises,' Napoleon said with a grin. He pulled his communicator out of his pocket and assembled it. 'Open Channel F,' he said. 'I want to speak to Dmitry Belousov.'

A minute later Belousov's voice came through the speaker. 'Ah, Mr Solo! Yes, good morning. You're wanting the results on those samples, yes?'

'Well, the textile factory sample in particular,' Napoleon said quickly. 'Illya was talking to someone last night who works at the factory and he was showing quite strong anti-American feeling. Have you run that one through your tests yet?'

'Ah yes, yes I did that one first – no, second, I think. There are still a couple more tests to run, but the sample is definitely contaminated. Yes, I think the next step is to monitor television and radio broadcasts, public music and so on, to see what messages they might contain.'

'Perhaps Illya and I could help with that,' Napoleon suggested, and Dmitry laughed.

'Forgive me, Mr Solo. I didn't think your Russian was so good, and your Ukrainian – well – '

'Well, that may be true,' Napoleon said. He glanced at Illya. Illya would be perfect for this job, sneaking into broadcasting centres and investigating tape reels and so on, but of course he couldn't do that now. 'Yes, I suppose you're right,' he continued. Illya was standing facing the concrete wall, his hands on the edge, and he couldn't tell if he were reacting to the tacit reminder that he wasn't really a player in this particular game. 'Well, maybe we'll skip a day, huh? Illya sampled rather a lot of your excellent vodka last night and he's a bit worse for wear, so, yes, we'll come in tomorrow and liaise with your new recruits again.'

'I will pass that on to Tovarisch Kobevko,' Dmitry promised.

Napoleon capped the communicator and patted Illya's arm.

'Let's get back inside. My fingers are freezing off.'

He turned to the door but Illya's mother was just about to open it herself, her face worried. She said something in a very low voice to Illya, and then disappeared inside again. Illya smiled tightly.

'We have visitors,' he said softly to Napoleon. 'KGB.'

'Oh!' Napoleon replied in an equally soft tone. 'Maybe they've come to pick up their bugs.'

'Be careful, Napoleon,' Illya said very quietly. 'Not so much for us, but for my parents.'

Napoleon sobered then. He and Illya would be leaving in just over a week's time, but Illya's parents had no choice but to stay. He made up his mind to leave instructions with the local U.N.C.L.E. office to keep an eye on them for a while after he and Illya left.

'There's nothing they can do about our being here,' Illya said. 'We're officially allowed by the government. But don't give them a handle. Don't tease them, don't challenge them, and for God's sake don't do anything that will make them suspect our relationship.'

'I won't,' Napoleon said a trifle irritably. 'I've dealt with these types before, Illya.'

'I know,' Illya said in a mollifying tone, 'but this is my family. We had better go in.'

Napoleon pulled the door open and ushered Illya through, sweeping his eyes over the living room.

'There are two guys in suits both sitting on the sofa,' he told Illya, deliberately keeping his voice normal so the men wouldn't think he was hiding anything. 'Your mother is making them tea on the table. Look, wait there a moment,' he said, putting his hand on Illya's arm. He quickly fetched a couple of dining chairs and put them on the other side of the table. 'Here, sit down. I've put a dining chair there,' he said, guiding Illya to a chair. 'Now, good morning, gentleman. Do you speak English or – '

'We speak English,' one of the men said; a small, dark haired man. 'Good morning, Mr Solo, Tovarisch Kuryakin.'

The second man was larger, more jovial looking, and he pushed to his feet and stretched a hand across the table to Illya, who was aware of the movement but not of the hand.

'Mr Kuryakin is blind,' Napoleon said, keeping his voice light and friendly despite his irritation at this tactic. 'Illya, the gentleman wants to shake your hand.'

'Oh,' Illya said, blinking. He reached out his hand quickly and the man caught his and pumped it.

'Tovarisch Kuryakin,' and he released Illya's hand and reached for Napoleon's. 'Mr Solo. My name is Matvei Tvardovsky, and my colleague is Valentin Garanin. We had word of your presence in the country and we wanted to come by and see if there is anything we can do for you. Tovarisch Kuryakin, of course, knows the city, but if you would like a tour, Mr Solo – '

'Uh, thank you, but Tovarisch Kuryakin has been a very good guide so far.'

The dark man's eyebrow twitched, and Napoleon could see the irony hadn't been lost on him.

'You're here on official U.N.C.L.E. business,' he said.

'Yes,' Napoleon said with a polite smile, 'but of course you understand I'm not at liberty to discuss that with others.'

The two exchanged a glance and a subtle smile.

'It might make your assignment go more smoothly if you cooperated with local forces,' Tvardovsky suggested.

'It might make our assignment go more smoothly if local forces cooperated with us,' Illya said sweetly.

Napoleon knocked his foot discreetly against Illya's. So much for Illya warning Napoleon to be careful.

'Ah,' Garanin said with a thin lipped smile. 'How do you call that in English? An impasse, yes?'

At that moment Illya's mother returned to pour the tea, and there was a moment of smiles and pleasantries. Tvardovsky complimented Mrs Kuryakina on her tea. Illya sipped slowly from his cup while still giving the impression of being on a razor's edge. His mother retreated again to look after the borsch she was making, and the KGB men focussed their attention on Napoleon and Illya again. The conversation was like a very polite dance, moving around and around and never exactly revealing what anyone really thought. The KGB men were full of polite and helpful offers which Napoleon politely declined. Then Garanin questioned Illya about his blindness and how it was that he still worked for U.N.C.L.E., and Napoleon watched his partner cautiously, knowing it was such a sensitive subject.

'Well, we have another appointment to make,' Tvardovsky said eventually, when all the tea had been drunk and they had spent so long turning in circles that Napoleon wasn't quite sure where they were. The two men stood. Napoleon and Illya stood too. Garanin picked up an apple from the bowl on the low table and looked about to bite into it, but at the last moment he suddenly threw it directly at Illya's face. It struck him on the cheek and he stumbled backwards, lifting his arms defensively and then controlling his reaction with great effort. Napoleon acted with ruthlessly controlled rage, focussing on Illya rather than Garanin, knowing that all of Illya's instincts were prompting him to fight.

'Illya, it was an apple. It's all right,' he said quickly, putting a hand on his shoulder and then bending to pick up the apple and putting it in his hand so he could feel it. Then he rounded on Garanin. 'Have you any idea how foolish that was? Illya has killed more men than you have fingers and toes, and you attack him in his own home, in his family home?'

Garanin looked faintly shocked. Tvardovsky was looking daggers at him. And then Illya said icily, 'If you'd wanted to assure yourselves that I really am blind I'm sure you could have sent someone in to look at my doctor's reports. Throwing fruit into a man's face isn't an approved method of any ophthalmic organisation, as far as I'm aware.'

'We had to be sure,' Garanin said rather shamefacedly. 'The man who pretends to be blind, all the better to act the spy, is a familiar trope.'

'I am sure,' Illya responded icily. 'But if you need further evidence – ' He turned away and felt his way to the bedroom, coming back with his cane and his suitcase. 'This is my cane, gentlemen,' he said, holding it out for their inspection. When neither man took it he leant it against the chair he had been sitting on. 'It doesn't conceal a blade or shoot bullets. It just helps me get around, because I can't see anything but a vague white blur.' He put the case on the chair and opened it and felt inside in stiff, jerking movements. 'These are my dark glasses. I don't need them in here but I wear them in bright light, because the glare is painful. This,' he said, drawing out a thick tome and opening it, 'is the fourth part of Flaubert's Madame Bovary printed in Braille. The entire novel takes more volumes in Braille than I can carry with me sensibly. I can assure you that if I could just bring a pocket sized paperback in my luggage, I would. I wouldn't have spent months learning to read Braille, either. It really wasn't easy. After two years I am still learning some of the more complex aspects.' He put the book down and felt in the case again, pulling out a sheaf of papers and running his fingers briefly over the top sheet. 'This is an U.N.C.L.E. report kindly transcribed into Braille for me by my personal assistant. She spends a great deal of time transcribing things for me that two years ago I would have been able to just read in normal type.' He felt in a pocket in the case lid and pulled out his slim metal Braille slate and the wooden-handled stylus. 'This is the slate I use if I need to write anything down, when you would use pencil and paper. The stylus I use to punch the dots. I have a Braille typewriter but I didn't bring it this trip, so I can't present that in evidence. Somewhere in here – ' and finally his voice broke a little ' – is the documentation for a corneal transplant that was cancelled at the last moment. Would you like me to show you anything else to prove my handicap? The Braille marked money clips I use so I can tell my bank notes apart? The labels in my clothes that Napoleon has cut with pinking shears so I can tell by touch my black t-shirts from the white? The Braille labels on the items in my first aid kit? I wish this were a sham. If it were I wouldn't have spent six months of my life learning to read and write and walk and cook and clean and dress myself. I wouldn't have to spend every day reliant on the kindness of friends and strangers. I wouldn't – '

'Illya,' Napoleon said, putting a hand on his arm. Illya was shaking so subtly that you could only tell by touching him. 'Gentlemen, are you done here?' he asked.

'Er – yes,' Tvardovsky said quietly. 'Yes, we are.' Then he touched Illya's arm and said something to him in Russian. Napoleon wasn't sure what it was, but it sounded conciliatory.

Napoleon showed the men out. When he came back into the living room Illya was still standing there, holding the Braille slate in his hands.

'Bugs,' Illya said in a brittle tone. 'Check for bugs.'

Then he dropped the slate back into the case and stalked out of the room.

((O))

Illya pushed his way into the bedroom he had known as a child and stood there, shaking. He touched a hand to his cheek. The apple hadn't hit him terribly hard, but it had been a shock. He remembered the acid splashing across his face, searing across his eyes, he remembered screaming and screaming and falling to his knees. His stomach was roiling and his mouth had gone dry.

He hit his fist into his palm and then hit it again. He was so angry with himself. He was angry with himself for his words to the KGB agents and angry that he had been so shaken by that sudden, bizarre attack. He was angry that anyone might believe him to be lying about his blindness, angry that his blindness left him so defenceless, angry that – He didn't know. Just angry. He wanted to scream and rage.

He stalked across the room to the corner where his bed had used to stand. There was a wardrobe there now. He didn't know what else. He knew bits of this room, the places where his hands had touched. He didn't know if the walls were the same colour still, if the pictures had changed.

If only he hadn't caught that stupid cold he might be recovering from the transplant right now. He might be enjoying meaningful sight for the first time in over two years.

He felt so wretched, and a choked sob huffed out of him, and then another. He shoved his hand against his mouth, and then the door opened and there was his mother calling, 'Illyushenka, oh, my darling. It's all right. It's all right.' She folded her arms around him and said, 'Come here, Illyushenka. Come. Sit down,' and she tugged him over to the bed and sat with him, holding him, stroking his back, kissing his forehead.

'There, they've gone,' she whispered. 'We're all alone now.'

'It's – it's not them,' Illya managed to say, anger vying with upset, horrified that she thought he had broken down because he was scared of the KGB men. He had always harboured a very childish fear of those men who came and took people in the night, but it wasn't fear of them that had produced this reaction. 'No, it's – '

'I saw him throw that apple. That stupid man. Oh, I could have slapped him.'

'Mama,' Illya said. 'No, you know that would make you more stupid than him.'

'I know,' she said. 'I know, but I am a lion when I see someone hurt my boy.'

'He didn't hurt me. It didn't – '

He drew a deep breath, trying to catch in his whirl of feelings, trying to steady his breathing. It was ridiculous. Partly it was that awful instinctive reaction at something being thrown at his face. It was making his heart race, making his chest tighten. That memory was so sharp, beyond rationality. He could probably explain that to his mother. But how did he explain the rest of it? How did he explain the sheer frustration and grief that welled up like a deep sea current sometimes? How did he explain that everything could be fine for days, and then suddenly he could find himself so angry, incandescent with fury over the ruin of his life?

'Illyushenka,' his mother said softly, stroking his hair. 'It's all right. I've seen you through so many things. You don't need to smile for me.'

So he put his head against her and just let her hold him. How often could he be embraced by his mother? He was so tired of all of this, so tired of every day containing some kind of fight to just live normally. So tired of the strain of not knowing if this transplant would ever come, whether it would work when it did.

'I just want to be able to see, mama,' he whispered, and she hugged him more tightly.

'I know, Illyushenka,' she said. 'I know. It's very cruel.'

He sighed, huffed out hard, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm being ridiculous.'

There was a soft tap on the door and then Napoleon was asking, 'Illya? May I come in?'

Illya's mother kissed him on the forehead and said, 'I must check the borsch,' so Illya smiled and said, 'Thank you, mama. Yes, Napoleon. Come in.'

He held out his hand and as his mother left the room Napoleon came forward and took it.

'Three bugs, all now defunct,' he said. 'Are you all right, Illya?'

Illya smiled apologetically. 'Of course. I just had a stupid moment. A kind of flash back, I suppose. Having someone throw something at my face...'

Napoleon embraced him gently then and kissed him on the lips. 'Of course,' he said. 'I didn't even think. I'm sorry, honey.'

Illya shook his head. 'I'm all right. It was stupid. It was an apple, not acid.'

'Not the point. It could have been anything.'

Illya shrugged. 'Well, that is as may be. But I will not have my whole day brought down by this. Once we have sampled my mother's borsch we are going to go out and walk around some of the most beautiful places in my city. I may not be able to see them, but that's no reason why you should not.'