MFU fanfic: Through the Invisible - Post 3/6

[saki101]

Rating: NC-17



"Where were you this morning? I passed by your flat on the way here," Sergei said, coming into Illya's dressing room and closing the door.

"I couldn't get back last night, so I stayed in Holland Park," Illya replied, slipping off his shoes.

"With your artist?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. A suggestive smile spread across his face.

"It was a purely Platonic evening," Illya said in answer to his expression.

Sergei's shoulders slumped and his smile was replaced by a worried look. "How is that possible? Two consenting adults trapped by the raging elements, the scene lit by flicking firelight..." He looked up at Illya, who nodded. "With fine food and wine..."

"And cognac," Illya supplied, unbuckling his belt, slipping off his trousers and hanging them in the wardrobe.

"I repeat and 'How is this possible?'"

"We conversed, we listened to music, he drew, I considered choreography. The evening passed very pleasantly and I may have found the music for the roses," Illya said.

"Oh?" Sergei replied, perking up.

"Debussy. It'll need some adapting, but my parents could do that for me," Illya added. He pulled the turtleneck over his head, folded it and lay it on the closet shelf.

"Maybe he prefers women," Sergei mused, sitting down in the wicker chair.

"All things are possible," Illya answered, sitting on the bench and slipping one foot into a leg of his tights. "And he did sketches for the backdrops."

"Well, that's good, too, but still..." Sergei sighed.

"You're quite the romantic, Sergei," Illya laughed, bending one leg to slip his other foot into the tights.

"I was last night! You would have been proud," Sergei announced, standing up.

Illya cocked an eyebrow at him and stood to pull the tights up to his waist.

"While you and your Platonic artist were all snug by his hearth, we were out battling the elements."

"On your way back from the pub?" Illya interjected.

"Hush, you. Anyway, the rain was so heavy, the gutters were overflowing and the water was running down Alicia's street like a stream, so I picked her up and carried her over the road and up the stairs to her front door where I gently set her on her threshold."

"And were you rewarded with a kiss for your chivalry?" Illya enquired, pulling on the top to his leotard.

Sergei stood up even straighter. "I was," he declared.

"Bravo," Illya exclaimed and clapped Sergei on the back. "So we both weathered the storm," he said, resting his foot on the bench to adjust the tie of one slipper. "Let's go."

****************

Napoleon brought a slim leather case with him to the ballet that evening. Humming Debussy under his breath, he unzipped the case and took out a full size sketch pad, a pencil and a box of pastels and set them on the chair on his right. Since Illya had left that afternoon he had been listening to Debussy, absorbing the mood of the music which he wanted to echo in the scenery. Even during the sitting he had played it softly in the other room. Cecilia had remarked that she found it very soothing. The opera glasses he placed on the chair on his other side.

Departing from his usual routine, he left the box and made his way to one of the balconies and walked down to the center of the front row. He had arrived early enough that most of the seats were still empty. He viewed the stage with a measuring eye from that position, then walked to the far right of the row and finally to the far left. It was inadequate with the curtain closed. He needed to see the back of the stage from several positions and that wouldn't be possible during the interval or after the programme either. I'll have to come to a rehearsal this week sometime, he concluded.

******************

The sky was still overcast the next afternoon when Napoleon walked into the lobby of the theatre.

"Are you collecting tickets, sir?" enquired the young lady from the box office.

"No..." Napoleon began, giving the young woman a charming smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, we're sold out," she told him with what appeared to be an expression of genuine regret.

"The whole season, not just tonight's performance?" Napoleon asked, walking closer and still smiling.

"I'm afraid so, sir," she said, smiling back at him and absentmindedly brushing back any tendrils that might have escaped from her neat chestnut pony tail. "Even the American tour is nearly fully booked," she added.

Napoleon had reached the counter, but he stopped with an alarmed look on his face. He had not thought about the tour. "What's the first stop?" he asked.

"New York from 26 December until 3 January, except for New Year's Day, of course," she read off a paper pinned to the wall near her.

Napoleon was quiet for a moment, "What's left in New York?"

The girl pulled out a ledger from beneath the counter and flipped pages. "Only a few boxes left for opening night, the 27th and the 2nd and 3rd of January, some seats in the balconies for the other..."

"Boxes available, you say," Napoleon asked, an odd feeling seizing him.

"Yes," she turned the seating plan around so he could see the ones that weren't marked with an 'x'. "There and there for the first two nights," she pointed, "a few more afterwards."

Napoleon leaned forward to scan the chart. "So Box 5 is free?" he smiled, the understanding that he would be in New York for the New Year becoming very clear to him.

The young woman turned the plan back towards herself to be sure, "It is," she affirmed and smiled up at Napoleon.

"For the whole New York run?" he asked.

She flipped several pages. "Yes, sir."

Napoleon exhaled. "Well then, please reserve Box 5 in my name," he took out his wallet and extracted an American Express card which he put on the counter. "Do you take these?" he asked.

Gingerly, the girl picked up the card. "I'm not sure," she said. "I'll just check with the manager," she added, "it will only take a moment."

"Take your time..." he tilted his head and raised one eyebrow questioningly.

"Amanda Little, sir," she blushed lightly.

"Take your time, Miss Little," Napoleon assured her.

In a moment, the manager came out with Amanda from a door next to the counter. "Good afternoon, Mr. Solo," he said, extending his hand. "Nigel Nickerson, at your service, sir." Napoleon shook it. "I'm afraid we aren't yet equipped to take the new credit cards, however, we can send a statement to your home. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Yes, that will be most helpful," Napoleon answered.

"And has everything else been satisfactory today?" he enquired.

"Very much so. I wouldn't have realised the American tour was nearly sold out except for Miss Little's kind assistance," he added. Amanda blushed faintly again.

"Can we assist you with anything else then?" the manager asked.

"Actually, yes. I came in today because I have misplaced a small notebook and I thought I might have left it in my box last night."

The manager turned to Amanda. "Was anything turned into the desk last night, Miss Little?" She shook her head. "Then could you ask Adrian to come out for a moment?" Amanda nodded and disappeared through the door.

"Adrian will take you through, the doors are locked now, rehearsal has started," Mr. Nickerson explained. "He could give you a little tour, if you like," he added.

Napoleon considered it. "Thank you very much, I'm sorry that I don't have time today. However, last night I visited a couple friends in their boxes and it's possible I may have dropped my notebook there. If it's not in my box, might Adrian take me around to theirs?" Napoleon asked.

"Of course," Mr. Nickerson answered. "Here's Adrian now." He turned to the boy, "Kindly take Mr. Solo to check for his misplaced item."

Smiling briefly at Adrian, Napoleon extended his hand to the manager, "Thank you again." He turned to Amanda who was back behind her desk, "And thank you, Miss Little." She smiled back, nodding.

"So lead the way, Adrian," Napoleon said.

*****************

A few patches of blue sky showed through the grey clouds on Sunday morning. The wind of the previous evening had stripped some of the trees bare and littered the pavement with leaves. A light gust swirled them about Illya's legs as he headed towards Napoleon's house. He scuffed his feet through the thickest patches of them, smiling at the crackling sound.

Illya saw that the gate was open as he approached Napoleon's house. Napoleon stepped out and waved to him, smiling. "I was hoping you'd be early," he said when Illya got closer. "My Aunt Aurelia dropped by, but she has another appointment she has to dash off to and I wanted to introduce you," he finished, taking Illya's hand and drawing him into the forecourt and up the front steps.

Aurelia glanced up from a conversation with Feather when Napoleon ushered Illya into the room. She took in the animated expression on Napoleon's face. "I was right," Napoleon said, apparently concluding an earlier exchange. "Aunt Aurelia, may I introduce Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Kuryakin, may I introduce my aunt, Madame de Marquise de Foix." Aurelia extended her hand.

"Enchanté, Madame de Marquise," Illya said, bowing and lifting her gloved hand close to his lips.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kuryakin," Aurelia replied. "I only had the opportunity to see you dance on opening night, but I hope to rectify that this week with Napoleon." Illya bowed slightly and smiled. Aurelia turned a fond smile on Napoleon and then looked back at Illya. "I am sorry to have to say hello and good-bye in almost the same breath, but before I go, I would like to invite you to tea next Sunday, if you are free."

Illya could see Napoleon's hopeful expression out of the corner of his eye. "I would be honoured," he replied.

"That is wonderful," Aurelia said, smiling first at Illya and then at Napoleon. "I will send the invitations tomorrow. And now I must fly." She extended her hand towards Illya and he raised it to his lips once more, "Au revoir, Madame de Marquise."

"Au revoir, Monsieur," she answered and took Napoleon by the arm and out of the room.

"He'll only be a couple minutes, Mr. Kuryakin. I've laid out the tea things upstairs," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh said when Napoleon and Aurelia had left.

"Would you consider calling me Illya?" Illya replied.

Mrs. Featherstonehaugh smiled. "If you would call me Feather," she answered.

"I would love to have tea, Feather," Illya said.

"Then you go on up. I'll come in two shakes of a lamb's tail with the teapot," she said and turned towards the kitchen stairs.

****************

"Constance just telephoned me. She will be writing to you this week to ask whether you would consider accepting a commission to paint her daughter-in-law and her new grandchild. I helped her conclude that it was best not to waste any time lest you have no appointments available before the infant was approaching school age." Aurelia chuckled. "Thank Mr. Kuryakin for me. I understand how little free time he has, but his presence definitely helped resolve any indecision Constance may have had. Did you see the way she hardly took her eyes off him this afternoon? She'll be at the Exhibition to see his portrait this summer, I'm sure."

"You are a marvel, Aunt Aurelia," Napoleon said.

"And now she will tell all her friends. I would bet on it." Napoleon could hear her laughing. "Oh, did Mr. Morgan's secretary contact you? I forgot to ask earlier."

"He did. We'll begin sittings just after New Year's. It works out very well my being in New York then."

"That's true. Now it will hang in the foyer of their headquarters in Manhattan. Think how many people will see it there!" Aurelia commented. "Yes, and Marguerite said she does want to come to New York for the holidays and will bring Genvieve and her brother with her. It does mean the flat will be rather full that week though."

"Not to worry, I've booked a hotel. I can join you after they've left for Palm Beach. How is Marguerite?"

"Triste. Randolph breaking their engagement like that may take her a while to get over. And I'm a bit worried that she's developing a crush on Alexander...Genvieve's brother."

"I don't think I've ever met him. What's the matter with him? Married?"

Aurelia sighed. "He's with the Foreign Office. Been overseas most of the time for the last ten years. The Middle East mainly, Tunisia, Morocco, the Lebanon."

"Wait, I was supposed to meet up with him in Beirut when I was there, but he was called away at the last moment. Had a very nice colleague show me around instead who introduced me to another colleague visiting from Damascus. I travelled back to Damascus with him and we went to see the mosque and Salaheddine‘s tomb together. Having a diplomatic escort was quite convenient," Napoleon recalled.

"I can imagine. Alexander's diplomatic career is going very well and he isn't married, although perhaps he's beginning to think he should be."

"'Every man in possession of a fortune...'" Napoleon offered.

"No, more like every man in need of keeping up appearances..." Aurelia replied.

"Hmm?"

"Alexander doesn't prefer the ladies, but the diplomatic corps is a very conservative milieu..."

"Ah," Napoleon sighed.

"After Randolph's rather public rejection, an unrequited passion is the last thing Marguerite needs, but..."

"There isn't a lot one can do about these things, is there?" Napoleon offered.

"No, and I hate feeling impotent. I think it's one of the things I enjoy so much about lending a hand with your career development, Napoleon. It helps me feel as though I'm not completely ineffectual."

"You, ineffectual? Never! It's just that with affairs of the heart, we are all rather helpless."

"Unfortunate, but true," Aurelia sighed. "Still, I'm going back to France next week just to be on hand, as it were, and will probably stay there until we all leave for New York. But let us not dwell on possible difficulties and return to the good news about Constance," Aurelia said. "And don't forget to thank Mr. Kuryakin for me."

"I won't," Napoleon agreed. "And thank you."

"You are most welcome, dear boy. Good-night."

"Good-night," Napoleon said and put the telephone receiver down. He walked from the sitting room to the studio shaking his head. Just inside the doorway, he stopped.

Illya was in the middle of the floor, looking down at his stocking feet which were tracing patterns on the light oak floorboards. Illya extended his right arm part way in front of himself, leaned to the right, then straightened and stretched it above his head. He had a pencil in his hand.

Thinking aloud...with his body. Napoleon realised and didn't move, not wanting to break the concentration. Abruptly, Illya pivoted and began drawing on a paper on a nearby table. Involuntarily, Napoleon stepped forward, curious to see what Illya had drawn. Napoleon was already examining the diagrams over his shoulder when Illya glanced up.

"Here," he said, pushing gently against Napoleon's shoulder. "Stand just there." Napoleon moved as directed. "Extend this arm out like that," he said and took Napoleon's left arm. "Now turn in that direction, extend your left leg and lean from the waist after it." Napoleon leaned to the right. "Wait," Illya said and moved behind him and touched the limbs he wanted moved, pushing them in the desired direction. Illya was standing close behind him, one hand at Napoleon's waist the other almost touching his outstretched fingers. "Now lean in the opposite direction and extend the opposite limbs." Napoleon managed to do so and felt Illya mirroring the movements behind him. "Now, lean back, arch your back and rest your head against my shoulder." Napoleon followed these directions.

Illya paused. Napoleon could feel his solid warmth behind him. Every system in his body was accelerating. Napoleon closed his eyes. "Wait," Illya said. Napoleon's eyes flew open. "You're taller. Better if you're behind me." Two deft moves placed him there. Illya's hair brushed against Napoleon's jaw as he positioned himself. It's as silky as it looks, Napoleon thought. "Now, move this hand," Illya took Napoleon's right hand in his and folded both in front of his waist. "Now, bend the right leg when I do and lean right with me." Illya brushed against Napoleon as they moved. He must have felt that, Napoleon thought. His temperature went up a few degrees. "Now back to an upright position," Illya instructed. As he followed, Napoleon blessed all the dance classes his mother had ever made him take as a boy. "OK, keep a tight hold on my right hand," Illya said and swung away from Napoleon, leaning forward and arching his left leg behind him. Slowly, he raised his torso. "Look directly at me," he ordered. Napoleon did. "I'm coming back, then out again, so you'll hold my left hand then," Illya said. Napoleon watched Illya spin and then he was in front of him again, "Hold," Illya said and Napoleon tightened his grip on Illya's left hand. The graceful turn was executed again. This time Napoleon held his head erect and was looking steadily at Illya when he drew himself up straight. Illya smiled. "Good," he said. Napoleon took a deep breath. Now I'll repeat that. Napoleon held and switched sides and stood up straight and felt delighted. Illya turned perpendicular to Napoleon and took his left hand up with his right and extended his right leg behind him. Slowly, he bowed his head between their arms.

Illya let go and stepped away. "There's a lift next. I need a dancer for that." Napoleon deflated. Illya had bent over his diagrams. "But that was a big help. Thank you. You follow well." He made a final stroke and point on a diagram. "Although I was doing the ballerina's steps," he turned to Napoleon with a smile that faded when he took in Napoleon's expression. Illya's brows drew together.

"I can't follow you there," Napoleon said, pointing at the paper. "I don't have the training. I can't read the diagrams. I can only watch." And yearn.

Illya saw the yearning. He took a step closer. "I can't draw. I can only look." He took another step nearer. "But if we look carefully, we can understand."

********************

The mid-November rain was light, but the wind had turned Illya's umbrella inside out every few metres on his way to Napoleon's house the next Sunday. The gate was unlatched when he arrived. As it swung open, Napoleon waved from the top of his front steps. Illya bolted the gate and joined him.

"You're soaked," Napoleon observed, taking his umbrella. "I've got the fire going. Change and come sit by it," he said, closing the door behind them.

****************

"It seems like it's going to rain every day until spring," Napoleon commented, folding the newspaper he had been pretending to read, when Illya joined him in the sitting room still drying his hair. "Why don't I wait for you with a taxi after the performance on Saturday and you can spend the night here and skip the Sunday morning drenching?"

Illya stood before the fire, rubbing the towel over the front of his hair and hiding his face. There was an expression on it that he didn't want Napoleon to see. He wanted to come here with him on Saturday night. When he left for rehearsal on Monday afternoon, it felt odd not to return in the evening. His apartment was empty. This place had started to feel like his home in London. But in a month, he'd be gone. What would it feel like then...for either of them?

Napoleon watched Illya's hands on the towel. He had tried to keep his tone light, but Illya must have heard something in the request which disturbed him. He looked down at the folded paper in his lap.

Illya peeped out from between the folds of the towel and studied Napoleon's profile. Perhaps he was reading some grim article on the page in front of him. "That sounds like a prudent course," he said.

*****************

Saturday evening, when Illya opened the stage door and saw that it was raining, he laughed. He could see Napoleon in the taxi at the curb. Napoleon looked up and spotted him. He opened the taxi door and slid to the other side of the seat. In two long strides Illya crossed the pavement and handed in a garment bag, ducked into the cab with his satchel and closed the door.

"What's this?" Napoleon asked, holding the puffy bag carefully.

Illya dropped his satchel onto the floor and took back the garment bag. "It's a surprise," he said, "but you couldn't see it in this light."

"I've got a surprise for you, too, at home," Napoleon answered. Illya raised an eyebrow and Napoleon shook his head. "We'll have to wait until we get there.

*******************

The fragrance of the fire wafted down from the hearth. They hung their raincoats by the front door and headed for the stairs. Feather met them at the top. "I got the fire going well for you," she announced. "And supper's waiting on the table. Good-night then."

"Good-night," they replied at nearly the same time as she passed them on her way down.

"Dinner first or surprises?" Napoleon asked. There were tantalising aromas rising from the dinner table.

"Maybe dinner," Illya replied. "Then we'll have more energy to appreciate the surprises."

"Alright," Napoleon said and seated himself.

Illya walked over to the closer of the two studio doors, dropped his satchel and hung the garment bag on the doorknob.

*****************

Cognac in hand, Napoleon leaned back in his chair and asked, "Ready for surprises now?"

Illya dabbed at his lips, nodded and rose.

Napoleon strode to the farther studio door and held it open. The rain had stopped and moonlight was casting pale shadows throughout the room. Illya walked until he found the moon. "Nearly full," he remarked.

The angle of the light lit Illya's hair, face and shoulders. The rest of his figure was only dimly outlined. That would make a beautiful painting, Napoleon thought. But I couldn't give it the title I would prefer... "For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams..." he recited.

Illya turned to him. "I'm considering a ballet based on Annabel Lee," he said. "Using the concerto by Grieg you were playing a couple weeks ago."

The colour of his eyes wouldn't be visible in that lighting though. "And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes..." Napoleon continued. So many different ways life makes love unattainable, he thought.

"Napoleon?" Illya said, walking towards him.

"Seems a pity to turn on an electric light, but my surprise requires strong lighting, I'm afraid," Napoleon explained.

"Mine, too," Illya said and smiled. "And electric lights can always be turned off again."

"True," Napoleon agreed and hit the light switch.

They both blinked in the glare. Napoleon held out one hand. Illya's eyes followed it and opened wide. He walked closer to the broad sheets of paper which covered the wall between the two doors and touched the edges. "When did you do this?" he asked.

"This week," Napoleon replied, moving to stand a few steps back from the mural of the backdrop for the second scene of Regent's Park. "I keep it covered when I have other visitors."

Illya walked to the opposite wall and regarded the painting. "The forms can be distinguished clearly from a distance and yet their outlines seem soft. The colours suit the music." He moved close again. "Look at the swan's wings," he said, tracing its outlines with his fingers a few inches from the paper. "And the waterfall...and the light on the water...as seen through the willow branches." He kept moving along the wall at one level and then walked back looking further up. "All the details are central," he noted.

"I checked the angles in the theatre a few weeks ago."

"How?" Illya asked, still peering at details.

"I went back one afternoon under the pretext that I had lost something. A nice young lad named Adrian took me around to help me find it," Napoleon explained.

Illya glanced back over his shoulder. "During rehearsal?"

"Yes, I saw you come out on stage. We were up in the second balcony at the time."

Illya raised an eyebrow, "To see how much of the top can't be seen."

Napoleon nodded. "He's quite an admirer of yours. Thinks you're the best dancer in the company."

"Even some people who don't admire me think that," Illya said, squatting down to examine the bottom of the mural. "The coots and the ducks are squabbling over a piece of bread," he marvelled. "Only the dancers will be close enough to appreciate that!"

"I know," Napoleon said.

Illya stood up and walked back a few paces. "It's magnificent."

"A fitting backdrop for your choreography and your dancing," Napoleon said quietly.

"You are thinking that the different arts can meet?" Illya asked.

"When I see you on stage dancing in front of that I may well," Napoleon replied.

"Well, let me add to that positive thought," Illya said and went to retrieve the garment bag. "Open it," he directed, handing it to Napoleon.

Napoleon lifted the clear plastic cover and reached inside the cloth bag underneath. His fingers found the satin straps along the hanger and pushed them off the edges. He looked up at Illya questioningly. "Carry on," Illya urged.

Napoleon walked to the divan and lay the garment bag down and pulled the flaps of the bag open. Carefully, he drew out the costume. "My rose!" he said, stroking the fabric and tracing the sequined and velvet designs with his fingers. "You had it made!" He reached back into the bag, unhooked the headpiece from the hanger and held it up.

"And that involved another artist," Illya said. "I shall have to introduce you to Mrs. O'Donnell sometime. She's quite in love with your costume drawings."

"She is an artist," Napoleon repeated, lifting the tiers of the skirt to see what make the petals stand separate from one another. "Who will wear it?"

"I decided to go along with your idea," Illya said. Napoleon drew his brows together and looked at Illya. "You drew Alicia, my partner in Scheherazade, wearing it. Mrs. O'Donnell needed to know whose measurements to use and I thought you were right."

"You dance well together," Napoleon commented.

"We do," Illya agreed.

Napoleon strangled some strange emotion that reared up at those two words.

**************

On Monday evening, Napoleon arrived even earlier than his usual early time. He went directly to the box office window. "Why, good evening, Miss Little," he said smiling.

"Good evening, Mr. Solo. How can I help you?" she enquired, revealing her dimples.

"I am hoping you can find me seats for the Boston leg of the American tour," he explained.

"Ah," she said, a furrowed brow replacing the dimpled cheeks. She reached for a notebook beneath the counter. "All five days?" she asked when she had the right page open. Napoleon nodded. "Do you need a box?"

"Not necessarily. Are the boxes all gone?"

"Not all, but nearly. You could have a box on Thursday, opening night, and on Monday, and Tuesday, closing night, but not the same one."

"And the other nights?"

She shook her head. "Just a few singles scattered here and there and some doubles at the back of the second balcony."

"A single seat would do for the other nights," Napoleon said.

"Oh, well then," she said, taking a deep breath and unknitting her brow. "Some are in really good places." She turned a couple pages and slid the book around. "On Friday, there's a seat practically in the middle of the first row." She flipped the page, "And on Saturday one in the front row of the first balcony, not far off center." She glanced up, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

"I knew I could count on you, Miss Little," Napoleon said, continuing to lean on the counter.

She flushed lightly. It accentuated the blue of her eyes. A paler blue, Napoleon thought. "We'll send the statement to your home, as before?"

Napoleon roused himself. "Yes, please."

"Do you think you'll need tickets in any of the other US cities?"

"No, I'll be tied up in New York until mid-February, but thank you for asking," Napoleon said kindly, straightening up and beginning to turn away.

"The European tour?"

He turned back. "The European tour?"

"It follows directly after the American one."

"Directly?"

"Yes, the company sails from Boston straight to Rome," she explained and handed him a small card with the cities and dates for the tour.

"How's Rome looking?" Napoleon asked.

Miss Little smiled.

*****************************

Sergei came sprinting down the corridor as Illya was closing the door to his dressing room on Saturday evening. "Forgot my umbrella," he said as he dashed past. "Don't forget yours."

Illya followed him to his dressing room. "But you're half soaked. What were you doing?"

"Opening the door," Sergei explained, pushing aside boots and slippers in his wardrobe. "Ah, here we go," he said, straightening up. "It's like a monsoon out there."

"More opportunities for chivalry?" Illya asked.

"I hope so," Sergei called as he ran back the way he had come. "See you Monday."

***********************

"White coffee?" Napoleon asked after dinner on Sunday. Illya raised an eyebrow from where he reclined on the banquette. "Hot, sweetened rose water," Napoleon explained, holding out a tiny cup. "You've not had it before?"

"No," Illya replied, taking the cup and wafting it under his nose. "Lovely fragrance."

"Mmm," Napoleon agreed, stretching out on the banquette at right angles to Illya's and looking up at the balcony. Albeniz was playing on the hi-fi upstairs. "Perfect way to end a Lebanese meal," he said.

Illya reached over and refilled his cup from the long-handled coffee pot on the brass table in the angle between their seats. "I'm convinced," he said.

"Then perhaps I can convince you of something else," Napoleon opened.

Illya turned his head so he could see Napoleon who remained intent on the balcony. "I was thinking about what you said about standing still being eloquent," Napoleon amplified. Illya turned onto his side. "Do you recall the drawing I called "Angel of the Darker Drink"? Napoleon asked.

"Mmm."

"I would like to do an oil of it and have that be my other submission to the Exhibition," Napoleon said.

"You're only allowed two?" Illya asked.

"Mmmhmm," Napoleon replied.

"Do you need me to pose for it?" Illya asked.

"I have the sketches already, so posing wouldn't be essential, but it would improve the finished work. I was picturing the figure lit by firelight." Oh, threats of Hell and hopes of Paradise, Napoleon thought.

"Was that what you wanted to convince me about?" Illya probed.

"No. I wanted your permission to use the drawing."

"But it's yours; you drew it," Illya said.

"But it's of you. I wanted your consent."

Illya twisted around to a sitting position. "What would you do with it after the Exhibition?"

"Would you like to have it?" Napoleon asked, still staring upwards.

"I think it should be yours," Illya said. "And I'll pose for you."

"Thank you," Napoleon said.

They fell silent. The sounds of the fountain and the guitar music filled the hall.

*****************

"I can see what the dancers are wearing when they arrive at the park," Illya said as he dropped the jellaba over his head.

"Tell me," Napoleon said, grabbing a sketch pad.

For the girls, black tights, wispy skirts to about here," Illya indicated the middle of his thigh. "Their tops - simple leotards: yellow, lilac, pink. Their hair smoothed back into long ponytails."

"The same dancers who will be the attendants for the Scarlet Rose?"

"Exactly," Illya replied. "For me: black tights, white shirt. Like the one you drew in the pastel."

"You change when you dance with the Scarlet Rose?" Illya shook his head. Napoleon smiled as his pencil flew around the paper. Illya took off his watch and put it on the mantelpiece. He lined up the sleeves of the white cotton under robe with the sleeves of the jellaba, and pulled up the hood.

"Have a look," Napoleon said as he held the sketch pad out to Illya and surveyed his attire. "Here let me," he said, coming closer. He pushed the hood back slightly to reveal some of the fair hair. Fine strands clung to the inside of the hood. Delicately, Napoleon smoothed the hair into place and adjusted the folds of the hood.

Napoleon's fingers grazed against Illya's jaw as he rearranged the cloth. Illya clenched his teeth. The urge to seize that carelessly caressing hand was strong. The desire to plant a fierce kiss in the middle of its palm and teach it not to stray unless it intended to stay was even stronger. Napoleon reached around Illya's neck to straighten the upright collar of the under robe. Illya studied the veins on the inside of Napoleon's wrist. His fingers twitched with an impulse to trace along them, beneath the shirt sleeve, until they reached that warm spot on the inside of the elbow where they would feel Napoleon's pulse responding to their explorations. By his side, Illya's hands formed into fists. He squeezed his eyes shut. They wanted to meet Napoleon's gaze. An arm behind the head to draw down the lips, another at the waist to pull the body close. The choreography was simple. In less than three weeks there'll be an ocean between us, his reason advised and called up the memory of that desolate look he'd glimpsed on Napoleon's face the first day they'd met. I won't be the cause of such another! he vowed. Illya resisted his natural impulses. There will be other beautiful bodies to hold, his reason consoled him. He opened his eyes and stared at the white button on Napoleon's shirt collar.

"Stand closer to the fire," Napoleon said and took Illya's shoulders to move him. "Like so," he murmured, adjusting Illya's stance until the flames lit just one side of his face. "We'll have to take this in short installments or you'll roast there," he said.

"I'll think cold thoughts," Illya replied.

*****************

Sleep wouldn't come. Napoleon opened his bedroom door an inch. The house was silent. He tiptoed to his studio and quietly shut the door behind him.

Illya heard the almost imperceptible click of the door closing. He burrowed deeper into his blankets.

The sky was greying when Napoleon fell onto the divan and pulled a quilt over him. The robes were carefully outlined. The goblet sketched in. He could paint them during the week. The face was done. The look on it was the same as the one in the sketch he had sent to Illya all those weeks ago. Was he thinking cold thoughts then, too? Napoleon wondered as unconsciousness closed over him.

*****************

Returning from his shower, Illya caught a whiff of coffee. He leaned over the balustrade and saw Feather coming from the kitchen stairway. She looked up. "I heard you stirring," she called.

Still barefooted, Illya went to the bottom of the stairs and took the tray from her. Feather frowned at the damp hair and scowled even harder when she spied the bare white feet beneath the dark trousers. "You'll catch your death! Go finish getting dressed and I'll bring up breakfast. You need to be going soon, don't you?"

"Yes, but I have time for one of your omelets," he grinned.

"Do you now?" Mrs. Featherstonehaugh smiled. "And has Napoleon said what he'll be wanting?"

"He isn't up yet. I think he worked very late in the studio last night."

"Oh, sometimes he works 'til bright morning! I feed him breakfast and then he goes to bed!" she said, shaking her head. "Go get socks on now." Illya started up the stairs. "And a jumper! He doesn't have an appointment until three. I'll wake him in time if he hasn't gotten up by then," she said over her shoulder on the way back to the kitchen.

***************

The house lights were going down. Illya lowered the opera glasses.

"How's your artist?" Sergei said, coming up behind Illya.

"He's not there," Illya said quietly.

"Are you sure?" Sergei said, reaching for the glasses.

"Not in his box anyway," Illya replied. "I've got to go change," he mumbled and headed towards his dressing room.

Sergei adjusted the focus and counted boxes. As the orchestra finished tuning, the door to Box Five opened and Napoleon slipped into his seat. "Ah," Sergei said and turned. Allegra walked past and smiled briefly. "Allegra," Sergei called. She stopped. "Could you bring these to Illya and tell him the box is full?" He held out the glasses.

"The box is full?" she repeated, taking the glasses.

"He'll know what I mean. Thank you, there's a love," he patted her arm and stepped away. "I'm on soon."

"Alright," Allegra said to his back.

**************

"Come in," Illya called at the knock.

"Are you decent?" Allegra asked when she'd opened the door a crack.

"Occasionally," Illya replied.

Allegra poked her head into the room.

Illya was writing at his dressing table. He turned the paper over and glanced up as she came closer. He saw the glasses in her hand. "Allegra," he said. "I was expecting Sergei."

"His entrance is soon," she said. "He asked me to return these and tell you 'the box is full'." Allegra peered around his shoulder to see what he was writing. Her shoulders sagged a bit when she saw the page was blank.

The crease vanished from Illya's forehead. "Thank you. When are you on tonight?"

"The second piece," she said, scanning the room from beneath lowered lashes.

"Was there anything else?" Illya asked, amused at her curiosity.

Allegra blushed and looked up. "No, no," she replied rapidly. "Well, actually, yes. I'll be right back." She dashed out of the room without closing the door.

*************

Illya had returned to his diagrams, when a light tap interrupted him again.

"Yes?" he said over his shoulder.

Allegra slipped around the door with a package. "From maman...to thank you for all the trouble she knows I've been."

Illya smiled and took the box. "It's heavy," he said.

"You can guess what it is, right?" Allegra said, trying to see what was on the paper, but Illya had his elbow resting in the middle of it. "Open it."

"Shouldn't I wait?" Illya asked.

"Well, I suppose," Allegra answered, craning her head forward when a bit of colour caught her eye.

"Want some?" Illya asked, amused.

"Oh, no, no. They're for you," she answered, drawing back. "You will tell her I haven't been much trouble, won't you?"

"Don't worry. I'll write and tell her you have been the model of diligence and decorum," he assured her.

"You will? Oh, thank you." Allegra bent quickly and kissed his cheek. "I'm off then," she said, giving the papers one last glance as she did so.

"And thank you," Illya said. Allegra looked back from the door. "For the message...and the gift."

"Oh, yes. You're welcome," she chirped and swerved round the door.

Illya noticed the costume drawing peeping out from under the diagrams. He shrugged and resumed his writing, humming.

*******************

Three flower-wreathed heads were huddled together. "I just saw a bit of one costume," Allegra whispered.

"And..." Antoinette urged.

"It was red," Allegra answered, drawing out the last word.

"Well, what did it look like?" Fiona asked.

"I only saw a little of the skirt," Allegra admitted.

The other girls sighed.

"But it was the most passionate shade of red," she added. "Nearly black at the edge," she added with dramatic emphasis.

"Short or long?" Antoinette asked.

"Short," Allegra replied confidently.

"Well, it's something," Fiona allowed.

"He must be nearly finished, if the costume designs are ready," Allegra argued.

Antoinette tilted her head and nodded. "You're right. When do you think they'll announce parts?"

Fiona widened her eyes, "On the ship, do you think?"

"Or when we get back from touring," Antoinette offered.

Allegra and Fiona slumped at the likelihood. "Oh, I couldn't wait that long," Allegra sighed.

"Can't you get a look when you have your lesson?" Antoinette asked.

"He has everything tidied away when I get there," Allegra explained.

"Arrive early, like a good, eager student," Antoinette suggested.

Allegra pursed her lips. "I'll try," she said.

*******************

"It's rather irregular, Mr. Kuryakin," the Ballet Master said, his level voice and neutral look almost perfectly concealing the satisfaction he felt. It had been a risk to commit the company to producing two original ballets a season by the unproven French dancer in order to lure him to London. The papers spread on Arturo Linetskiy's desk more than vindicated his gamble. It would be a beautiful ballet and if the title was a bit obviously sycophantic towards the dancer's new home, that wasn't totally amiss either. Works of art connected to a particular place often enjoyed popularity well beyond their merit in the places they honoured. And this one had merit. "Usually these things are done in-house or a formal request is made for authorisation to engage an outside artist or composer."

Illya nodded.

Arturo Linetskiy leaned back in his chair and regarded the beautiful young man in front of him. Sometimes nature is profligate with her gifts, Arturo thought. He himself had been the recipient of so many, even old age had touched him more gently than it did most. And she had certainly been generous with Illya Kuryakin. He has insight into other people. So many artists are distracted by their creative visions from the people around them. But this one...he knows I'm pleased. Arturo swivelled in his chair and touched the costume hanging by his desk. "This is lovely. Which ballerina have you chosen to wear it?" he asked.

"I wouldn't presume..." Illya began.

"Oh, come now. You've presumed a good deal, why not this, too?" Arturo swivelled back to face Illya. "Who did you have in mind when you choreographed the part?"

"Alicia."

Mr. Linetskiy considered. "You dance well together in Scheherazade. Are you sleeping with her?"

Illya's eyebrows rose very slightly. "No, sir."

"Are you hoping to sleep with her?"

"She's a beautiful dancer," Illya replied matter-of-factly.

Arturo had to keep from laughing. "So you wouldn't say no, if she offered?"

"Probably not," Illya replied.

Arturo did chuckle this time. "So...you dance the male lead. Who else?"

"Sergei for the other principal male role."

Arturo eyes looked upwards to his left, then to his right and his head moved slightly as though to unheard music. "I haven't partnered him with Alicia. They would be good together." He nodded. "Who else?" He watched Illya's posture relax.

"There are the three girls with me in the first scene who are also the Scarlet Rose's attendants," Illya paused. "Maybe Allegra, Fiona and Claire?"

"You're not as sure about those."

Illya shook his head in agreement.

"Visually, they would look well together." Slowly, he rocked the chair from side to side. "I'm inclined to agree that Fiona is ready...we'll have auditions for those roles." He paused. "And the artist, his fee will be standard. I've checked him out a bit, society portraits mainly, he may expect more than our standard fee and he'll have to work to our schedule." Illya nodded.

"So, we have that nearly sorted," Arturo declared. "Come sit over here now and tell me what else you're working on."

Illya pushed an armchair closer to the desk and sat leaning forward. "Grieg's piano concerto in A minor, plot based on Poe's Annabel Lee. "

"Hmmh," Arturo said, inclining his head. "Interesting." He looked over at Illya sharply. "You've already got your parents working on the music, haven't you?"

Illya nodded.

"Any art commitments?"

Illya shook his head.

Arturo shuffled the papers on his desk until the two miniatures of the backdrops were in front of him. He narrowed his eyes at them. "We'll see how it goes with your artist and Regent's Park..." he said. Illya widened his eyes and glanced up, but Mr. Linetskiy's attention remained on the artwork. "If it goes well, perhaps he could do the sets and costumes for Annabel Lee, too," Arturo concluded.

*************************

"I'm going to start on ideas for the backdrops for Annabel Lee while you're on tour," Napoleon said after dinner.

Illya stretched out on the alcove cushions. "How did your meeting with Mr. Linetskiy go?"

"Well, I think," Napoleon replied from across the room as he poured two snifters of cognac. "I showed him some other sketches."

"Which ones?" Illya asked.

"Three from Scheherazade, two of you and Alicia and the one of you in mid-leap, one from Apollo. "

"That would be Sergei," Illya interjected. Napoleon tilted his head in acknowledgement.

"And two from the very end of The Prodigal Son. "

"That used to be one of his starring roles," Illya remarked. "He still plays the father sometimes."

"He mentioned that," Napoleon said. "And he commented on the ones with Alicia in them."

"When I said I was thinking of Alicia for the role of the Scarlet Rose, he asked me whether I was sleeping with her," Illya said. Napoleon almost dropped the cognac bottle he was closing. "I told him I wasn't."

Napoleon took a deep breath before turning to cross the room with the snifters thinking, He told him he wasn't. "He looked quite carefully at those two drawings, the ones of you and Alicia," Napoleon said, handing Illya one.

"Perhaps he fancies Alicia for himself," Illya considered.

"He's rather old," Napoleon observed.

"The fancy is never too old," Illya replied.

I don't think Alicia is the member of that duo that either of us fancies, Napoleon thought to himself. I wonder if Arturo Linetskiy deduced that, too.

*******************

"Move your hand a little to the left...a bit higher...just there. Ah...that's perfect. Don't move," Napoleon said, pulling over a tall stool. "Wait." He grabbed a few books off a shelf and slid them one by one under Illya's arm until they supported it at the exact height. "Loosen your fingers slightly." Napoleon rotated the goblet so that the red glass protruding between the silver framework of the goblet caught the firelight. "There. Now tighten them again and stay just like that."

"May I breathe?" Illya asked, barely moving his lips.

"Very softly," Napoleon answered. He looked up at Illya's face and pursed his lips. With two fingers against Illya's cheek he moved it a couple degrees towards the fire, then pulled back the hood a fraction of an inch. He studied Illya's mouth and reached for a small jar on the mantle. He took a dab of yellowish gel and smoothed it along the drying lips. Illya let out a huff of breath through his nose. Napoleon felt it against his fingers. "There, just like that," he repeated, backing towards his easel.

He finished painting my face last Sunday, Illya thought.

******************

Illya put his ear to the studio door. There were sounds within; he knocked. "Napoleon?" There were more sounds. "Napoleon, I have to leave for the theatre."

"Wait," Napoleon called. "I'll be right out." He opened the door barefoot, his robe half on and his hair going in several directions. Napoleon peered blearily at his watch. "It's early," he said.

"We have to make sure we have everything ready before rehearsals today and tomorrow. We leave for Southampton on Wednesday," Illya said.

"Of course," Napoleon said, rubbing his hand across his face. "Just wait a few minutes and I'll see you off," he said, turning back into the studio. "I'll call a taxi and we can have coffee before you go," he called over his shoulder as he walked to the far side of the long room.

Illya stepped inside, but something in Napoleon's demeanor kept him from following. Instead Illya walked to the nearest easel and examined a portrait of an older man petting the white belly of the large blond cat sprawled across his lap. The man looked straight out of the painting, his eyes holding a strange mixture of sadness and hope. Illya heard Napoleon's muffled voice and then the click of a receiver.

Napoleon came up behind Illya. "Taxi's on its way," he said.

Illya glanced at him and observed that his hair was smoothed down and his robe neatly arranged. "This one looks finished," Illya said, nodding towards the painting.

"It is, but I don't think the sitter will collect it for a while," Napoleon replied.

"Is he travelling?" Illya asked.

"No, but my Aunt Aurelia is and he knows it," Napoleon answered.

Illya raised an eyebrow. "I think he wants her to see it. I think that's why he commissioned it." Illya raised both eyebrows. "In his youth, this fine, old gentlemen was one of Aunt Aurelia's suitors." Napoleon lowered his voice. "In fact, I think they were in love with one another."

Illya's brows drew together as he looked into the pale eyes that rather reminded him of his own. "But the Marquise won out?" Illya asked.

"With my grandfather at any rate," Napoleon sighed.

"Ah," Illya said.

**************

"Taxi's here," Feather called up the stairs.

"We'll be right there," Napoleon replied, setting down his cup and glancing at Illya. His brow is smooth, Napoleon thought.

Illya preceded Napoleon down the stairs. His movements are not slow. Nothing indicates a reluctance to leave. Just another Monday, heading to rehearsal.

At the front door he righted the back of Illya's rain coat collar. The taxi tooted.

"I'll see you tonight, so to speak," Napoleon said and ushered Illya out the door. "Mustn't keep the taxi waiting," he smiled.

"No," Illya agreed and smiled back.

"I'll work up your ideas for the male dancers' costumes and send them to you," Napoleon added on the front steps.

"Don't come down, Napoleon," Illya said, glancing at Napoleon's slippers and the rain-slicked steps. "You'll get wet." At the gate, he turned back, a breeze playing with his hair. "Have a Happy Christmas," he called.

Napoleon watched a sad expression flicker across Illya's face. Or was that just the shadow of the holly tree moving with the wind?

"Merry Christmas, Illya," Napoleon called back but the arch of the gateway was already empty. The gate swung shut with a clang. Napoleon listened to the taxi door closing and the car pulling away. The last watercolour should be dry now, he thought.




Act III


They gave their names as they boarded the ship. The entryway was bedecked with pine boughs studded with sprigs of holly and red velvet bows.

"Sergei Astakov."

"Cabin 93," the young officer said, ticking his list. "Reception is to your left."

"Illya Kuryakin." The officer made a check mark next to the name. "Cabin 93. You have post, sir. At the reception desk," he read off the paper on his clip board. Illya didn't move. The officer looked up. His gaze travelled around Illya's face and he smiled. "To the left, sir. Follow the signs." Illya nodded.

*******************

"What is it?" Sergei asked as they dropped their overnight bags on the floor. "Did you order books?" He came closer. "That's your artist's handwriting, isn't it? The manila envelope must be drawings, but the other isn't the right size," he commented, considering the small, thick, brown paper-wrapped package. "Unless they are very small and numerous."

Illya lay the large, thin envelope on the table. It had been posted Tuesday morning. Shifting the package from hand to hand, he slipped off his jacket, lay it on the tufted stool and sat next to it in front of the vanity. He studied the parcel. It was postmarked Monday afternoon.

Sergei surveyed the room and opened the bathroom door. "Nice," he said. "Compact, but very nice." He opened the closet and eyed the bunks. "Shall I take the top?" he asked.

Illya glanced over at the beds. "I think you'll need the bottom berth," he commented and went back to considering the packet.

"And what will you be doing while I'm putting it to good use?" Sergei enquired, hanging up his raincoat and jacket.

"Taking a walk on deck or pretending to be asleep, depending on the hour," Illya replied.

Sergei rested his left hand on Illya's left shoulder and leaned down to whisper in his right ear. "You could join me and my companion."

"Even if your companion were Alicia?" Illya asked, turning the box over. It didn't make any sound. He set it down on top of his jacket.

Sergei considered for a moment. His right hand slid along Illya's right arm. When it reached Illya's shoulder he began to knead with both hands. Illya leaned back, twisting his neck from side to side and Sergei moved closer. Illya's head rubbed against his stomach as he continued twisting his neck. "She might like that," Sergei said softly.

"Ah," Illya said, rotating his shoulders. "Can you go up the back of my neck?" Illya bent his head forward. Sergei's fingers massaged either side of the base of Illya's neck and worked their way up into the soft, fine hair. "We'd have to move the mattresses onto the floor," Illya remarked.

"Ever the choreographer," Sergei laughed and began massaging Illya's temples. Illya lifted his head and let it fall back against Sergei's abdomen. Sergei's hands moved down the side of Illya's face to his chest, then lower. Illya inhaled and Sergei's fingers slipped beneath his waistband. Illya sighed. Sergei leaned over and murmured, "Maybe we should both relax before dinner."

"A fine suggestion," Illya replied, stretching his arms behind him and grasping the back of Sergei's thighs. Sergei kissed Illya's ear, then beneath his jaw. Staying close, he lifted one leg free of Illya's hand and stepped over his thigh. Illya shifted to accommodate him and Sergei brought his other leg around, knelt and began undoing fastenings. Illya curled over Sergei's back and exhaled. "You are so talented." Sergei hummed in assent. A low, appreciative sound escaped Illya and he slid his hands all the way down Sergei's back.

*****************

Laughing voices passed their door. Illya stretched and rolled partway off Sergei. His back hit the wall. "They're going to dinner," Illya murmured, his head still resting against Sergei's shoulder.

Sergei stirred beneath him. "I suppose we should get up, shower and join them," he said drowsily. Illya raised his head. Sergei turned over to face him. "I imagine we'll be rather hungry when we wake up enough," he smiled.

Illya smiled back. "You're probably right," he said, stretching again.

"I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoyed this side of our friendship," Sergei said, rising to his elbow.

Illya ran his hand up Sergei's side and leaned forward to kiss him. "Hmmm," he hummed against his lips. He pulled back slowly, "We do dance well together."

"I would have asked you to dance sooner, but I didn't want to come between you and your artist," Sergei said, falling back onto the pillows.

"We never danced," Illya said, sliding his leg between Sergei's and leaning down for another kiss.

Sergei's lips opened so Illya's tongue could explore. "But you've been spending the weekends, for months now," Sergei said when Illya's mouth released his. "You can't be serious," Sergei persisted.

"You know how you sensed I was receptive this afternoon?" Illya asked, settling on his side, his hand wandering over Sergei's chest. Sergei nodded. "Well, he wasn't. Still, after all those weeks. Quite interested, infatuated even, but not ready for more."

"Huh," Sergei said, rolling on top of Illya in one swift movement. "No wonder you were so...lively just now," he said, pressing himself down against Illya's stomach. "And now," he observed, sitting up and rolling his hips.

Illya lifted up against the pressure. "We better get up or we won't get any dinner."

"You're right," Sergei said, rolling off Illya and onto his feet. "Let's see if we can shower together and still make it to the dining room," he challenged with a swat to Illya's thigh.

Illya flowed after him and caught him just inside the bathroom door.

****************

Twenty girls auditioned on Thursday. Arturo Linetskiy and Jacques Dumas, the other ballet master, watched as they danced alone and with Illya. At the end of the afternoon, the ballerinas were dismissed and Illya went to shower before joining the ballet masters to decide.

"What do you think, Jacques?" Arturo asked when they were alone.

"The red-head, Fiona, definitely. She has a lot of potential," Jacques said. "And she yearns towards him very sweetly."

"Mmm," said Arturo, nodding "And Allegra..." Jacques consulted his list. "The dark brunette with the very pale complexion."

"Ah, yes," Jacques said.

"She surprised me. She dances much more confidently with him than she has with others," Arturo said. "She trusts him. It clearly helps."

"And he suggested these two?" Jacques asked. Arturo nodded. "He has good judgement. So who did he propose for the third?"

"He said Claire, but he wasn't sure," Arturo explained.

"There isn't a clear third," Jacques commented, going over the list. "Claire would look pretty with the other two, with her honey blonde hair, and with Alicia, too," he thought aloud. "The most beautiful of them all, though, is Illya. You were right about him...I'd seen him dance before he joined us, naturally, but this season he has developed further. There is a magnetism about him I hadn't noticed before, a passion."

"The press seems fond of him..." Arturo began.

"Well, we all know how fickle they are, but so far, so good," Jacques replied.

"And the head of our fundraising committee appears to be in love with him," Arturo said.

"That's helpful," Jacques assented.

"So what do we do for the third?" Arturo asked.

"There is Antoinette. Her technique was excellent and she seems to consider herself something of a temptress. That would add nicely to the mix," Jacques concluded.

"And her hair is light brown," Arturo added, "If one wished to consider that aspect."

"Let's see what our young choreographer thinks," Jacques said, looking up at the sound of the door opening.

*****************

Part 4 is here