saki101

This is my first post, returning to Muncle fandom after a 40+ year break! It all started when I saw "The Russian Angel Affair" and "Malchik Gey" and the intervening decades just disappeared.

Title: Through the Invisible: Volume I, Post 1 of 6
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Genre: AU, Slash
Rating: NC-17 eventually
Word Count: ~52K (all of Volume I)
Summary: The story begins in autumn 1958 in London. Illya is a principal dancer in a ballet company; he already has an international reputation. Napoleon is an artist who is on the brink of international recognition. Their worlds intersect on an opening night.
Author's Notes: Originally written for MUNCLE Down the Chimney 2009 for atheneparthenos. The prompts were mistletoe, exploding crackers and unusual present. Slight changes have been made to the DtC version, especially in Part 6.

Excerpt:
The last light was fading beyond the rooftops across the road, the brief surge of gold that had marked the end of the afternoon squeezed to a thin line beneath the leaden clouds. Napoleon watched the colours of the street scene shift, the details lost to shadow.



Through the Invisible
Act I

The last light was fading beyond the rooftops across the road, the brief surge of gold that had marked the end of the afternoon squeezed to a thin line beneath the leaden clouds. Napoleon watched the colours of the street scene shift, the details lost to shadow. Brown? Deep purple? Napoleon considered which colours he would use to evoke the view on canvas if he had a sitter positioned in front of the large window from which he was surveying the street below. It was a pleasing perspective and might serve as a suitable background for his latest portrait commission, altered perhaps to include the sitter's mansion which was located two blocks away. It would be an old-fashioned composition, but the sitter was not young and might be more comfortable with it than with a more avant-garde setting. A widower friend of his widowed Aunt Aurelia, Napoleon speculated whether the man had commissioned the work to revive a courtship interrupted by his aunt's marriage to the French nobleman who had become his cousins' father. Napoleon spotted his aunt's car approaching. He turned from the window and descended the stairs to join her.

After kissing both powdered cheeks, Napoleon settled back into the seat next to his aunt. The driver had just pulled away from the curb when the skies opened up.

"Perfect timing, my dear boy, as always," Aunt Aurelia observed. She turned and looked carefully at her sister's son; her glance taking in the darkness under his eyes, the thin cheeks. She elected not to comment and continued, "It is so nice to have a handsome, young nephew to accompany one to the ballet."

"You know I would go to places far worse than that for you," Napoleon replied. "But you aren't usually keen on ballet. Why the sudden interest?"

"My neighbour Constance, do you remember Constance?" Napoleon looked doubtful. "Red-haired son about twelve, broke your squash racquet trying to kill a spider on the terrace last spring when you were visiting me?" Recognition dawned on Napoleon's face. "Yes, well Constance has been elected chairwoman of the Ballet's fundraising committee this year and she's trying to impress. Persuaded me to buy a box for the season."

"That was kind of you," Napoleon smiled.

"It was," Aunt Aurelia pressed his hand. "But you know, her daughter-in-law has just produced her first grandchild and I believe a family portrait is in order. Don't you?"

Napoleon smiled. "All's fair..."

"My thoughts exactly," Aunt Aurelia chuckled. "I haven't mentioned it to her yet, but I think a little tea in the next few weeks when I can comment on the splendours of the opening night as seen from my lovely box, in the company of my lovely nephew, would be a perfect time to introduce it."

It was Napoleon's turn to chuckle. "Grandfather ought to have given control of his business to you when he retired, not Uncle Arthur."

"That's true enough, but no one thought of those things thirty-forty years ago. Then all the rage was marrying one's daughters off to European nobility, so one's son-in-law could be Lord this or that," she sighed.

"Or Marquise ça ou çela," Napoleon finished. "So you did what they wanted you to do, Madame de Marquise."

Aurelia leaned back against the cushions. "Your mother and me," she paused. "It's why we helped you escape."

Napoleon raised her gloved hand and pressed it to his lips. "You know I've never ceased to appreciate it," he declared.

"Oh, we do know. We couldn't have the freedom when we were young ourselves, but with our inheritances from father and grandmother, at least we could buy freedom for you." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "And your brother Edgar doesn't seem to mind the role."

"No, I think Edgar likes being lord of the manor and all that."

Aurelia clasped Napoleon's hand, "But you have to guard your freedom, Napoleon. People always seem to be trying to take it away."

"I won't let them lure me back into the cage," he said. "I promise."

"So tonight the price of continued freedom is the ballet."

"It can't be that onerous," Napoleon replied. "What are we seeing?"

A teasing smile chased the sombre expression from Aurelia's face, "I'm surprised you haven't read about it. The London Ballet has secured a new principal dancer from France. Some put him in the same class as Nijinsky, some dare to say he's better. His name's Kuryakin."

"Another Soviet defector?"

"No, the son of Russian émigrés. His parents both play in the orchestra of the Ballet Russe, although they spent a few years in London in the late '30s and in America during the war." Aurelia reached into her evening bag and unfolded a programme. Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "You get them posted to you when you have a season ticket...and if you donate a little extra you get your name listed in it, too." She opened the programme to the back page and tapped her finger near the top of it before handing the leaflet to her nephew. Napoleon spotted his name near the top of the last column.

"Ah," Napoleon smiled. "Thank you." He turned on the reading light on his side of the car, and read from the pamphlet, "'When his parents went on tour in the United States, Kuryakin remained with his grandparents in Cambridge where he attended King's College School and sang in the choir for several years before returning to the Continent with his parents after the war.' I see they are highlighting the British connection."

"Well, they wouldn't want to focus too much on his being a French prodigy. Or a Russian one."

"No, I suppose not." Napoleon turned a couple pages. "Let's see, they're performing Apollo, Concerto Barocco, Pas de Trois and Scheherazade tonight. Kuryakin's in the last one. I've never seen any of them."

"I saw Scheherazade years ago in Alexandria. The Kirov Ballet was visiting. It's quite a spectacle and the setting should please you."

Napoleon's smile broadened. Various people had considered his three-story Arabian Hall a folly, but Aunt Aurelia thought it marvellous, especially the fountain. The mashribeya-enclosed balcony overlooking the hall was her favourite place to sit when she visited. "Perhaps I will be inspired tonight."

"Beauty begets beauty," Aurelia replied.

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

Once seated in their box, champagne in hand, Napoleon surveyed the decor, his brows drawing together slightly when he reached the murals on the ceiling. Nevertheless, the proportions of the theatre were good and the overall effect was grand. He leaned back, sipping his champagne and watching people arrive. The variety of the women's gowns contrasted pleasantly with the elegant uniformity of the men's evening clothes. There was a low murmur of greetings and genial exchanges as people found their seats and one another. Here and there, sequins and jewels flashed as people arranged and rearranged themselves. His lips began to curve upwards. He borrowed his aunt's opera glasses and let his gaze rove over the growing crowd noting the luminous shoulders appearing and disappearing beneath lustrous fabrics, the dark lips parting in gleaming smiles and the sparkling eyes being veiled by coy lashes.

Aurelia glanced at her nephew and was pleased to see a smile brightening his features.

The chandeliers began to dim. The music rose from the orchestra pit, the stage curtains parted and Napoleon let his attention be drawn into the blue space beyond.

Graceful forms followed gentle music and Napoleon drifted. The appreciative applause roused him briefly from his reverie. He shook his head a bit and turned to smile at Aurelia. "What's next?" he whispered. His aunt held out the programme for him to read. The second ballet began. More dancers, he noted dreamily. Patterns comprised of beautiful bodies held the stage, but not completely his attention. He noted the multiple shadows cast by the spotlights. Perhaps the costumes should be different, Napoleon mused. Polite applause interrupted him again.

After the intermission, he settled down to be further lulled. He felt peaceful during the third ballet. The dramatic strains of the final piece sounded and the curtains opened on a livelier scene. Napoleon smiled. His aunt tapped his arm and slipped the programme into his hand. Napoleon glanced down at it. Ah, yes. The new principal dancer. His eyes followed the male dancers to see if he could identify the Russian. He hadn't noticed a photograph in the programme. He swayed slightly to the sinuous music, then consulted the programme again; the adagio was also called The Young Prince and the Young Princess.

Regally, a sole ballerina sailed to the centre of the stage, her robe flowing behind her as she turned her back on the audience. From the left wing, a male dancer ran to the front of the stage and paused, his arms outstretched and uplifted, his mostly bare torso shining in the spot lights. Napoleon sat up straighter in his seat. The music swelled and ebbed. The dancers enacted more than a seduction scene, more than a power struggle between two individuals. They gave shape to the struggle between the individual and the forces of lust, and love. Shapes. Napoleon reached into his inside breast pocket and drew out a soft pencil; barely taking his eyes off the dancers, he begin sketching outlines of their positions on the programme.

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

"Here we are, dear," Aurelia declared. There must have been applause and an exit through the crowded lobby. Greetings perhaps? A drive through the city streets, Napoleon thought, but he couldn't recall any of it. Instead, his aunt's car was pulling up in front of his house. "I'll be in Paris for a few weeks and we'll have that tea when I get back." Napoleon turned towards her voice. "So, take this in case you want to attend while I'm away," she said pressing a cardboard rectangle into his palm. He looked down, but didn't understand.

"Thank you," he said reflexively and kissed each of her cheeks. Once on the sidewalk, he turned to look at her again, as if for clarification.

Aurelia lowered her window and held out the programme. "You may as well keep this. You've drawn all over it," she laughed. Napoleon smiled at the sound. "And these," she added, passing him the opera glasses and nodding her head. "Good-night, dear boy," she called to him as the car pulled away.

"Good-night, Aunt Aurelia," he called after her. "And thank-you."

Napoleon stood on the pavement watching the car's tail lights until they disappeared around the corner, then he turned and walked into the house.


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

The stick of charcoal had worn down to a stub between his fingers. Napoleon sat back and stretched. The floor near his drawing table was littered with the last few hours' work. He smiled down at the sketch still in front of him. Using the charcoal smeared on his fingertips, he completed the final shading. His smile widened. An urge to waltz around the room with that broad sheet of paper between his outstretched arms was resisted, but he gave the top corner a loving pat which left four blurred fingerprints behind. He had captured one; one of the postures that had caused him to hold his breath earlier in the evening. He glanced again at the paper strewn floor. Maybe he'd caught more than one. Rising up on his toes, Napoleon flexed backwards, reached up towards the dark skylights and fanned his fingers, twisted his wrists and did it again.

"I've got to go to bed," he murmured after glancing at his watch. He had a sitting scheduled mid-morning, to catch the clear eastern light. "To bed, to bed," he chided himself. Wiping his fingers on a nearby cloth, he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and headed out of his studio. Before turning off the lights, he patted the inside pocket of the jacket, smiling again at the outline of the season pass his aunt had given him just before he got out of her car. The next night's programme included Orpheus. Napoleon intended to be watching it.


Act II

Indian summer was how everyone described the weather that week; the return of a season one had thought over. Orpheus twice, L'Apres-midi d'un Faune. Widows and brides and newly-made fathers sat before him in a pure light which made them glow and Napoleon transferred their glow to his canvases. Romeo and Juliet twice. His brushes flew and the sitters smiled. Scheherazade again and again.

Napoleon unveiled the twin portrait.

"Do you see what I told you, Harold?" Lady Hanford whispered.

Lord Hanford tilted his head slightly and lowered his brows. His daughters stared back at him serenely, beautifully. Lord Hanford leaned forward and then stepped back from the easel which held the painting his wife had persuaded him he should pay a good deal for. He glanced at the young fellow who had painted it conversing with his wife a few steps away. He had thought the commission was a favour his wife was doing for her bridge partner and he had grudgingly agreed, but this painting was good. He wanted to touch the painted cheeks of his grown children. The cheeks looked soft and his children looked...happy. Lord Hanford moved a bit to the left and then to the right. He wondered whether the artist had "improved" slightly on his daughters, but he couldn't find any feature that wasn't true and yet the result seemed far prettier than what he recalled from the breakfast table that morning.

His wife came back to him and gazed at the picture. "He caught them so perfectly, didn't he?" she breathed. "My baby girls," she murmured under her breath and Harold noticed how she extended her arm as if to smooth their hair but caught herself and drew it back. She moved closer and whispered, "Harold, I want this one for myself, but wouldn't it be wonderful if he did separate portraits of Anthea and Isabelle that they could have for their own homes when they're older?" Her eyes turned back to the portrait. "They could be their birthday presents this year." She looked at her husband with an eagerness that he didn't see very often anymore.

He regarded the painting again. "Why not?" he replied. Lord Hanford watched his wife's face light up.

"Oh, Harold, you're wonderful." She squeezed his arm. "Will you ask him, if he'll do it? I hear he is rather in demand."

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

He rolled over in his dream and reached out. Napoleon opened his eyes, the dream gone, and looked up through the skylight. He had fallen asleep on the couch in his studio. Yawning, he propped himself up on an elbow and smiled at the floor awash in paper. He had stayed up far too late sketching again, but he hadn't been able to stop until he was so tired he could only make it the few steps to the couch before sleep overtook him. No appointments today, he thought as he dropped back contentedly on the cushions. No appointments and... He sat up. No performance this evening. It was Sunday.

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

A light breeze blew in the lobby door with the blond young man. Soundlessly, he moved across the black and white tiled floor of the building which was essentially a dormitory for the younger ballerinas. The matronly woman writing in a ledger at the counter looked up when he greeted her. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Kuryakin," she replied. "Come to fetch little Allegra for her lesson?" Illya nodded. "Where to today?"

"I was thinking the National Gallery, Mrs. O'Donnell," he replied, placing the two books he had with him on the counter and leaning lightly against it.

"She's sure to be down in a minute," Mrs. O'Donnell said, looking out the sunlit windows on either side of the door across the lobby. "It's such a rare day for this time of the year though..."

Illya lifted one eyebrow. "Do I hear collusion, Mrs. O'Donnell?"

"Nothing better than a museum on a rainy day," she responded. "And English lessons can proceed anywhere really," she added, tapping his books.

"And are there others who wish to join this sunny expedition to...." He raised his other eyebrow.

"Regent's Park. It's so lovely and fresh. They're inside so much of the time."

"And they are?"

"Just Fiona and Antoinette, I told Allegra she couldn't impose a whole flock of them on you again."

Illya laughed, remembering the previous Sunday. "I didn't realise what I was getting into when I agreed to be Allegra's guardian."

"It's been so good for her, helping her to settle in here, and good for the other girls, too. Your parents should be proud of you."

"Be sure and tell them that when they come visit," he chuckled, shaking his head, "and Allegra's mother, too." Illya knew that he had always been the apple of his parents' eyes, but it would please them to hear how well he was discharging the favour he had done for his mother's childhood friend by accepting to be the guardian of her only daughter while she was in England.

"And there might be time at the end of the afternoon to have a quick look in at the museum."

"Hmm," Illya hummed as Allegra bounded into the lobby, two other girls close behind her, and kissed him on both cheeks. Antoinette followed suit, as did Fiona after a moment's hesitation. The method of greeting being a recently learned one for her.

"So," Illya began, "We will take the bus to Regent's Park today and although it is past its peak season we will see the Rose Garden and..." He turned to Mrs. O'Donnell. "You wouldn't have any stale bread to hand, would you?" She produced a paper sack from behind the counter. "...we will feed the ducks and the swans...and study literature. Poetry, I suppose, is best suited to a garden." Illya turned to pick up the bread and his books. Two cloth bags and a picnic blanket were deposited on the counter next to them.

"Lunch," Mrs. O'Donnell explained. Illya handed the items to the girls, bowed to Mrs. O'Donnell and gestured towards the door.

"If you're a little late, I'll save some dinner for you," she called after them. "And remember what I told you."

Illya couldn't imagine what that might have been, but hoped it would help get his charges down to the museum at the end of the day.

Viola O'Donnell watched through the windows as the group paused on the sidewalk and then turned right as Illya pointed towards the bus stop. She caught the bashful glance that Fiona gave him as she turned to follow and could see the other two laughing. The girls had all chosen different coloured jumpers, lavender, yellow and red, over black slacks and flat black shoes, their hair pulled smoothly back from their faces into long pony tails, black, red and light brown. Anyone would spot them as ballet dancers, although probably not professional ones. They look so young without the heavy make-up. Illya had chosen black trousers and shoes as well, and a black jumper over a white shirt which accentuated his fair complexion. They will look beautiful in the Rose Garden, Viola thought, picturing them there. Ever the wardrobe mistress. She sighed and flexed her stiff fingers. But it's too painful to pin and cut and sew quickly now. She whisked a few crumbs off the counter. It had been such a pleasure dressing...and undressing the myriad of long, lean bodies through the years; designing for them, making them even more beautiful. She still helped out with the particularly large ballets or when someone was ill, and if it wasn't her shift at the dormitory she would go over and watch the rehearsals. It helped to see who was too nervous or too confident, who was making friends and who wasn't, who was in love with whom.

They're probably all in love with him, Viola thought. Typical for half the corps de ballet to be in love with one or another of the principal dancers. It helped inspire their dancing and if a few hearts were broken along the way, it usually worked out all right in the end. She closed her ledger. Over the years, she had been in love with a few herself.

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

He heard the soft gasps around him. "It's even more beautiful in June," he said, leading the girls further down the garden path. "The garlands on the arbour are in full flower then."

The young ballerinas fanned out around the circle, drawn to their favourite colours. To the left and the right they bent to sample the fragrances, calling out to one another when they found a strong or especially pleasing scent, quietly moving on when the blooms offered no satisfaction to their inquisitive noses.

Illya began a slow clockwise circuit, gazing down the paths between the flowerbeds at the verdant vistas beyond the garden. His parents and grandmother would bring him here often when they had lived in London. Later, if he visited in summer he would make a point to come, and the pleasure had never abated. But it was enhanced when he introduced someone new to its wonders. Mrs. O'Donnell had been right. This was a better destination on a day like today. Here was beauty itself rather than the preserved reflections of beauty he had thought to offer his young companions at the museum. Yet the garden's beauty was not natural, art and design had played their parts.

There were many other visitors and some were noticing his pretty companions, including them in their snapshots of the landscape. Illya leaned down over a low-growing rosebush peeking out from behind a bench, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Its blossoms were the most fragrant, but the bush was small and didn't produce many flowers. Only two perfect blooms today, but their perfume satisfied something deep in him. Illya straightened with the same grace as the girls, oblivious to the discreetly admiring glances he was eliciting and motioned for the girls to follow him.

They meandered along the river and crossed the bridge to the island garden. There they stopped to sit on the stones at the water's edge and feed the water birds, the ducks and the coots, and the swans who landed on the water in a flurry of powerful black and white wings before gliding towards them.

For lunch they settled just outside the rose arbour and Illya found himself reciting the verses of The Rubaiyat which referred to roses, rather than reading to his charges from the books he had brought with him for that purpose. He hoped the girls were too young to worry about the "rose of yesterday". After eating, Allegra and her friends flitted back to the flowers to further explore their textures and perfumes. Illya remained stretched out on the picnic blanket watching the girls' heads above the flowers, their bodies coming into view when they crossed the part of the path directly in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder at the people strolling along the river's edge. Not too far away someone began playing a flute. He looked back at the rose garden. His feet moved slightly against the blanket. An idea for a ballet began to take shape in his mind.

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

Napoleon sat down to the breakfast tray his housekeeper had brought up to him before she left for the day. He took a bite of toast and got up again, walked to his drawing table and stared down at a fresh sheet of paper. There was a figure flitting at the edge of his consciousness, but it would not come into focus. He shifted his gaze to the last sketch from the night before. Bending over the table, he took up a charcoal stick to add a few lines, then gently smoothed their edges with the tip of his index finger. Nothing else came to him. The images that had been flooding into his mind and out through his fingers all week seemed to have abandoned him. He let the charcoal drop and closed his eyes. The two dancers coiled and uncoiled around one another. Napoleon paced to the far end of the studio and glared down at his garden from the large window there. He stalked back and knelt over the papers on the floor, spreading them out so the full figures were revealed. Viewed in sequence they almost resulted in an animation of a leap. Napoleon lifted the drawing of the dancer in mid-air, the power of the outlined muscles clear in the sketch. The grace of the position was beautiful and...frightening?

Napoleon sat back on his heels. He felt it in his stomach, a tenseness and a twisting. I could develop this one...in coloured pencil perhaps. The muscles in his stomach relaxed a bit. Yes, I can take control of this. He moved to set the paper down.

Friday's programme had been beneath the drawing. Its front page was covered, like the first night's programme, with rough sketches. He flipped open to the first page, then the next. Unlike the drawings on the first night's programme, the ballerina was absent from these. Napoleon strode out of the room. A quick search of his jacket pockets, his night stand and an end table near the fireplace yielded three more programmes, all similarly defaced. The third was near his hi-fi. He turned it on and waited for the arm to descend on the record he had left there two nights earlier. The edge of another programme peeped out from under a cushion on the balcony seat nearby. Napoleon crawled into the soft alcove to retrieve it. He paused to look down into his beloved hall, the geometric designs on its tiled walls gently lit by its stained glass windows. Rimsky-Korsakov's music rose from the phonograph, conjuring the image of the Young Prince. He would be right at home here, wouldn't he? Napoleon thought.

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

Illya decided to leave his young companions' introduction to the National Gallery for another Sunday and escorted them home in the late afternoon, in time for dinner. He waved to Mrs. O'Donnell from the doorway and darted across the street to catch an approaching bus which would take him to Piccadilly. He thought he might drop in alone for a half hour or so before the museum closed. Passing the Royal Academy as he headed towards Trafalgar Square, Illya noticed an announcement for submissions to the next summer's annual exhibition. Perhaps I'll be in London next year to see it, he thought.

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

A quick riffle through the paper on his drawing table produced the final programme. Napoleon sat down and arranged them side by side in chronological order. He leafed through their pages. A scrawl over one sketch, "The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine" caused him to reach for an eraser. The title is too apt, he thought and drew back his hand. Instead, he grabbed a sheet of drawing paper and began to write. Several paragraphs had been crossed out before he got up to fetch one of his calling cards and some stationery from the desk in the sitting room. Napoleon flipped the record over on the turntable before he came back to the studio and carefully copied his message onto a monogrammed page. Reaching down to the floor he brought the drawing of the leap up to the table. Quickly, he added a few details to the face and the costume, then placed a sheet of onion skin paper over the drawing and folded both into thirds and then into thirds again. He placed it in a large envelope addressed to Monsieur Kuryakin with the note, all six of the programmes and his calling card. He ran downstairs with it and left it on the table near the front door, ready for the morning post.

Before returning to the studio, he flipped the record again. When he sat down at his drawing table, he turned to a fresh sheet of paper and began a detailed rendering of the Minister of Wine.

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

There was a knock on the half open dressing room door. Illya looked up from untying his shoes and saw one of the younger theatre employees standing politely outside.

"Come in," he called.

The boy stepped sideways through the doorway with a large envelope in his outstretched hand. "Post for you, sir," he explained shyly.

"Thank you...." Illya raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Adrien, sir," the boy replied.

"Thank you, Adrien," Illya said, smiling at the diffident posture of the lad. "Was there anything else?"

"Oh, no, sir," Adrien said, taking a step back, "You're welcome, sir," he finished and turned to dash out the door. Illya could hear him knocking a few doors away. "Post for you, miss."

Illya glanced at the address and flipped the envelope over and back. There was no return address, but it had been posted from London, W14, that morning. The handwriting was not familiar, the stationery good. Personal post wouldn't come to the theatre, he thought. He slipped his finger underneath the flap, ripping it in a few places and eased out the tightly packed contents. A calling card fluttered to the floor unnoticed. Illya set the bundle on the table and unfolded the paper on top.

"Illya?" Sergei poked his head around the door. Illya looked up. "What has you smiling?" Sergei asked, opening the door wider. Illya held up the drawing. "It's you! Where did that come from?"

"The post," Illya replied.

"Costume designer?" Sergei asked, glancing from the drawing to the costume hanging behind Illya's chair, back to the drawing and up to Illya's face. "No, the face is too detailed and the costume is the one from Sheherazade. It's very good though."

"Hmm," Illya replied. "Ah, I remembered the book for you." He lay down the drawing and moved to the corner of the room to rummage through his bag. "Here it is, Cyrano de Bergerac en francais. " He zipped up his bag and leafed through the book for a moment. "One of my favourite lines is, 'I've been braver since.' Tell me what you think of that scene when you get there." Illya turned back to Sergei with the play. "Hey, that's my mail!" Illya exclaimed and plucked the open programme covered with drawings out of Sergei's hands.

"Sorry. I like the sketches. They ought to print something like them on the programmes. They would look good." Sergei took the book from Illya. "Thanks." He stepped towards the door. "Want to get something to eat after?" he asked, glancing back into the room.

"Maybe," Illya replied before Sergei closed the door. It had been a pleasant surprise when Illya arrived in London to find that Sergei had transferred from the Royal Danish Ballet Company at the same time. They had studied together in France for three years as boys and been good friends, but in the intervening nine years only the occasional postcard has passed between them.

Illya looked down at the programme in his hand. Over one of the drawings was scrawled, "The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine". Illya started, his brows drew together and he murmured, "Perplext no more with Human or Divine..."

"Five minutes...five minutes," a stern voice called along the hallway.

Illya folded the papers and slipped them back into the envelope, tucked it into his bag and quickly finished changing.

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

Napoleon strolled slowly through the lobby, smiling at the young usher who offered him a programme. He was early, but he didn't want everyone to see how anxious he was to be seated in his aunt's box. It was beginning to feel like a refuge, a place where the outside world, the past and the rest of the present, disappeared and he was alone with...what? He approached the door to the box and his step involuntarily quickened as though he had caught sight of an old friend. The knob fit coolly in his palm; it made a satisfying click as he turned it and another after he slipped inside and closed it behind him. The jumpy feeling in his stomach didn't subside, however. He took a glass from the small shelf at the back of the box and poured some tonic water into it. That should help settle my stomach, he thought. He drew out the small sketch book from his inside jacket pocket and laid it on the chair next to the one he considered his. No need to draw on the programmes anymore. He should have them by now. Napoleon's stomach lurched; he pulled his chair back from the partition, sank into it and closed his eyes. Has he looked at his post already? Did it even arrive this afternoon or will it not come until tomorrow? An image of the plump envelope being dropped into a bin arose before his mind's eye. He sipped on the tonic water, breathed slowly in and out and waited.

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

The welcome discord of the orchestra tuning caused Napoleon to open his eyes. Patiently and with a detached appreciation, he watched the other dances. The interval came and the sense of seasickness returned. He didn't leave the box. He considered another glass of tonic but his legs didn't seem capable of supporting him and his hands felt clammy. The music for the next ballet began, and the dance went by in a blur of light and arced limbs. During the applause, Napoleon slid his chair to the front of the box, took a pencil from his pocket and set it carefully on his sketchbook, opened his opera glasses and held them ready.

Illya emerged from the wings. Napoleon let out a long, slow breath. His body seemed to relax. He was reaching for the pencil and sketch book when a gesture stopped him. After seeing the ballet three times in the past week, every movement seemed imprinted on his memory. This gesture was ever so slightly different. Napoleon raised the opera glasses to his eyes. He watched the faces of the two dancers. The ballerina seemed mesmerised. Whenever she was facing him, her gaze was fixed on her partner's eyes...on his lips. Napoleon moistened his. He tried to pinpoint what was different about the man's face when it was turned towards the audience, but the moments were so brief. Twin pains radiated out from his cheekbones and Napoleon realised he was pressing the glasses hard against his eyes as if that would help him see better. He lessened the pressure and kept studying the face, feature by feature as it spun into view and away again. The eyes seemed to reflect the stage lights, the lips appeared to turn up slightly at the corners and they were...fuller. Some new sensation was passing through Napoleon's body and he held it at bay while he watched. The dancer's graceful movements seemed more fluid, the leaps higher and when he faced the audience he seemed to include them in his seductive gestures. At the end, the ballerina and her partner had turned warm looks towards one another before curtseying and bowing, then swept their smiling gazes across the audience. For one instant those flashing eyes had looked directly into Napoleon's through his glasses. Napoleon didn't lower them until the last bows had been taken.

The applause was more enthusiastic than last week, he noted. When the crowd had dispersed, Napoleon replaced his unused notebook and pencil in his jacket pocket. Had the pretty ballerina and the handsome dancer developed an intimacy since they had last danced those roles? Was that what he had seen? What the audience had responded to?

Outside, Napoleon eschewed the taxis waiting in front of the theatre and turned towards Oxford Street. A bit less than an hour later he passed Marble Arch. His eyes were drawn by the wavering shadows of the park, but his feet strode firmly past. It was a long walk in dress shoes, but the cool air and the movement seemed to help. Help what, exactly? he asked himself and then shook his head in answer. He was grateful for the downward slope of the road after Notting Hill Gate. Finally, he turned south, passing the western entrance to Holland Park. Home beckoned. Home, where he could take off his shoes; it felt as if a blister or two had formed during his trek. At least he didn't need his feet for his work. He stopped at his garden gate and took out his keys. What must feet that leapt and spun all day feel like? Strange thought. He untied his shoes just inside the door and carried them up the stairs to his bedroom. No images danced in his mind to make his fingers itch to recreate them on paper. Napoleon left his clothes on the chair by his bed and fell into it. The walk had done its work and he slept.

**************
"I think your partner has a crush on you, Illya," Sergei whispered, following Illya into his dressing room.

"Alicia has a flair for the dramatic part of dance, Sergei, nothing more," Illya turned to Sergei and raised an eyebrow. "Why so concerned? Do you fancy her?"

"No, no. I rather thought you did, the way you were dancing tonight." Sergei looked down at the floor and noticed the bit of paper half covered by his foot. "You could have seduced an iceberg into your bed with those looks." He bent down.

Illya sat on the bench and took off his ballet slippers. "The expression makes a big difference, even if it's not visible without opera glasses past the first few rows. It completes the transformation into the role. Keeping the facial expression neutral detracts from the overall effect."

"You know there are those with the opposite opinion, but judging by the audience reaction this evening, I'd have to agree with you." He read the name on the calling card he'd picked off the floor. "Napoleon Solo...it seems familiar to me." Sergei handed the card to Illya. "But I'm not sure from where."

"Distinctive, rather like a stage name," Illya replied, glancing at the address on the card before laying it on the dressing table.

"So you'll come with us tonight, yes?"

"Yes."

"We'll stop to collect you before we leave," Sergei said.

Laughing, Illya gave him a push towards the door. "So go get ready then," he said, ushering Sergei into the hallway and shutting the door after him.

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

Illya could hear the dancers in the hallway before Sergei knocked. "Coming," he called. He patted his pockets to check for his keys, lifted his bag from the floor and looked about the room. The calling card seemed oddly bright on the dark surface of the dressing table. Illya slipped it into his pocket and turned off the lights.

"I've found your Mr. Solo," Sergei announced, waving a programme in front of Illya's nose as he emerged into the hall.

"I don't think I can lay claim to him," Illya replied. "And where did you find him, in your dressing room?"

"In a manner of speaking," Sergei answered, turning to the back page of the programme. "See...near the top of the last column," he explained and handed Illya the leaflet.

Illya scanned the alphabetical list and spotted the name then flipped back a page or two to see the heading. "You read through the list of donors?" Illya asked, raising his eyebrows at Sergei.

"Never hurts to know who the patrons of the arts are," he answered, "especially the really generous ones. It helps at receptions, too. It's hard to catch people's names when they are introduced, but if I've read the name before, I usually can."

"Management will be stealing you away from the stage to help them with fundraising if you aren't careful, Sergei," Illya commented as they followed the others out into the autumn evening. "You think I should reply to his letter then?"

"A patron and an artist...I would," Sergei concluded before taking a couple running steps and catching Alicia by the arm.

And a lover of poetry, Illya added to himself.

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

Illya was humming as he unlocked the door to his flat. It had been a pleasant outing. Sergei had been right to encourage him to join them. Illya emptied his pockets before undressing. The card lay among the coins and paper money. He pulled the envelope from his bag and laid out all the contents on his dresser, then finished undressing. As he walked back and forth from the wardrobe to the bathroom and back to the bedroom, Illya glanced at the various bits of paper in passing. When he was ready to sleep he took the folded drawing and the note and got into bed. He flexed his toes. It felt good to have his feet up. The note was short. It closed with "Yours faithfully." Illya leaned back against his pillows.

It was an interesting proposal: in exchange for his agreeing to sit for his portrait and allowing it to be exhibited next summer at the Royal Academy Exhibition, he would have the finished painting for his own. His parents would probably appreciate that. Illya unfolded the large drawing. If he could draw landscapes as well as people, design costumes as well as draw them...maybe this artist who liked to support the ballet might be useful. Sergei might be right about that, too. Illya laid the papers on the nightstand and slipped down under the covers. It would be worth a visit to find out, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

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

In the morning Illya scooped up the money and the card and dropped them into his pocket before heading to the theatre. On the way to his dressing room, he passed by the theatre office and asked for some stationery and a stamp. After changing, Illya sat down at his dressing table with the card in one hand and a biro in the other. The pen was poised over the envelope when he paused and smiled. He set down the biro and pulled his bag towards him and unzipped an inner pocket. Uncapping the blue fountain pen he pulled out, he moistened his index finger with the tip of his tongue and touched the nib to the damp finger to get the ink to flow. After a few practice strokes on the back of Napoleon's card, Illya flexed his elbows and wrote in his fairest hand that he would be available to call at 11 am this coming Sunday, if that were convenient. One long lick to the flap of the envelope and one short one to the stamp followed, then Illya blew on the ink once more before slipping the envelope into the breast pocket of his jacket. Matter concluded, he left the dressing room and headed for rehearsal.

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

"Your breakfast's in the studio," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh called through Napoleon's bedroom door. "Don't forget Alistair and his father are coming to sit at 11." He heard her footsteps recede down the stairs and then the faint slam of the door to the kitchen stairs. Napoleon rubbed his hand over his face. It must have been her knocking which had awoken him. He peered at the clock on his nightstand: 10:01. That doesn't leave much time, he thought and threw the covers back. He plucked his robe from the back of the door on the way out of the room, padding across the Persian carpets which covered most of the light oak floor. The chilly wood of his studio floor reminded him to put on the slippers he kept by the door before he sat down to eat. Sunlight was streaming into the room and he felt his mood rise in the brightness. Between today's sitting and the one on Thursday when he would concentrate on finishing the baby's face and hands, Alistair's portrait should be ready for Lady Adelaide's birthday next week. He took his coffee over to regard the triple portrait. The lanky, spotty school boy Napoleon had met on his first day at boarding school had matured into a handsome young man: his fair skin framed by chestnut curls, the bright blue of his eyes visible even though he was looking down at his small son on his knee. Napoleon was pleased with the painting. Alistair was, too, but it was hard to tell what the elder Haythorne thought of it. Napoleon set down his cup, glanced at his watch and headed for the shower. That will probably depend on how Mrs. Haythorne receives it.

The sitting went very well, it was the final one for Alistair's father, and both he and Alistair stayed for luncheon. Napoleon's second sitting was at 3 pm. It was only the second with Miss Underwood-Jones. Ostensibly commissioned on the occasion of her betrothal, he had interpreted it more as a graduation portrait since the young lady was due to complete her master's degree shortly before her wedding the coming summer. The former appeared to be the accomplishment which the young woman valued most. The latter seemed to have been the price of her parents' permission to pursue the former. Napoleon had altered his ideas for the composition after finding her happily perusing his bookshelves before their first sitting. He'd suggesting she bring some of her own favorites today to add to those of his that would be scattered across a table on her left in the portrait, along with her flute and some sheet music as she had played the instrument since she was a child. He had sketched in open balcony doors behind her standing figure showing a sun-washed countryside rising into higher and higher hills beyond. Behind the open glass door which was visible were floor to ceiling bookshelves. Such details would be time consuming, but considering the improvement in mood the discussion of them had wrought in Miss Underwood-Jones, Napoleon thought they would be well worth it.


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

Napoleon saw Miss Underwood-Jones, Cecilia as she had granted him permission to call her by the end of the session, to her car. When he had returned to the house and shut the door, Napoleon allowed himself to look at the letters on the hall table. There were three. A quick glance showed that on top was an outgoing one from Feather to her brother in Australia, the second was the telephone bill and the third...was his bank statement. He walked slowly up the stairs with the two envelopes. My letter might not have arrived until this morning, Napoleon reminded himself. He nodded in acknowledgement to this reasonable thought and clenched his jaw.

Feather had laid out his evening clothes in his room. Napoleon ran his hand along the shoulders of the freshly-brushed jacket. He recalled the queasiness of the previous evening. I don't have to go tonight, Napoleon reasoned. He shivered. This particular performance will never come again. He looked at his watch. Just time to dress and take a taxi.

A feeling of relief passed over Napoleon as the theatre came into sight. He stepped out of the taxi and took a deep breath. The doors to the theatre stood open and welcoming. He paid the driver and with a bounce to his walk breezed into the lobby and headed directly for the stairs leading to his box. "Souvenir programme?" asked a bright young voice to his left. A diminutive redhead with large brown eyes looked up at him, the glossy booklet in her hand. Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "One pound, sir," she replied. He reached into his pocket for some coins and accepted the hefty programme, letting his hand descend a few inches with it. "It has the programme for the whole season, including the overseas tours, and biographies and photographs of all the principal dancers," she explained. Napoleon smiled and made a small bow to the girl. Her exuberance had been cheering.

Securely ensconced in his box seat, tonic water to hand, Napoleon set to searching the souvenir programme for the photograph of Illya Kuryakin. He passed through several pages of glamourous close-ups, some in stage make-up, some without, when he found the photo he wanted. Kuryakin's was a relatively informal pose, a three-quarter bust from mid-chest in a white v-neck shirt, the head tilted slightly downwards, the eyes looking up and to the side from underneath the brows, the sweep of the firm jaw line shown to excellent advantage, the make-up minimal, the fairness of the long hair and the blue of the eyes apparent even in the black and white photograph. It was more the pose of an actor than a dancer.

Perhaps he was accentuating the drama of his role yesterday, Napoleon thought. He took out his sketchbook and pencil and outlined a larger scale copy of the photograph, allowing room for the full chest and arms, sketching in the billowing sleeves which undoubtedly went with the neckline.

The lights dimmed and Napoleon set the drawing aside. He took a quick look at the programme for the evening. As usual, Kuryakin was dancing in the final ballet. The first, however, was Swan Lake, which Napoleon recalled from his childhood. At the interval, he took up his sketchbook again and added more details. The face was coming alive beneath his pencil and he wished he had coloured pencils with him. "No, pastels," he murmured to himself. Darkness returned and Divertimento began. A slight fluttering began in Napoleon's stomach. He quietly opened a small tin of mints and put one in his mouth. Prepared, this time, he thought. The applause came and his mouth went dry. He sipped at his tonic water. Yes, prepared. He hadn't read the synopsis in the programme of the final ballet. He waited attentively for it to reveal itself to him, his opera glasses to hand.

The ballet startled him: the angular movements, the stark set, the cartoonish outlines of the costumes, and in their midst The Prodigal Son experiencing deception, betrayal, violence, deprivation and forgiveness. The dramatic element was prominent and the prodigal's face echoed the emotions communicated by his movements. In the last scene, as the son climbed up his impassive father, Napoleon felt a stinging behind his eyes and when the father finally embraced his son, covering him with his cloak, Napoleon was glad of the privacy of the box and let the tears slide down his cheeks as he joined the rest of the audience in applauding.

By the time Napoleon descended from the taxi in front of his house, he had decided to sketch two scenes from the ballet: the one after the revellers and the siren had beaten and robbed the prodigal and the final tableau with the father holding his son. He felt satisfied when the sketches were done. As he got into bed, Napoleon promised himself to do a complete pastel rendering of the bust from the photograph in the morning.

The pastel was finished before his first sitters arrived on Wednesday morning. After they left, Feather brought the tea tray to his studio and Napoleon took a bite now and then while he worked on Alistair's painting and tried not to listen for the arrival of the post. He was adding details to their hair and clothing when he thought he heard it. His hand was too unsteady to continue; he wiped off his brush and went to pour himself some tepid tea. Sitting didn't work, so he walked slowly to the end of the studio and stared at the garden holding the tea cup.

"Oh, don't drink that now," Feather said when she came through the door a few moments later, "It'll be stone cold." She dropped a couple envelopes on the table, lifted the tea pot and bustled over to Napoleon. "Let me take that," she said, seizing his tea cup. "I'll be right back with hot water."

Napoleon watched her leave, but didn't move. My letter has to have arrived by now, but he needn't answer by return of post, he chided himself. The distance to the table seemed very long. He could see the ends of the envelopes jutting out beyond the tea tray. They were both white. No clue there. What colour stationery would he have or would he use the theatre stationery? Napoleon took a step closer and stopped. Absentmindedly, he began to twirl the ring on his little finger. This is foolish. It's either there or it's not. He took another step.

"You see, that only took a moment," Feather said as she walked into the room with a tea pot and a cup and saucer. She set them on the table and pulled a letter opener from her pocket. "Shall I slit them open for you?" she asked, brandishing it. Napoleon nodded. The opener was made of thurya wood, but its edge was sharp enough for paper. "There you go," she added, walking over to hand Napoleon the envelopes. "Do you need anything else?"

"No," Napoleon replied quietly, eyeing the letters. "Thank you, Feather."

"I'm fairly sure one is from your Aunt Aurelia judging by the postmark, but it's not her usual writing paper." Napoleon nodded. "Sure you don't want anything else?" Napoleon shook his head. Feather put her hand up to his forehead. "Are you alright, dear?" Napoleon nodded again. Feather looked at him carefully and took his elbow and drew him towards the table. "Here, you've hardly eaten anything. I'll make you a fresh cup of tea and you eat something. After I get your evening clothes ready, I'll be going to see Agnes."

Napoleon smiled and finally found his tongue, "Give her my best."

Feather handed Napoleon his tea. "I will. You eat now. You'll feel better," she added as she left.

Napoleon looked at the French postmark. That was probably from Aunt Aurelia or his cousin, Marguerite. He shuffled it behind the other envelope. A London postmark, this morning. His address was written with a flourish. He turned the envelope over. It was from the theatre. His name was on the donor list. This could be an announcement of an upcoming event or even a thank you note. His hand dropped to his lap and remained there with the letter. He thought he could hear his heart beating. "This is beyond foolish," he muttered to himself and tore the sheet of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it. He saw the salutation and his name. He saw the theatre letterhead. Three lines and a closing. He read the signature. It's a beautiful signature, he thought. He's answered. Napoleon forced himself to read the three lines between the greeting and the closing. "Thank you for your kind letter. I would be able to call upon you on Sunday morning at 11 o'clock. Please confirm if that suits your schedule."

"Oh, yes. That suits my schedule just perfectly," Napoleon said aloud. "Perfectly," he repeated and went to his desk in the sitting room. He opened a small door in his desktop and pulled out an ink bottle. He took his fountain pen into the bathroom and sluiced water through the reservoir until it ran clear, then he dried the pen off and returned to his desk, uncapped the ink bottle and filled the pen with a peacock blue ink. No, too ostentatious. He recapped the bottle and brought the stationery into his studio. He collected a split nibbed calligraphy pen and a bottle of India ink from his cupboard and sat at his drawing table. Very carefully, he inscribed the address and put it aside to dry. Then he took up the paper and wrote the date with an ornate capital. He smiled and continued. His note was even shorter. He thanked Mr. Kuryakin for his kind reply, confirmed that the date was suitable and that he looked forward with pleasure to their meeting. Once again, he closed it formally with "Yours faithfully". Napoleon stared at the drawing of the father and son from the previous night's ballet. Nodding to himself, he folded it and put it in the envelope. To the note, he added a postscript inviting the dancer to bring any costumes he wished to consider wearing for the portrait, before folding the note and sliding it into the envelope, then he walked back to his desk and added a stamp. Feather came out of his room.

"Feather, you go past the post office on the way to Agnes's house, don't you?" he asked.

"I do. You have something you'd like me to post?"

Napoleon handed her the envelope. "That's lovely script," she observed. "You don't often use that alphabet."

"I'm trying to attract a model for a portrait I want to submit for the summer exhibition," Napoleon explained.

"Is that what you've been fretting about?" Feather asked.

Napoleon nodded. "Yes. He's agreed to come visit on Sunday, and then I have to persuade him to devote the time to this project."

"A professional model?" Feather enquired.

"No and he doesn't have much free time. He's a principal dancer with the London Ballet." Napoleon sighed. "I have to convince him that the painting will be worth his trouble. I've promised it to him after it's been exhibited."

Feather looked again at the address. "Ah, he's the one in the afternoon paper," she said. "You haven't seen the review yet, have you?" Napoleon shook his head. "I'll get it for you. It's about the performance you saw last night. I can see why you're worried that he might not have time for sitting. He's going to be inundated with invitations after that."

"It's good I have you to keep me up to date on the news," Napoleon smiled.

"Well, there are only so many hours in the day," she replied, flushing slightly. "I should hurry if I'm to catch the last collection at the post office," she said, glancing at her watch. "I'll leave the paper in the hall...and on Sunday I'll make a wonderful luncheon for you both."

"Just because he's said he'll come doesn't mean he won't have a change of plans," Napoleon commented.

"True, but we should be prepared," she added, heading down the stairs. "I'll call up to you when I'm on my way out."

"Thank you, Feather. What would I do without you?"

"Fortunately, you don't have to, dear," she answered from the landing.

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

They were putting up the "Sold Out" sign on the marquee when Napoleon arrived at the theatre and the lobby was swarming with people even though it was early. Nothing like good press, Napoleon mused.

From his box, he surveyed the arriving theatre goers and saw that there wasn't a seat left by the time the lights dimmed, except for a few in the boxes which had been bought for the season like his aunt's.

The Prodigal Son was being performed again. Napoleon noted the small upturn at the corners of Kuryakin's lips when he bowed after the performance and the fact that the slight, enigmatic smile didn't change even though the applause grew progressively more enthusiastic and the dancers had to return for several curtain calls.

Napoleon wanted to capture that smile.

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

Part 2 is here