The clock is striking in the belfry tower
And warns us of the fleeting hour,
But neither heeds the time which glides upward.
For time may pass but love abides,
I feel his kiss on my fevered brow;
if we must part, oh, why should it be now?
Is this a dream?
Then waking would be pain, oh! Do not wake me,
let me dream again.

Introduction

"What is the meaning of this?" Operations asked, voice quiet with controlled fury. "I thought we had Yeltsin in our pocket."

"We did. Apparently he's feeling ... neglected," Madeleine answered. She turned her back to the plate glass window and studied him. "It's a temper tantrum. Nothing more. He's trying to get our attention."

"He's got it," Operations snapped.

"There's no way we could have anticipated this. You know that. The only thing we can do now is damage control. There will be a meeting in Paris in two weeks."

"The Collective?"

"Yes." Madeleine turned away from him, staring down at the Section floor. Even after all this time, it still surprised her that a cache of five people could hold a country; but then, if the Collective contained two influential Communists, the Russian godfather, the leader of the Reds, and the figurehead of the Whites...the players might come and go, but political and financial affiliations remained constant. "Between the five players, they control a quorum of the Duma, which has veto power over Yeltsin's nominations."

"But not total veto power."

"Not total, no. And ‘control' is misleading, as well: some might say ‘blackmail.'" Madeleine rolled her neck; she'd been up for 18 hours, and was feeling a little ragged round the edges. "Yeltsin can submit his candidate three times; after that, if the Duma doesn't accept, he can dissolve the Duma and start over."

"So, not only would Russia be short a prime minister, but the lower house of parliament would be in shambles. Control the Collective, and we control the Duma."

"Yes."

Operations frowned and began pacing a tight pathway from his desk to the opposite wall. "Yeltsin shows signs of leaning toward Vanchov for prime minister."

"We could use him," Madeleine confirmed. "He wouldn't be my first choice, but he would be in the top three."

Operations nodded. "Agreed. And what does the Collective think?"

"For the most part, they aren't agreeing on anything lately. The danger is, that without the Collective's approval, the Duma will not approve Vanchov, and at this point, any prime minister, even one who is number three in our book, is better than no prime minister. To say nothing of the effects a dissolved Duma would have..."

Operations shook his head, "Mmmm, no good."

"Agreed."

Madeleine turned back to face him, letting her weariness show. "So we'll influence them in a positive way."

"Michael forged the original contract between Section and Yeltsin," Operations said slowly. "And he formed the Collective. He'll be able to influence them in our favor. Where is he?"

"Indonesia."

"Get him. Who else is close at hand?"

"Nikita's in London. She can be in Paris within the day, if you wish."

"Yes, I'd like her in place as soon as possible."

Madeleine waited. "I think that's wise."

"Get Michael en route to Paris. Get Nikita up to speed. I want this wrapped up as quickly as possible."

"We're dealing with Russians," Madeleine reminded him. "Nothing will go quickly."

"I said ‘as quickly as possible.' I'm quite aware of our limitations."

"I'll get on it, then." Madeleine left, and Operations stared down at the Section floor. Some days were just no damn good, and this was one of them.
______________________

When Nikita got the call, she got to Paris as soon as she could. Well, that wasn't quite true: she crossed the channel as people were meant to, above the water, not below it. She spent too much time underground already.

Madeleine booked her into the King George V, and after she dropped her gear, Nikita set off with a phrase book and her wallet. She needed supplies, and at the top of the list was a wedding ring, for each member of the Collective would bring a spouse. Gotta keep up with the Jones, she thought, but I can still see some sites along the way.

She'd heard so much of the Tuileries, she decided to go there first, and she wasn't disappointed. The gardens were lovely, and she almost forgot her mission. Reluctantly, she headed down the Rue de Rivoli. Place de la Concorde was in front of her, but to her right were dozens of little shops.

The arches of Place de la Concorde beckoned her. She bit her lip, zipped in the first shop she saw, and blinked in the sudden dim interior.

An antique shop. She went to the counter, browsing, and her eye caught a gleam of pink. Perfect. She tried it on quickly, and it fit well enough. Actually, it fit too well: she couldn't seem to get it off.

Nikita laughed, and in butchered French, said, "Guess I have to purchase it. It will not let my finger free."

"That is the way of some jewelry," the salesman smiled. They bartered over the price, and Nikita got the ring for fifteen thousand francs, quite a good bargain for Paris. Pleased, Nikita stepped out into the sun, wriggling the ring around her finger. She went west on Rue de Rivoli, crossed the street near Hotel de la Marine, and, taking her life in her hands, dashed across the street to the memorial.

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

She stood quietly, oblivious to the airport hustle around her. People eddied around her, swirling quickly past: Indian women in saris, African men with startling brilliant shirts, small children hanging onto the hands of parents, students with backpacks. Her toes were pointed daintily outward and she was absorbed in her reading, one arm holding her book, the other on a pale pink silk cigarette pants-clad hip. White plastic sunglasses perched on her head; shiny blonde hair was upswept, exposing a long neck with an even longer strand of matched pearls looped around it several times. A silvery chain snaked around her neck as well, but the rest of the necklace was hidden under her pink twin set. She looked like elegant cotton candy.

The sun hit her like a spotlight, and striding wearily towards her, Michael quickened his pace.

It took him four full days of traveling just to reach Paris, and he was very lucky to catch a plane into Orly. He started out in Jakarta, but with one thing and another, had definitely come the long way round. He wore his customary black pants, but his grimy linen shirt had seen better days, and the sleeves were rolled up to hide the blood on the cuff. A long, black streak of grease ran from neck to cheek, and the skin around his eyes was turning a dark purple.

Michael didn't know anything about the mission. He didn't know anything about the enemy, or who would be their allies, or what weapons they would use (if any) and he didn't know how long it would take. But by the time he reached Nikita, there was only one question on his mind.

"Are we married?" he asked, and she looked up with a smile.

"Michael! Yes," she answered, and he dropped his bag and folded her in his arms, breathing in the clean smell of fresh soap and hand lotion.

"Nikita," he breathed, almost a benediction, and she chuckled.

"How are you, dirty man? I was beginning to worry. Are you hurt anywhere?"

"Nowhere that shows," he answered, leaning against her.

She pulled away and kissed him quickly, then reached down for her bag. "We have only one little problem that needs to be dealt with immediately."

"What?"

"We need a different hotel. The one Madeleine booked for us is bugged. I have all our necessities and came directly to pick you up, and I thought you might know a place that's off the beaten path, so to speak."

"I know a place." Michael picked up his bag, unable to suppress a moan, and Nikita moved to help him.

"Sure you're all right?"

"I'm tired and I'm hungry and I've missed you very much."

It was an unusual concession for him to make, but she looked relieved. "Those things I can fix," she said. "Come on. I'll tell you about the mission on the way."

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

Nikita explained the perimeters quickly and succinctly as they walked through the airport arm-in-arm. "I still don't know who bugged our room. I'd like to think it was Section, but ..." She pulled a tiny mass of disabled wires out of her handbag, and Michael glanced at it. "Not Walter's," she said, somewhat unnecessarily. "I already couriored one over to him, I wanted to see if he recognized the handiwork. But I thought you might know it, too."

Michael gave it a cursory examination and shook his head. "How many were in the room?"

"Three audio, one visual ... that I know of."

"Could be our friends we're meeting."

"Could be," Nikita agreed. "We'll know more after Walter takes a look at it." She finally asked, "What's up with the pimp shoes?"

He looked down at his huaraches. "It was the only thing I could find. How long will the job take?"

"A couple of weeks. It's hurry-up-and-wait right now, though. We check in, then hang loose. How was the flight?"

"Which one?" Michael asked wearily.

"Never mind," Nikita said, comfortingly. "Once you're cleaned up and fed, you'll feel much better."

Michael followed her out of the airport and they caught the first taxi they could.

"There's a little hotel by a park," Michael told Nikita in English. He turned to the driver and said, "Parc Montsouris." The driver nodded, and soon they were driving up the Boulevard Brune. They turned on Nansouty, and, because the street was very narrow, Michael tapped the driver on the shoulder. "This is fine," he said, and the driver nodded.

The park was to their right; Michael led Nikita down a narrow crooked cobbled street, bordered with private homes. Geraniums bloomed in window sills, and the hubbub of the street faded the further they went.

The Hotel Montsouris was a thin, tall white building, with a pocket lobby. The building was narrow and deep. Cramped next to the front window were six tables for breakfast, and a small rack held a sheaf of pamphlets extolling the joys of the zoo, Versailles, Musee d'Orsey and a variety of day trips. Past the narrow winding stair and through the hall, Nikita could see a little courtyard; the sound of a child's laughter echoed strangely among the stones, but she could also hear a little tinkle of water, and the bounce of a ball. When Michael went to the desk, the girl behind it smiled and greeted him in French.

"Sir! How are you?"

"Fine, thank you, Matilde. This is Nikita." Nikita nodded, and Michael continued in French. "We need a quiet room with a big bath. None of those crazy showers like last time." Matilde grinned, and handed him a key.

"It's on the sixth floor," Matilde said, and Michael took Nikita's hand and boarded the elevator.

Nikita had never seen such a small elevator, or, for that matter, such a small hotel. It was charming, clean and, most of all, quiet. Their rooms were not large or luxurious, like those at the King George, but they also weren't bugged. Nikita opened the window and went directly to the bathroom and drew Michael a bath.

The water was warm and relaxing, and he nearly drifted off when he heard Nikita come back. He groaned as he got out of the bath; every muscle hurt. He tried to remember the last time he slept, but even that took too much effort. Without bothering to dry off, he put on a bathrobe and came into the bedroom.

"Best I could do," Nikita said, somewhat apologetically, displaying a can of soda, a peach, half a roasted chicken, a baguette and a take-out container of onion soup. "I know it doesn't really go together, but I didn't think you'd mind."

"It looks good," Michael said a little faintly, and as he tucked in, Nikita towel-dried his hair, gently rubbing his ears. She drew a comb through his hair, humming a little, but not bothering with conversation. When he finally couldn't eat anymore, he lay down with a sigh. Nikita took her towel and dried between his toes, then pulled the blanket over him and dropped another kiss on his forehead.

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

Michael woke when the late afternoon sun slanted through the windows. Unused to napping and still exhausted, his body felt drugged. With superhuman effort, he dragged his eyes open, and focused on Nikita. He hadn't really looked at her before, but now he noticed the skin was drawn rather too tightly across her cheekbones, and there was a frown between her eyebrows.

Her back was to the headboard, her bare feet tucked under Michael's back for warmth, for even though it was summer, the room was cool. She was doing four things at once: listening to an Italian language CD, knitting something bulky and brown, watching French TV with the sound off and snapping her gum. Occasionally, she filled in a blank on a language worksheet. She repeated some of the words softly, trying to get the accent right. Her knitting needles flashed, displaying too-thin wrists.

Nikita glanced up at him and smiled, and though Michael smiled back, he noticed her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Feel better?" she asked.

A soft gleam caught Michael's eyes, and he grabbed one of her hands, causing her to drop a stitch. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"What's this?" he asked, and she splayed out her hand automatically.

"Just a ring, Michael. We are supposed to be married, you know. I didn't have Madeleine's engagement ring or the wedding bands, so I picked this up instead."

Michael examined the large pink pearl. It was an old-fashioned ring, very worn, the kind young girls used to wear. It was grimy with someone else's hand lotion, and the band was scratched with use, but the pearl was truly magnificent. Not only was it quite large, but the color was extraordinary. "Where did you get it?"

"Antique shop. Why?"

"Just doesn't seem your style," he said mildly, and she frowned, looking at her outstretched hand.

"I know. I don't usually like a ring, but this one is different, somehow. I saw it and had to have it."

Michael let go of her hand. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

"Where are we going?"

"Out," he said simply, and Nikita amiably slipped on her shoes.

"Sure you feel up to it?" she asked.

"Yes." Michael dressed quickly in the clothes Madeleine packed and pocketed the cellular phone on the desk. "Take a jacket, we may be gone for a while."

Nikita smiled and some of the spark reached her eyes this time, to Michael's relief.

They left the hotel and crossed the street, meandering through Parc Montsouris, Nikita's arm tucked comfortably in Michael's. He thought she tightened his grip when they passed the nannies with their charges, but she didn't say anything, and he drew her arm more firmly through his.

They ambled down Boulevard Jourdan, passing the Universitie de Paris and innumerable Citron and Audi showrooms, and caught the Porte d'Orleans metro, getting out at St. Michel-Notre Dame.

They walked slowly past the cathedral. Gypsies performed on the pavement outside Notre Dame, and they stopped to watch a juggler on a unicycle. Someone bumped into Nikita, and Michael stepped between her and the would-be pickpocket, shooting him a cutting phrase that Nikita didn't catch. They moved on, passing the pay toilets and the souvenir hawkers.

Michael led Nikita over Pont Neuf, stopping to look down at the Seine. The air was clear and cool, with just a hint of rain in it. A faint breeze ruffled Michael's hair, and tugged at the cornsilk strands that Nikita had tried (unsuccessfully) to anchor. On this side of the river, little stalls were flush with the retaining wall and the owners watched carefully as would-be customers examined the wares: cheap copies of Latrec posters, out-of-print books, berets, magazines and newspapers in a multitude of languages, postcards, a seemingly endless parade of miniature Eiffel towers and Notre Dames.

"Where shall we eat?" she asked.

"There's a little place I know not far from here..."

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

By the time they returned to their hotel, it was nearly 11 and the summer evening was finally growing dark. Michael immediately booted up the laptop and pulled the file Operations sent him and Nikita began getting ready for bed.

"Come and see this," he requested, staring at the screen. Nikita crossed the room and peered over his shoulder.

"Tomorrow you'll need to study these profiles," he said. "I'm familiar enough with the group we're meeting, and the only one you've met is Shultz. In Vienna, remember?"

"Yeah," Nikita murmured. "Nasty piece of work."

"He's the best of the bunch," Michael admitted. "Except this one ... Yurovsky. I don't know him. He's new."

Something quivered in Nikita's mind. "That name rings a bell ... Yurovsky. Don't we know him from somewhere?"

"Not according to Burkhoff. And the name isn't familiar to me. You must be confusing him with someone else."

"No ... no, I know I know him," she said, puzzled, still leaning over his shoulder. "Jacob, right? Jacob Yurovsky?" She forwarded the screen, reading his stats quickly.

"That's right," Michael said slowly.

Nikita frowned. Why did she know him? She shut her eyes, absently fiddling with the ring on her finger, trying to remember. Yurovsky ... Yurovsky ... "Well, it doesn't matter," she sighed finally, still working the ring.

Michael studied her, eyes caught by the ring. It was so completely unlike anything he would have chosen for her. "I want to ... Can you take it off? I want to look at the underside," Michael requested, turning her fingers in his hands.

Nikita wriggled the ring, then held her hand above her head to thin out her fingers. "It's stuck," she frowned, tugging at it.

Michael took her hand and ran his tongue over her finger. He didn't mean it as a sensual gesture, but for the first time in a long time, Nikita felt a flash of golden warmth, unexpectedly light-headed at his touch. Even her feet felt warm, and they had been cold all day long. She looked down at his bent head, and suddenly, all she wanted to do was touch every part of him, from his toes to his eyebrows. She wanted to taste the sweet Michael taste that hid behind his nearly non-existent ear lobes. She wanted ... she wanted ... her breath caught in her throat and she swayed a bit, closing her eyes and steadying herself against his shoulder.

Oblivious, Michael twisted the circlet of gold, and though it spun around on her finger, it wouldn't go past her knuckle.

"Forget the ring," Nikita muttered, breathless. She bent down, one hand running through his hair, and molded her lips to his. A jolt of electricity pulsed through her. Surprised, Michael kissed her back, breathing in the subtle scent of roses that clung to her skin. She tugged on his lapels, and Michael stood, still kissing her. The computer slid harmlessly to the floor, and Nikita kicked it closed, the troublesome Yurovsky momentarily gone. Her hands went under his jacket, and Michael shrugged his shoulders. The jacket fell to the floor.

He twitched his shoulder blades, and his holster followed.

Nikita's fingers fumbled on his shirt buttons; giving up, she pulled her nightgown up a bit. Michael's hands moved from her waist to her fingers, following their movement. Nikita wriggled one arm out of her nightgown, but the other one got caught, and before she could do anything about it, Michael was under her gown.

His mouth traveled lightly over her stomach, and she sighed with pleasure. Warm calloused hands moved down her sides, and as he kissed her skin, his eyelashes tickled her. She tasted of warm woman and crushed rose petals, her scent transferring to his skin.

Michael stopped abruptly. His hands, which had been gentle and relaxed, stiffened, and his mouth grew cold.

"Michael?"

"What is the meaning of this?" he said, almost harsh, and Nikita peered down her neckline, meeting his eyes.

"What?" she asked. Frowzy-haired, Michael indicated a long, yellowing bruise that began just under her right arm and continued to the back. "Oh. That happened in London. It doesn't hurt anymore." Michael looked up at her, and his eyes narrowed.

"It was just a car accident," she said, somewhat impatiently. "I got banged up a bit, is all."

"Is something else wrong?" he asked, hands relaxing a bit at her waist.

"Michael, I'm stuck." She flapped her left arm helplessly, and with a quick tug, he jerked the nightgown off. "Thank you. That's much better."

"Yes," he murmured, and she laughed a bit. Nikita smoothed his ruffled hair back and stroked his neck; next to his ears, it was one of her favorite things about him. She loved the way the muscles rippled under the skin when he talked. Like the Black Sea, she thought dreamily. Michael lifted her damp hair, kissing her shoulder, her neck ....

"Mmmm," Nikita sighed, and Michael smiled. It was the same thing she said when she ate chocolate. His mouth traveled down a little lower, and finally steady, Nikita unfastened his shirt, the buttons sliding nicely out of their holes. She smoothed her hands over his chest, and then pulled back.

"You're one to talk," she admonished. "What have you been doing, anyway?"

"I fell off a small building. It's nothing," Michael said, nibbling an ear. She pressed a little firmer against him, and he flinched.

Nikita sighed. "Tell me if I hurt you."

Michael agreed wordlessly. He gently guided her mouth to his, and before he knew it, she pushed him down on the bed. He grunted when she landed on his injured ribs, and Nikita immediately edged away. Michael pulled her back so she rested on his good side and kissed her fiercely, and all thoughts of being careful fled from her mind. She struggled with his belt, the clasp slipping out of her impatient fingers.

"Why is it," she asked, a little breathlessly, "That I'm usually the first one undressed?"

"I wear more clothes."

"Well, stop it," she requested. Another gun clattered to the floor; Michael lifted himself up on his elbows, and Nikita reached around him, unfastening the knife that rested in the hollow of his back. "One of these days, one of us is going to get seriously injured like this," she said.

"Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘safe sex,'" Michael murmured, and he kissed the back of her elbow, then traveled up her arm. The knife slid to the floor as well, and finally, the belt came loose. Nikita tossed it away, and Michael's hands moved slowly up the sides of her legs as if they had all the time in the world.

"Michael..." Nikita sighed happily, her toes curling. It was the last coherent thing she said.

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

Nikita watched Michael sleep, being careful not to wake him. He was exhausted; not only had he traipsed over half the city with her, but he spent the night before on the airplane, and he never could sleep properly in transit.

It took her a long time to fall in love with him. She always felt a certain affection for Michael, and trusted him with her physical safety, but when he first mentioned marriage she assumed he was joking.

In fact, she didn't take him seriously until they were married for six weeks. She kept expecting him to admit it was a trick or some part of a grand scheme. She wished very much that she didn't love him. Now, she felt an actual sense of loss when he wasn't around, as if someone had extracted an important detachable internal organ. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, and she worried one day he wouldn't come back to her, and she'd have to live with that ache inside her forever.

Duty. Love. Honor. Loyalty. Words she lived by, words she sometimes couldn't define, not within her life as it was now. She'd made a definitive choice at one point; there was no turning back, and she knew that if, by some odd quirk of fate she were offered the chance to do it over again, she'd still make the same choices.

She loved him so much, she felt literally incomplete without him.

Nikita sighed and quietly got out of bed, pulling on her flannel nightgown as she went. Michael shifted in his sleep, automatically resuming his normal sleeping position: flat on his back, with his arms crossed, pharaoh-like, over his chest. Nikita carefully tucked the blankets around him. Poor man. He was so tired, it wouldn't take much to make him sick and she didn't want him to get chilled. She'd read herself to sleep in the other room so she wouldn't disturb him.

She flicked on the lamp and settled herself in a chair. The clock ticked slowly on the wall, a monotonous, soothing sound that blended with Michael's breathing. He was having sinus problems, probably because of all the traveling he'd been doing; Nikita wondered if she brought his allergy medicine. Her eyes began to get heavy.

Someone was calling her. Drowsily, Nikita let her book slide from her stomach and she struggled to wake up. Michael?

"Mama!"

Not Michael, she thought sleepily. It's the baby.

"Mama?"

Nikita clumsily got to her feet and went towards the voice.

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

Michael woke when Nikita's book hit the floor. He fumbled in his covers, finally extracting an arm. He reached out for her and when he realized there was only cold sheet beside him, he sat up, listening for her.

The room was dim, but there was a small light on in the other room and he heard her talking. Puzzled, he got up to see what was going on.

She knelt beside the empty couch, stroking the fabric and singing softly, the sound eerie in the quiet room, her white nightgown pooled at her knees.

"Nikita?"

"Hush, you'll wake him," she said quietly, but held out her hand, so he went to her.

"Who?"

"The baby." She rubbed her eyes sleepily, and smiled at him. "The swelling's finally stopped. He just got to sleep."

Michael felt a chill, and it wasn't because he didn't have any clothes on. He bent down and helped her to her feet. "Come back to bed, Nikita."

"I need to stay with him."

"He'll ... be fine," Michael said, confused. "Come to bed."

"I'm very tired," she mumbled, and suddenly sagged against him. Michael staggered a bit under the unexpected dead weight, then hefted her up and deposited her on his side of the bed, which was still warm.

He curled his body around hers, breathing in the faint scent that clung to her, moving her hair out of the way so his face could rest in the curve of her shoulder. Then he slept.
__________________________________

When Nikita woke up in the morning, Michael was dressed and sitting at the make-shift desk, working on a file. Not completely awake, she let her mind float, and heard herself asking, "When do you have to go back?"

"Back where?" Michael asked, not really paying attention.

"Back to the front," she murmured.

"Front of what?" Michael turned and looked at her curiously. Her eyes were half-closed and her face was lax.

"The front, the front," she muttered, irritated.

Michael got up and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hands in his. "Nikita, are you awake?"

"Someone's in my head, Michael," Nikita mumbled, and Michael frowned. It was a phrase she used when speaking of the transmitters they sometimes used; the clarity was such that it did actually feel like someone was in your head.

"No one is in your head. We're alone and not being monitored. You've slept too long. Come on, we'll go downstairs for some coffee."

Nikita groaned and rubbed her forehead. "I have a simply monstrous headache, darling."

She'd never called him darling before. They didn't use terms of endearment with each other; they agreed early on that it was too easy to slip, and one day someone would hear them. Michael frowned. "Come on, get up."

Groggily, she sat up and made her way to the bathroom. She felt sick. Her head felt like a thunderstorm was going on inside of it. Her body felt too heavy, as if her bones were made of bronze or lead. Almost as if there were too much gravity, pulling her down.

She leaned against the sink and frowned at her reflection. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror, she expected to see the half-wild child she had been, or the gutsy teenager on the street, or the out-of-control freshman operative.

This time, though, she considered her reflection at length. Same blue eyes, same blonde hair, same chin, same forehead. Something was out of place. Once she'd seen a man with no eyebrows, and it'd taken her a full ten minutes to realize what was missing. She'd known something was wrong, but couldn't put her finger on it.

It was like that now. She frowned, watching the muscles shift and harden. Then she deliberately relaxed her face, and studied herself surreptitiously in the glass. It's the headache, she decided finally, and popped a couple of aspirin.

Before she got into the tub, she quickly turned back to the mirror. Her reflection turned with her. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, and she stared into her eyes, searching for something. But nothing else was there, so she shrugged and lowered herself into the hot water.

I'll have to hurry, she thought, soaping up the sponge. I don't want Anna to have to wait long.

Her hands stilled, and the soap slipped with a thunk into the water.

Who was Anna?

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

The first meet would take place at the Russian Orthodox Church on Rue Darue. Michael and Nikita toured the tiny church, working out various escape routes, then ate lunch. They went to Notre Dame, and although there wasn't an English tour group, a German group was just getting started, so they straveged along in the back, and Michael translated what the guide said. They went through the whole thing, from the basement to the bell tower, and when they were done, Nikita was so tired she requested a nap.

While Nikita drifted off to sleep, Michael worked in the other room until he heard her call out.

He had never known her to dream; it was one of the things he envied about her. Now, she twitched and moved around in her sleep and she talked. But this wasn't normal, nonsense sleep talk; she was having a conversation.

"I'll wear the lilac-colored gown for tea," she announced clearly, and paused as if for an answer. Michael's eyes narrowed and he sat down lightly on the end of the bed, watching.

"And the pearl sautoir. Quickly, quickly," she said, this time in French. "He'll be here soon and I want to be ready. Are the children in from their walk?"

Nikita didn't know French.

"Nikita?" he asked softly, and she subsided, muttering. Michael frowned and returned to his work. He became so absorbed, he jumped when Nikita lay a hand on his shoulder.

"You startled me," he exclaimed, and she smiled.

"I'm sorry, dearest. Have you seen Olga?"

Michael looked closer. Her eyes were open, her color normal. She looked like she was awake. "It's time for her lesson, and I can't find her. We're going to have to get another governess; what use is she, if she can't keep track of the children?"

Michael assumed it was a rhetorical question, and he was so taken aback by the whole conversation, he didn't quite know what to say. But he knew what to do. He got up slowly and took Nikita by the hand, leading her back to bed. "Go back to sleep," he murmured, and in the half-light, her eyes shifted from crystal to deep gray-blue.

"But Olga -- her lesson --"

"Hush ..." Michael said, and instead of leaving her, he gently scratched her back until her eyes drooped closed and her breathing was steady and deep.

While Nikita was asleep, he searched every scrap of luggage she had. The only drugs she had were his allergy pills, the standard Section allotment of pain medicine and antibiotics. None had been used.

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

The next morning, Michael and Nikita walked to the Russian Orthodox Church. They didn't talk; Nikita was tired and headachy, and Michael was preoccupied.

The golden crooked cross atop the onion dome gleamed dully in the light. The other buildings on the street were taller than the church, and though it was fairly substantial, for a church, it was quite small. There were no pews inside; worshipers stood during the service, though today mass wasn't performed. Nikita was so sleepy, she hoped she could stay sharp.

Michael apparently hoped so, too, because before they entered, he gave her a hard look. "Remember what we're here for."

"I remember."

"Are you okay?"

"Michael, yes," she said crossly. "Safe as houses. Let's get this over with."

He gave her another hard look, then led the way past yellow danger tape. Courtesy of Section, the church had been closed for two days, ostensibly for asbestos danger, which Nikita thought humorous considering the age of the church. Standing in the middle of the floor were five men and four women; Nikita and Michael joined the Collective.

"Michael, nice to see you," said one, and Michael nodded.

"You too, Schultz," he lied, poker-faced. He turned to Nikita and introduced her to the Collective. "My wife. Nikita."

She looked around the circle, which numbered nine. Schultz was with the Communists, as was Yurovsky. Their wives, obviously friends, stood off to the side, talking quietly in Russian. Xenia and Peter Orlov were White Russians; Dmitri Kerensky was with the Red Russians. Pavel Stanislav was mob; Natalia Yakov was his mistress. She smiled shyly at Nikita, and Nikita smiled back, but her attention was divided between Yurovsky and Kerensky. Like Yurovsky, she was certain she knew him from somewhere. She mentally flipped through the vast quantity of low-lifes she'd dealt with over the past seven years, but finally gave up. It'll probably come to me in the bath, she thought, annoyed, or when I'm brushing my teeth.

"Shall we get down to business?" asked Schultz.

Yes, let's do, Nikita thought, rubbing her head. She felt like someone fastened a C-clamp around her temples and was slowly tightening it. She had a sudden flash of Yurovsky standing in front of her, a squadron of men behind him. All had guns. All pointed at them. She closed her eyes, concentrating. Who else was with her? She'd surely remember being held hostage with a dozen guns pointing at her, and she had the distinct feeling that other operatives were with her. He'd said something, something shocking, something unexpected. Then ... what?

An explosion. No. Several explosions.

A numbness was slowly seeping over her, from her head downwards. I'm going to faint, she thought frantically, and then immediately she began calming herself. Not now, not now ... the words became an internal mantra, and gradually feeling began to leak back into her skin.

The meet was over. Everyone shook hands and kissed goodbye, and Michael led a limp Nikita out of the church.

"That went well, I think," he said, pleased. "Let's go back and report, shall we?"

She nodded, and Michael glanced at her pinched face and stopped. "Nikita, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she croaked. "My head ..."

Michael frowned, worried. "We'll take a taxi."

Nikita rode back to the hotel, pounding head resting on Michael's shoulder. Every bump in the road made her flinch, and by the time they got to the hotel, she was white with pain.

Everything seemed distorted, as if she was underwater. A great weight pressed on her brain; it was the only thing she could feel or think about. Her head throbbed, and though Michael spoke softly, she turned away from his voice. His touch, gentle as it was, felt heavy-handed, and she whimpered when he helped her undress.

"I want you to take this." He loomed up above her, and she turned away. "Nikita, please." He put an arm behind her, opened her mouth and poked a little pill down her throat, immediately pouring some water down her. She swallowed reflexively, and he lay her down. If she'd had the energy, she would have cried, she felt so miserable.

Finally, the medication dulled the pain. It was still there, waiting, but Nikita's eyes slid closed and the drugs took over.

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

She dreamed.

Tall, tall trees, their tops swaying in the breeze. Turquoise blue water stretched indefinitely before her. Her fancy work lay in her lap, the stitches small and perfect, a pattern of flowers and stems picked out in greens and light blues. The sun was hot; her hat helped, but she squinted in the harsh, clear light.

From where she sat she could see the children playing on the beach. The little one scooped sand up in a pail. His ever-present, faultlessly patient helper squatted down in the sand beside his small charge. The girls played in the water in their navy bathing suits, splashing one another, shrieking, arms pale after the long winter. They'd brown up soon, she thought, smiling.

The smallest girl detached from her sisters and came to sit by her brother. A look passed between the helper and the girl, and he faded into the background, just far enough to give them privacy, but near enough to come if needed.

What were the names of the children? Even dreaming, she struggled to remember. Start at the top, she thought. The first born. Her eyes zeroed in on a tall, blonde girl, face alive with laughter. She searched her memory, drawing a blank. Maybe the next one, then. She focused on each of the children in turn, trying to conjure up some sort of recall, but though they turned and waved to her, their names didn't come to her lips.

She picked up the needle and began to sew again. In and out, in and out. The breeze carried the scent of jasmine and salt air and the happy sounds of children at play.

Nikita sighed, and turned over in bed. Michael glanced at her, satisfied that she was finally sleeping. Her face was still drawn and a bit pale with pain. He booted up the computer and began his transmission to Section.

"Time to come in," Nikita called, and Michael raised his eyebrows at her. "Olga! Time for tea."

Michael faltered. She'd spoken in English, with a heavier British accent than usual. "Tea," Nikita murmured, and slowly, Michael completed the transmission.

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

When he mentioned that she seemed to be dreaming a lot, she'd looked puzzled. "Really? That's funny. I hardly ever dream."

"You don't remember?"

She wrinkled her forehead. "I seem to remember something about a yacht. Funny, isn't it?"

That wasn't the word he'd have chosen. Peculiar, odd, disturbing, frightening. The only good thing about Paris was, the mission was going better than expected. The players were united in their dislike of the current situation.

"Kerensky, Yurovsky and Schultz agreed to accept Vassily Vanchov as prime minister," Michael informed Operations. Nikita lay on the bed dozing, arm across her face to block the sun.

"Good. That puts the Communists and the Red Russians in our camp. The others?"

"The Orlovs will go with Stanislav's choice. Stanislav is pushing for Alexei Alexandrovich Dolvina. Know him?"

"Yes." Carefully, Operations said, "We wouldn't be opposed to Dolvina in a top cabinet position. But if we make this concession, we want something in return."

"What?"

"We want Stanislav to get the mob back under control. We lost four operatives last week, all mob-related."

Michael sighed. "Closure?"

"Schultz and Yurovsky must be persuaded that if they wish to further Communism, they need to do it elsewhere. See if you can steer them towards one of the smaller republics we have contacts in. I don't care about the White Russians; the Orlovs are expendable. Give them some money, they'll be happy enough. Our sources say the Red Russians are gaining more ground. Let's foster a friendship by supporting their choice."

Nikita whimpered, and Michael terminated the conversation. He sat down on the bed and took her hands. Her eyes snapped open. "How could they?"

"What?"

"How could they kill him? In cold blood?"

"I don't know," Michael said honestly.

"He was our only hope. Our only friend. What will happen next time, when Baby is sick? They killed the only one that could help him." Tears coursed down her face, and he pulled her to him, gently rocking back and forth. Finally, her body grew heavy, and he tucked her back in.

Darkness closed in. Nikita slept.

She stood in the hall holding a lamp. The Bright Hall, they called it, because of the skylight. It wasn't bright now, though. It was very late, and besides, it was winter still, so the days were short.

Her back was killing her. The sciatica was acting up again, and she had no time to rest. A faint groan issued from the room on her left, and as quickly as she could, she entered.

"Mama ..." the hand that stretched out was hot and dry, the eyes glassy and bright with fever. With some difficulty, she began bathing the fiery face with alcohol.

"Hurts ..." the girl wheezed, batting her chest.

"I know," she whispered. "Hush, don't talk." She took her patient's temperature and frowned, then beckoned to her helper. "Bring me some ice, please."

"There is none, madam."

Of course not, she remembered. The electricity had been down for days. "Snow, then, and quickly." She left her charge and checked on the others.

The baby was, for once, doing fine. His head, like the others, had been shaved the day before in an effort to alleviate the fever. He rested quietly. The girls were another story, though. The second eldest kicked off her covers, muttering about taking a swim; the youngest had just gotten sick a few days ago, and her throat was swollen, skin covered with the little pin-prick rash high fever and measles brings. She was sleeping too. Her fever hadn't peaked yet.

"Madam, the snow."

She turned and took the bowl from the woman. It was silver and heavy, edges dotted with rubies and sapphires, and the snow within hadn't started to melt. She quickly stripped her daughter, packing her neck, forehead and chest, and when the bowl was empty, she handed it back to the woman. "More, please."

Really, they ought to get her in the bathtub. But Mashka was so tall ...

With a flash of relief, Nikita realized she had a name. Mashka. With the knowledge came fear, so strong and intense, she faltered in her ministrations.

Her husband. Someone was keeping him from her, and she needed him desperately. The children were so sick. Mashka's fever was terribly high, if it rose much further, she would die.

She smoothed the hairless forehead, murmuring comforting words to her daughter. She'd never lost a child. She'd come close, several times, but each time God spared her. Please, she thought, don't take her. Not yet.

Mashka opened her eyes, wide and sparkily with fever. "They're coming, Mama. We have to run, to hide ..."

"No one is coming, dearest."

"They'll kill us! Mama, please--!" Her sapphire eyes bored into her mother's with blue-fire intensity, then, reluctantly, they drifted closed into the uneasy sleep of the ill.

The woman returned with a full bowl of snow, and they began again.

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

Michael finished his work at half-past three and glanced at Nikita. She looked so peaceful, he took off his shoes, set the alarm, and joined her, curving an arm around her waist, breathing in the scent of roses that clung to her. Just for an hour, he thought drowsily.

When he woke, the barrel of his gun was pointing at his temple, and he looked into icy, unfamiliar eyes.

"Where is he?" Nikita demanded, voice hard and hands steady.

"Who?"

"My husband. Where is he?" She pulled back the trigger, and Michael held his breath. "Answer me."

"Nikita, it's me," he said ungrammatically, and very slowly, he pulled the gun to a more comfortable position -- aiming at the wall, not his head. "Nikita, look at me."

Nikita blinked, then her eyes widened and her fingers automatically released the gun. Michael caught it neatly, uncocked it, unloaded it, and handed it back to her, but she didn't take it. She backed up, staring at the weapon. "Michael?" she stammered out.

"Yes."

She collapsed in a chair. "My God. I almost killed you." She hid her face in her hands, scared to look at him. "Something's wrong with me," Nikita stated. "I don't feel right." Nikita frowned, trying to articulate her feelings. "My skin feels funny. Like 'flu. And even when my head doesn't hurt, I can feel the pressure ..."

Concerned, Michael asked, "Should we go to hospital?"

"No," she answered slowly. "I feel like I've forgotten to do something, and I can't remember what. I know what it is, I just can't .... remember." She nervously twisted her ring. "I feel like I'm going crazy."

"When we get home we'll get someone to look at you."

"You mean Madeleine."

"Whoever."

Nikita calmly reached out for her gun, chambered it, and handed it to him. "You do it."

He didn't take her weapon. "This doesn't mean cancellation, Nikita."

"Maybe it means something worse," she said, voice hard. "Maybe instead of just killing me, they'll lock me up in some God-awful place, where other crazy operatives live. Is that what happens?"

"You're not crazy."

"Michael," she said, exasperated, "I nearly killed you." She shoved the gun at him again. " Do it. I will not go back to Section and have Madeleine do that regression therapy on me again. I won't."

The cell phone rang, and Michael answered it. Nikita could tell by the way he refocused his attention that it was Operations; they were iscussing the size of the Orlov's payment and which country could benefit from communism.

Nikita turned and quietly went into the bathroom, the gun still in her hand. She looked at her face in the mirror: once again, something wasn't right. Well, no matter, she thought. It will all be over soon, anyway.

She raised the gun to her temple and shut her eyes. Then she pulled back the trigger.

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

Michael disconnected the cell phone, then shut down the computer, coiling the cords neatly up, and as he zipped it into it's case, he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

Nikita.

He burst through the bathroom door, only to find her sitting slumped over on the floor, gun dangling from her hand.

Blood. Where was ... he dropped to his knees, running his hands over her face, her throat, her chest. Nothing. She was uninjured.

Dazed, he sat back, and she looked up at him, eyes empty. Then her eyes filled and tears spilled down her face. "She won't let me," she whimpered, crawling into his arms, and he wrapped himself around her. "I can kill him, but not me. If I can kill him, she'll go away. Michael, please get her out of my head ..."

"Who? Who are you going to kill?"

"I don't know," she wept. "I can't remember."
_________________________

A silent Michael and an equally silent Nikita boarded the C4 train bound for Versailles. It was mid-morning, and Michael carried the backpack containing a light lunch. They'd tour the gardens and attend the meet, then come back to the hotel in the evening.

Nikita slept the whole trip, but perked up when she saw the palace fence: black iron spikes tipped in gold. Beyond stretched the compound, which included the palace, the gardens, several man-made lakes and Marie Antoinette's "farm." Tourists milled around and Michael and Nikita paid the fee and toured the house with the rest of them.

When they got to the Hall of Mirrors, Nikita stopped. Her eyes traveled the length of the room. Sunlight pored in, and the silver-backed mirrors reflected the tourists, the bright day outside, and each other.

She slowly walked the length of the room, examining the gilded walls, the marble appointments, the watery glass, the crystal chandeliers, the golden statues holding light fixtures. Attempting conversation, Michael said, "The Versaille Treaty was signed in this room."

Nikita nodded, and traversed the room again, studying the light parquet floor under her feet, the smooth honey-colored wood glowing gold. The ceiling arched above them, thick with gilding and dark, bright colors: red, blue, heavy yellow, alive with various scenes. Their group moved on. "I've seen another room like this," she said slowly.

"Where?"

"I don't know. I can't ... remember." She put her hands to her head in a now familiar gesture.

"A photograph, no doubt."

"No, it wasn't this room. It was like this room. But the floor was different, the ceiling was different. The doors aren't in the right place."

Another tour group entered. They took their place at the back of the line, and Michael softly translated the guide's words.

The tour over, they went outdoors. The day promised to be a glorious one, and Michael and Nikita slowly walked between two long pools of water, down a stone stair, past a circular fountain and down a long green swath of grass, bordered with stone statues. At the end was Apollo's fountain, and they perched on the edge and ate their lunch.

Being outside was doing Nikita good, Michael could tell: her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, and she seemed to lose that frightened, forbidding look she seemed to have lately.

This meet would go well, he thought. And hopefully, it would be their last.

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

"The bottom line is, they don't want Yeltsin," Michael informed Operations over the phone. It was still daylight, and Nikita trailed behind him, obviously tired but not complaining. They were near the Star Grove, not too far from the entrance of Versaille, and he motioned to a stone bench. Nikita took a seat, leaning back on her arms and studying the blue sky.

"Yeltsin is non-negotiable. We aren't going to assassinate him."

"They want one of their own in the cabinet. A member of the Collective."

"Who?"

Michael paused, then admitted, "They're for Kerensky."

"Qualifications?"

"Minimal, but acceptable."

"Can we use him?"

"Yes."

"I'll get back to you."

"When?" Michael asked, watching Nikita.

"Soon. Stay flexible. When is the next meet?"

"Tomorrow. At Sacre Coeur." Michael terminated the connection and offered a hand to Nikita; she took it, and they became tourists filing out the gates.

"If we have to have one of them in the cabinet, why Kerensky?" Nikita asked.

"He's Red Russian. It's either him or Yurovsky. Schultz wouldn't do, the Orlov's agenda is too different from our own, and Stanislav is too ... preoccupied with the mob."

"I don't like him."

"You don't have to, Nikita. We just have to make sure Yeltsin appoints him. Are you hungry?"

"No. Just tired."

"We'll be home soon," he said, and Nikita smiled.

"You mean, we'll be at the hotel."

"Anywhere is home with you," Michael said, in an unusual burst of sentimentality.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Nikita teased.

"I hope so," he answered, and put an arm around her shoulders.

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

They were awakened suddenly in the night by the doctor. Her husband blinked sleepily in the lantern light, then he nodded and rose.

"It's time, dearest," he murmured, and she felt a stab of fear.

"They're moving us again?"

"I think so. I'll wake the children."

He left, and she slowly dressed, drawing on her corset, her hat, her summer coat.

They filed downstairs and outside, then into the basement, her husband carrying their son, who hadn't been able to walk since sledding down the stairs on a tea tray. She briefly touched his hand; he was half-asleep, but his fingers, still small for a 13-year-old, curled around hers.

Two chairs were brought in. They'll take our pictures first, she thought, and the idea comforted her. I hope they send some to Georgie, so he'll know we're all right. She took a chair, her husband and their son took the other. Their daughters stood behind them, their servants -- the only faithful ones remaining -- stood silently to the side.

They waited quietly. Then Yurovsky entered. But he didn't hold a camera. He had a gun, and so did the ten men behind him.

Then the room exploded.

Nikita screamed, a long wailing sound that put cats to shame. Michael jerked awake, and in one fluid motion, he flipped the lamp on and clamped a hand across her mouth, shaking her awake.

"Nikita. Nikita, wake up."

She sobbed and shuddered, and Michael pulled her roughly to him, her head buried in his shoulder. She was damp with sweat, and he could feel the fear fairly radiate off her skin. "It's all right. Just a dream," he muttered, and finally she nodded. He pulled back and looked at her. "All right?"

"Yes," she whispered. He slid out of bed and she made a wild grab for him.

"I'll be back," he assured, and returned with a glass of water and a wet towel. She gulped the liquid gratefully, and Michael put the damp cloth against the back of her neck. She handed him the glass, and lay stomach-down on the bed, and he rubbed her back.

"We were shot," she muttered, eyes beginning to close. "They executed us. Lined us up and told us they were going to take a picture. Then they pulled out guns ... and the blood ..." her voice shook and her eyes opened. "Michael, there was so much blood ..."

"It was only a dream," he said.

"It seemed very real." She put up her right hand, and he wrapped his fingers around it, thumb rubbing her ring.

"Do you want a sleeping pill?"

"No," she said. "But can we keep the light on?"

Instead of answering, he lay down beside her, and she curled up next to him, still shaking, an arm and leg tangling up with his. He put his arm around her and waited for her to get comfortable, rhythmically trailing a finger down her backbone until her breathing grew even and deep, and her muscles relaxed.

It was an hour before he got back to sleep.

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

The next morning, Michael stood with one hand braced against the sink while he shaved. His damp towel was wrapped around his waist, and cream decorated one half of his face.

Admit it, he thought sternly. She was going crazy. It was the result of stress, and he should have seen it coming.

He stared at his face and slowly slid the razor down a cheek. That was the only logical explanation.

He rinsed the razor and shook off the excess water, and carefully shaved his chin. Well, he shouldn't be surprised, he thought. From the time she joined Section, it was just a matter of time.

She was strong, both physically and mentally, but even the strongest could crack, and she had a lot thrown at her the past few years. Escaping Section. Falling in love with him. He was the first to admit that not only was he a difficult person to love, but he was probably the worst person she could have chosen. The pregnancy and giving up the baby had been devastating. They were able to be together for three weeks after that, but then Operations sent Michael to Cambodia and Nikita to Jerusalem, and for the past several months, they saw each other only a few days here and there ... once in Rome, twice in Dar es Saalam, once in Miami. No wonder she was losing her mind. He was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. He rinsed his razor again, and carefully shaved above his lip.

Nikita came sleepily into the bathroom, and stood at his back. She put her arms around his chest and lay her head on his right shoulder blade.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

"I don't feel like I slept at all." Her voice sounded different, more British than usual, but Michael put it down to her still being half-asleep. She raised her head and rested her chin on his shoulder, watching him in the mirror. Her eyes drifted half-mast, and she leaned her head on his. "I'm glad you're home."

Michael froze. He slowly lowered his razor to the sink, rinsed it and returned to his face. Softly, he asked, "And where ought I to be?"

"Right here with us, of course." Nikita's half-open eyes dreamily watched him in the mirror. "It's been difficult without you. The children miss you terribly when you're gone. Especially Olga."

Michael felt a wave of grief. He rinsed the razor again. "And you?"

"Not an hour goes by that I don't think of you, dearest." Nikita wound her way around his body so she stood on his left side, arms still loose around him and head on his shoulder, catching a bit of shaving cream in her hair. Michael shifted so his left arm was around her.

"Am I in the way?" she asked, watching him finish his face.

"Yes," he said mildly, arm tightening around her waist. He looked at himself in the mirror, and Nikita smiled.

"Perfect job," she approved, and Michael nodded. She dampened the end of a towel and wiped off the traces of cream, then kissed him.

Michael suppressed a shudder. The kiss was not Nikita's, and the eyes that glimmered up at him were the eyes of a stranger.

The last time he'd seen her look like that, she'd been using the phasing shell.
______________________

The appointment at Sacre Coeur was set for late afternoon. Michael and Nikita ate lunch near the hotel.

Michael was still thinking about the phasing shell. Someone was manipulating Nikita, he was sure of it. But who? And how? And why wasn't he affected?

The only person who had the answers was Nikita, and she couldn't tell him.

Michael paid the bill and they walked slowly down Rue St. Yves, crossed Avenue Reille, and instead of going directly to metro, walked through the park. A cool breeze sifted through the banks of flowers and budding trees, and Nikita grinned as a little boy raced past them, heading for the small pond, sailboat in his hand. They turned and followed him, slowly, and when they reached the pool they found other children with other boats, each casting them on the water.

He turned to her and said bluntly, "Can you do this meet?"

"Michael, we have no choice."

She was right, but Michael still tried to think of a way round it. "I could tell them you're feeling unwell."

"You need back up," she said flatly. "And I'm not letting you go without me, so there's no discussion. Come on, we don't want to be late."

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

No matter where one stood in Paris, one could see Sacre Coeur. Reminiscent of the Taj Mahal, the gleaming white church had been built on a hill in the Montmarte section.

Nikita seemed focused, and Michael began to relax. At the foot of the church was a carousel and a crowd. They climbed the stairs to the church -- it seemed like hundreds, Sacre Coeur was an enormous building, and gypsies dotted the steps, each selling something -- berets, postcards, slight-of-hand tricks for children, saint cards. Nikita wasn't distracted.

She kept her eyes on the five-domed cathedral before them.

They would meet in the tombs underneath the church. As they entered the dark, slightly damp basement, Nikita's head began to ache and she suppressed a shudder. Michael cleared the area, explaining the tombs would close soon, and she smiled reassuringly at the tourists, who quickly left.

They waited at the specified grave, and the others in the Collective slowly trickled in, chatting amiably.

Nikita's head hurt so much, her peripheral vision began going grainy, and she rested her weight on a sarcophagus, far enough away from the Collective that they wouldn't notice. Dark was closing in on her, and she fought against it, focusing on the group.

It was getting darker. She blinked, hard, and lowered her head between her knees. With each beat of her heart, the blood pounded in her head, the pain so intense her eyes watered. She sank to the ground, back against the cool stone of the crypt, and finally, with a faint whimper, she gave up and let the blackness swallow her.

Gradually, the pain receded. She sat back and sighed, feeling weak and ill and clammy.

Yurovsky was the last to enter. She watched him come into the group, and the half-forgotten fragment of memory filtered back into her conscience.

Her strength returned slowly. She waited. She'd waited a long time; a few minutes more made no difference.

The meet ended. Everyone shook hands and began to filter out of the tombs. Except Yurovsky.

He stayed behind, talking to Michael, who casually looked around the area, no doubt searching for Nikita.

Now.

She drew her gun slowly, so slowly, only Michael noticed the movement, and she stepped forward, keeping both men in her sight.

Michael quickly stepped back, putting himself between Nikita's gun and Yurovsky. "Michael, please get out of the way."

He'd seen that look in her eyes once before and he sincerely hoped that events wouldn't progress as they had then. "Nikita," he said, voice low, "Put the gun away."

"Michael, move." She came closer, gun leveled at the men.

Yurovsky looked from one operative to the other, plainly confused. "What is happening, Michael?"

"Nothing," Michael said, eyes steady on Nikita. "Nikita, do as I say."

"Be quiet!" she flared at him, her voice reverberating through the room. "Step away. Now."

Slowly, Michael did as she asked. He was still close enough to push Yurovsky out of the way, but Yurovsky, who clearly felt abandoned, looked nervous.

"I have a question for you." She jerked her gun at him and Yurovsky obediently dropped, hands on head in surrender. "Some might say your actions were those of a hero."

Yurovsky's eyes moved, but he stayed perfectly still. "I don't know what you mean."

Her gun was pointed at his temple, now, just an inch or two away. Michael tensed, fully prepared to tackle Nikita if necessary.

"Some might say you were a coward." The words pattered gently down on Yurovsky and he paled.

The gun was perfectly steady now, and the barrel pressed on Yurovsky's forehead.

"Tell me," she commanded, "What you would say."

"I don't understand," Yurovsky said, eyes pleading.

She considered him, gun biting into his flesh. "What should be done to the man who kills innocent women and children?"

"I have children myself," he said quietly. "I would never hurt innocent children. No matter who they belonged to."

"Yet, these children were killed with no reservation." Her voice was remote, almost conversational. "Even though it wasn't the right thing to do." She pulled the hammer back on her gun.

"If that is true, there is no difference between you and I, madam," Yurovsky said calmly, and he closed his eyes, fully prepared for execution.

Her eyes widened, and she stepped back. The gun wavered, than sank. Michael helped Yurovsky up, shook his hand, and said very quietly, "If ever I hear even a whisper of what went on down here, I swear I will find every member of your family and kill them. You, I will leave alive. As a message for others who are tempted to tell Section secrets. Do you understand?"

Yurovsky nodded, numb. He wasn't sure what was worse being held at gunpoint by a deranged operative, or being threatened by Michael. All he knew was he needed to leave. He stumbled out of the basement.

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

Michael watched Yurovsky leave with vague uneasiness. If not for Operations' instructions, Michael would have killed him.

He turned and considered Nikita. She had an almost stunned look on her face, and as he watched, her hands relaxed, and the gun clattered to the stone floor, the noise magnified by the smooth, hard surfaces. Then Michael heard something else. A kind of tinging.

He frowned, and bent down to pick up the gun. Laying next to it was her ring. Slowly straightening, he finally satisfied his curiosity about the band. "There's nothing written on it," he said, a little surprised.

She could have told Michael that it was an engagement present. She could have told him that after it was over, the ring wouldn't come off and they took a knife ...

She blinked at him, and life returned to her eyes. And this time, they were her eyes, the same cerulean blue eyes as always, not darkened to a deeper hue.

They didn't say anything as they walked slowly away from the church, down the stone steps, back to street level. Children milled around them, waving to siblings, waiting their turn at the carousel. Nikita and Michael didn't stop. She tucked her arm through his, and in an unusual display of affection, he kissed her hard on her forehead.
_______________________

Nikita waited until Michael was asleep, then she slid from bed, slipping into her nightgown, for the room was cool.

The window was open because for most of her early life, she'd slept out-of-doors, and now, whenever Nikita was in a closed room, she felt suffocated.

That was another thing they'd had in common. She couldn't stand warm rooms, either. Nikita wondered if she would forever hear children crying in the night, now. She shivered. Some of the things she'd felt the past few weeks stayed with her, like residue in a dirty glass. Confinement. Depression. Pain.

Yurovsky was a common enough name, Nikita supposed, and so was Kerensky. It was coincidence they carried the same surnames as men, who, 90 years ago, were heralded for their part in the creation of the Soviet Union. There were probably hundreds of Yurovskys and Kerenskys in Moscow alone.

She leaned her head against the casement, fiddling with the engagement ring, which slid easily on her finger.

Her life was mapped out by others. She'd fallen into the pattern easily, but on her own terms.

She chose which battles to fight, and won most of them. She followed her heart, a fickle organ that caused her sorrow, despair, consuming love and passion.

Duty. Love. Honor. Loyalty. Nikita smiled bitterly. Perhaps I'm already being destroyed by my choices, she thought. For Michael's sake, I'll go in for a full psychiatric exam when we get back.

Overhead was a swath of dim stars. Below her was the stone courtyard, the fountain a dull murmur. She heard the vague sounds of muffled traffic, and somewhere, someone was practicing flute, running scales, the notes blending in with the sound of the fountain.

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. The ache was gone, and the memories that were so fresh earlier were dulling, drifting away like dandelion fluff.

Michael turned over in his sleep, and Nikita glanced at him, filled with a melancholy longing for a world they could never have. A world filled with sunshine and lemonade on hot afternoons and playing Snap and Bezique at night with phantom children.

Her thoughts turned to her own child. She didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl, and counting up the months, she realized that by now it would be walking. It would be calling Mr. Tremaine by his rightful name, Daddy, and in a few short years, it would be learning how to count and identify letters.

She stared out into the night.

At least it's alive, she thought. And hidden. Safe from those who would wish it harm.

Nikita looked over her shoulder. She could have sworn she heard a whispered consolation.

You're half-asleep, she chided herself gently. No wonder you think you're hearing voices. It's nearly one in the morning.

Nikita shed her gown and got under the covers, putting her chilled feet against Michael. He muttered and moved in his sleep, curving an arm around her waist and pulling her close. Nikita closed her eyes, placing an arm over his, turning her head to meet his lips in a quiet kiss.
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The clock is striking in the belfry tower
And warns us of the fleeting hour,
But neither heeds the time which glides upward.
For time may pass but love abides,
I feel his kiss on my fevered brow;
if we must part, oh, why should it be now?
Is this a dream?
Then waking would be pain, oh! Do not wake me,
let me dream again.
Entry in Nicholas II's diary by Alexandra before their wedding