Nikita sighed happily and tucked her arm through Michael’s. It was a perfect night: the mid-December sky was clear and cold and the stars blazed down, visible even in the city. And how often does that happen, she grinned to herself. About as often as Michael accepting your touch, a wry inner voice answered, and, remembering herself, she drew her arm away, pretending to stumble on the sidewalk.

Michael pulled her hand back, laced his fingers through hers and inhaled the sharp night air. Nikita almost felt giddy. It’s the wine, she told herself, though she’d only had a few glasses. It’s Michael, whispered that inner voice, and Nikita shook her head, silencing it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she answered brightly. “We’re here,” she commented, and Michael allowed her to enter the concert hall first.

The bright light and loud buzz of conversation was a little disconcerting after walking a few blocks in the dark. Nikita blinked and allowed Michael to take her coat to the coat check counter and listened to the people around her. Holiday garlands were draped around columns and tacked above arched doorways, filling the air with a woodsy aroma; a branch of mistletoe hung from the enormous chandelier. Nikita glanced around, hoping ... but no, there she was. Little Precious. Dressed in red velvet, a sprig of holly tucked in her bright hair, she looked like a little cherub. Too bad I know differently, Nikita thought. Little Precious had the slightly wild look of a child who has had too much sugar. Great, Nikita thought, and now I get to sit in front of her. Nikita smiled icily at Precious, who was sipping on some egg nog. Wonder if I could slip a little rum in that, Nikita wondered, then immediately discarded the idea.

Little Precious’s eyes narrowed and her face pinched up like an old woman’s. Oh, dear, Nikita thought. We’re in for a long night. And things were going so perfectly ...

Where was Michael? She looked around but couldn’t spot him. He better be here somewhere, she thought, irritated. This would be the first time all season they’d sit together -- Nikita’s usual neighbor was skiing with his wife, so he’d given his ticket to Nikita to use. If Michael leaves me to go to work without so much as a by-your-leave ... Nikita let the thought go unfinished, but she began thinking of various pay-back schemes.

People began filing past her; Little Precious passed close by and Nikita squashed the impulse to trip her. Really, she chastised herself, she’s only a child. And it’s the holidays. I ought to be a little nicer.

Little Precious trod heavily upon Nikita’s foot and Nikita winced, then shot a lethal look toward the child. Precious merely grinned saucily up at her, and Nikita repressed the urge to kick her.

Brat.

No, Nikita thought firmly. I’m not going to let her ruin my evening. It’s been perfect so far and there’s no reason for me to get upset with her. She took a deep breath. As soon as the music starts, it’ll be all right, Nikita told herself.

“Ready?” Michael materialized at her side. “I wanted to give up my box ticket. It’s SRO tonight, so maybe someone will enjoy it.” With one last worried look at Precious, Nikita nodded.

Michael took her elbow and the usher handed them programs. In addition to the usual small booklet, there was a sheaf of music, and Nikita studied it uneasily.

They settled down in their seats. As soon as Nikita’s back touched the chair, Little Precious sent a flying kick her way.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The kicks settled into a steady rhythm.

Nikita gritted her teeth. Wretched child. Children like that should be drawn and quartered ...

“It’s too bad, really,” Nikita said to Michael, as if continuing a conversation.

“What is?” Michael answered absently, studying his program.

Thump. Thump. THUMP.

“Oh, you know, those children disappearing. Even if they misbehaved, it does seem like overly strong punishment.”

“What?”

“You know,” Nikita pretended impatience, subtly placing a hand on his thigh and holding his eyes with her own. “Those children that were eaten.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up, but his face remained impassive. The steady beat against Nikita’s chair faltered, and Nikita threw herself into her subterfuge.

“You remember, I read it to you from the paper last week. They found the bones in some creek bed. Apparently the gypsies stole them and ate them,” Nikita said conversationally.

“Ah,” Michael said.

“For some reason, the gypsies believe bad children taste better than good ones. I wonder why that is? Perhaps it’s like wild game,” she mused. “Some people prefer corn-fed chicken; some prefer free-range.”

“Perhaps,” Michael agreed, his hand covering hers. Slowly his fingers moved over hers, and Nikita caught her breath as he traced her wedding ring.

“It’s easy to see why so many children are disappearing, though,” Nikita continued. “After all, it’s been a dry year -- there aren’t as many deer as usual. Gypsies depend on wildlife to eat, you know. Depending on how big the child is, it could feed quite a few people. And it’s not as if they’re taking good children -- they only take the ones no one can stand.”

There was utter silence behind Nikita. Trusting that her eavesdropper had heard enough (and feeling a little queasy herself), Nikita smiled brightly. Her evening might not be ruined after all. “Well. What’s on the agenda for tonight?”

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

They began with the Messiah. The orchestra played the first part, then the city choir came out, all dressed in slick black and red, and led the audience in the Allelujah chorus, which Nikita gamely (if not tunefully) followed. By the end, she had puzzled out the notes and she was sorry when the intermission was called.

Fifteen minutes later after they’d stretched their legs, they took their places again. Along the back wall of the house dim figures stood -- Michael hadn’t been kidding, it really was Standing Room Only -- and Nikita was happy she and Michael had good seats. She was even more happy that Little Precious remained silent and still. A perfect night, all in all, she thought, smiling slightly.

The second half was Strauss. But the music barely started when Michael’s beeper, which he’d been holding lightly in his hand, vibrated. He held the display up to catch the light so he could see the numbers, and without thinking, Nikita clutched his arm.

“No.” The word was out before she could call it back, and horrified, she dropped her hand and bit her lip.

“Nikita, I have to go,” he whispered, lips close to her ear to not disturb anyone else.

She bit down on her lip hard and managed to whisper back in an even cool tone, “I’ll be seeing you, then.”

“Yes. You will.”

Her eyes flew up to meet his, and he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “As soon as I can,” he promised, and before she could say anything else, he slipped out and disappeared into the dark. She twisted around and caught a small sliver of light as he went through the back house doors.

The music swelled around her. Swallowing her disappointment and blinking back sudden unreasonable tears, Nikita took a deep breath. She concentrated on the beat, the rhythm, the color of the music, and soon she relaxed into her chair. Her eyes never left the stage and her heart beat right along with the waltz.

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

She didn’t expect Michael to be waiting for her at home, so she wasn’t disappointed when she arrived to a dark apartment. As soon as I can could mean anything from two days to a month.

Her apartment was stifling. There was something wrong with the heat; she made a mental note to call the landlord tomorrow and started opening windows.

She took off her dress, feeling a little melancholy. For an evening that started out so perfectly, the ending certainly left something to be desired.

She’d just put on her nightgown and was considering a bowl of ice cream to cool off with when her cell phone rang, and half an hour later, Nikita (now in black mission attire) boarded the transport van. In a thoroughly cranky mood, she wondered how quickly she could be back home. Let’s see: break into the building, that’ll take 20 minutes at the most; get to the 14th floor via the stairs, another 10 minutes if there’s guards; get the disk ... probably ten minutes, depending on how quickly we find it ... her partner for this one was Andrew, a friendly individual who was well-liked in Section. Word had it he’d killed his stepfather, but whatever his previous temperament, he was now known for being calm, cool and collected, even under the most difficult circumstances. Right now, he was completely relaxed, palms upward on his lap, head back and eyes closed in meditation.

“Nikita.”

She hadn’t realized her communicator was on, and she jumped when Michael’s voice came through the transmitter as clearly as if he were beside her rather than still at Section. “Yes?”

A pause. “What is it, Michael?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were there.”

“Where else would I be?” she asked grouchily. She was still hot, and the mission clothes didn’t help any -- they were notoriously non-porus, and she was sweltering. “What’s the ETA?”

“A few more minutes. How’s Andrew?”

“Meditating. You think it’ll take half an hour?”

“If nothing goes wrong,” Michael answered.

They were silent, the communicator still open between them. “So,” Michael said finally, “How was the rest of the concert?”

What is this, small talk? Nikita frowned, then answered slowly, “Fine. Actually, it was really good. I loved the Strauss. And Precious finally fell asleep half way through the second part. Did you know she has an adenoid problem? She snores.”

“Yes, actually, I did.”

The van pulled to a stop in an alley between two older buildings, and Nikita and Andrew debarked, each tucking an extra gun in their respective waist bands. Andrew activated his communicator, nodded at Nikita, and they melted into the night.

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

From Birkhoff’s station at Section, Michael rubbed his bottom lip worriedly. He watched as one by one, all the floodlights on the southern side of Nexxal Laboratories blinked off according to plan. Something isn’t right, he thought. He’d designed the mission several weeks ago, but for one reason or another it had been shelved until tonight. Now, he worried he’d missed something. The seconds ticked off.

“They’re entering the facility,” Birkhoff informed him, and Michael leaned forward, watching as two glowing yellow dots eliminated several other red dots. Six guards. Too many, Michael frowned. There were only supposed to be four on duty.

“Birkhoff, why so many guards?”

“You think they may be alerted to our ---” Birkhoff twisted around to look at Michael, and at that moment, Nikita’s voice came through their communicators.

“Something’s off, Michael,” she said. “Andrew and I are splitting up. I’m going to download the information and he’s going to keep the way clear.”

“Why do you --”

“The guards weren’t Rent-A-Cops,” Nikita said, sounding impatient and cross. “They’re specialty. Something’s not right --”

“Get the information and get out,” Michael decided. “Andrew?”

“Yessir,” Andrew answered, and took position behind Nikita.

“Not too far behind her,” Michael’s voice came tinnily through Andrew’s ears and he rolled his eyes at Nikita.

“Ladies first,” Andrew said, and Nikita stuck her tongue out at him. Leaving him where he was, she climbed the last two flights of stairs alone.

Carefully, she twisted the knob and slowly peered through the crack in the door. Reassured, she entered the hallway, found the suite she was looking for, broke into the office, and made her way to the only stand-alone computer in the facility. She booted up, put one of Birkhoff’s routers on it, and waited for the information to download.

“Nikita,” Birkhoff sounded a little impatient. “Why aren’t you transferring yet?”

“I am,” she said. “I have been for the past minute or so. You aren’t receiving?”

“No, nothing. You’ll have to do it manually. You have the right equipment?”

“Yeah, sure.” Nikita sat down at the computer, set up an external hard drive, and followed Birkhoff’s instructions carefully.

Michael watched the other screen as Andrew took out another guard. “We’ve been detected,” Michael said.

“I need a few more minutes ...” Nikita said, quickly copying files as fast as she could.

“Only take the essentials,” Birkhoff instructed, beginning to be nervous himself. “Anything that has ‘ZRL’ in it’s name.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” Nikita muttered, trying to work faster.

Andrew took out another guard, and on the screen Michael could see what seemed to be a regiment of guards mounting the stairs.

“Andrew,” Michael said, “Go up to the next floor. Double back and take the north stairs to the exit. You’ve been detected. Nikita: finish up --”

“Got it,” she said, relief flooding her voice.

“Too late,” Birkhoff winced and watched the guards swarm the exit stairs. “Nikita, you have to get out of there -- there’s no place to hide --”

But just then, the guards burst into the outer office.

Face impassive, Michael watched the dot that was Nikita hesitate for an instant. Then his screen went blank.

“Birkhoff?” Michael’s voice could have frozen fire.

Birkhoff’s fingers flew over the keyboard, but visual was down. “I don’t know what happened --”

“Be quiet,” Michael said harshly, and he turned up the sound on his communicator. “Turn on the big speakers.”

Birkhoff complied, and all of Section was flooded with a kind of erratic hissing noise that rose and fell. On top of that was rapid breathing.

“Nikita, can you answer me?” Michael’s voice echoed off Section walls.

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

Nikita pressed herself tight against the outside wall of the building and thanked her lucky stars that Nexxal was in an older building. She glanced down, and was twice grateful -- the outside foot-wide ledge she was standing on circled the 14th floor, but the floors above and below her had no ledges. If this were a modern building, I wouldn’t have even gotten the window open, she thought, huddling as close as she could to the cold brick.

Nikita was on the southern side of the building, which faced Glenn Street. Two days before, Section personnel shot out the street lamps on Glenn. Not only that, but Birkhoff arranged for the electric company to cut power to other buildings on the street for a few hours. The only light down below came from a small all-night cafe, and it didn’t reach up here.

Wind buffeted Nikita, finally cooling off her overheated skin. She clutched the building behind her. Very slowly, she inched over a few feet to the right, where the ledge widened and a rain gutter disguised as a gargoyle jutted out from the building. At least it’s something to hang on to, she thought, and she wrapped her arms around the bilious head of ...

“Michael,” she hissed, not daring to speak any louder for fear of detection, “What’s the guy’s name on the $50 bill?”

His voice, sounding strangely hollow, came back to her: “American?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, aggravated. She was beginning to get cold. Wind tore at her, chilling her down to her bones.

She heard a rustle, and she imagined Michael getting out his wallet. But he doesn’t have any American money, she realized, remembering that when they’d gone out to the restaurant tonight he’d had to search for Canadian currency. He had money from Greece, France and Denmark, and finally, tucked in the back, Canada. But no American money. She heard Michael say, “Birkhoff?”

“Ah ... that’d be Grant, I think,” Birkhoff answered, still trying to get visual on Nikita.

“Grant. I’m standing here with him right now,” Nikita said, repressing an urge to laugh. Cold wind whipped around her, and she squatted down as much as she dared, huddling next to the stone gargoyle-cum-Grant. His disapproving face frowned down at Glenn Street, and as lights began to flick on in the offices to her left, Nikita tried to make herself as small as possible. All they have to do is look out the window, she thought, worriedly. Birkhoff’s hard drive dug painfully into her stomach, and as the room behind her was flooded with light, she froze.

Nikita and Grant were between windows. The office she’d come from was two windows down. Nervously, she watched as two black-clad men crossed the window, frowning, guns drawn.

They passed by. Did I leave anything behind, Nikita worried -- the extra router? A glove? She made a mental checklist without moving her hands from the gargoyle, but everything she’d gone in with seemed accounted for. Nikita fatalistically waited for the window to open.

Instead, the light clicked off. Light in the next office -- one window down -- shone through the uncurtained window. Nikita shuddered.

“Nikita, can you answer me?”

She remained silent, shivering as another blast of wind shook her. She felt like it was trying to pull her from her perch, and for the first time she felt real sympathy for the birds that made their homes in places like this. Not, she realized, that there were any birds on this side of the building. Not even very many droppings. Even the birds have better sense than I do, she realized, longing for her overheated apartment.

The light was extinguished. Nikita waited, then, as expected, lights were turned on in the office to her right, past the gargoyle. Feeling a little less exposed, Nikita relaxed for a few minutes, wriggling her now numb fingers. Her hands were so cold her wedding ring was loose, and she rubbed her hands through her leather gloves, feeling the rings twist with every movement.

She waited. Gradually, the searchers retreated -- Nikita followed their progress by the lights in the windows, and wasn’t surprised when they reversed and searched the rooms again.

By this time, she was cold clear through. She clenched her jaw so her teeth wouldn’t clatter, but soon that took too much effort, and the sound of Nikita’s clattering teeth bounced off Section walls.

“Hold on,” Michael said quietly, and his voice echoed through Section. “What’s the progress?”

“They’ve -- they’ve left, I think,” Nikita stuttered, clutching Grant. Another gust of wind tore at her and she stifled a groan. “Can I come in?”

“We still don’t have visual,” Michael said. “You’ll have to wait until a team can get in to clean the area.”

“Where -- where’s Andrew?” Nikita shivered.

“He checked in a few minutes ago,” Birkhoff said. “He’s clear of the building and says he’s waiting for pickup at a nearby park. We’re sending someone over in a few minutes.” Though she hadn’t asked, he added, “He’s fine, but was shot in the shoulder. Otherwise we’d send him.”

Now that the danger was mostly over and Nikita could speak in a normal voice, Michael turned down the volume and rerouted Nikita’s communicator so only he and Birkhoff could hear conversation. “How are you?” he asked.

“Fine. Cold.”

In his mind’s eye, he pictured Nikita shivering in the wind. Soon she’d get tired, and she needed to stay awake or she’d fall off ...

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Oh, you know. Whistling in the wind.” Nikita let go of Grant and inched over. She pushed on the window behind her. Locked. She scooted over to the next window -- the one she’d exited -- and pushed up. “I’m trying to get back in where it’s warm. But the window’s locked,” she said, cautiously searching her pockets for her glass cutter. “I’m cutting my way in --”

“No,” Birkhoff said suddenly, looking up from his computer. “Nikita, don’t breach security from the outside. They’ve rerouted the security system in the building and I can’t get a lock on the codes. It’ll take a couple of hours for me to breach it, and if you go back through the window, it’ll trip the alarm.”

Nikita paused, the cutter in her hands. “Come on, Birkhoff,” she said skeptically, “I’ve already tugged at the windows and nothing happened. Anyway, no one puts that kind of system on windows 14 stories off the ground.”

“Granted, but when the system’s reset, like this one was, it automatically shields every opening -- even the ones 14 stories off the ground,” Birkhoff answered. “And the alarm didn’t sound when you pulled on the windows because of the way the system’s configured. It only sounds if security’s breached. Otherwise, every little windstorm would trip the alarm.”

Nikita put her knife away and inched back over to Grant, hugging him as if he were an old friend.

“Someone will be along shortly,” Michael said. “Just wait.”

“All right.” Through her communicator, he heard the wind whistling around her. He wondered if she’d taken the time to put on a union suit under her mission clothes, and thought she probably hadn’t. Nikita ran hot -- sometimes, even the mission clothes were too warm for her, and she tended to take off whatever she could whenever she could. He knew for a fact she sometimes omitted what other people considered essential pieces of underwear. He wondered how many masks she’d lost over the years, simply because she couldn’t stand her head being so hot. “Michael, what time is it?”

“A little past two.” He was quiet for a few moments, then said, “I wonder if Precious has woken up yet?”

“What do you mean?” She was beginning to sound drowsy, and Michael’s concern doubled.

“From her nightmare about cannibalistic gypsies.”

Birkhoff’s eyebrows raised, and Nikita laughed a little breathlessly. “I guess that was a pretty mean thing to do, wasn’t it?”

“Crude, but effective,” Michael answered.

“I guess.”

Quiet. The wind hissed through the communicator, and Michael, dressed warmly in black wool, shivered a little.

“Still,” Nikita’s voice was thin with strain but solid, “It wasn’t a very nice thing to say about the gypsies.”

Michael wasn’t good at idle chit chat. In fact, he’d been taught the art of conversation, and during a mission, could usually perform adequately. In private life, it was another matter. But she has to stay awake, he reminded himself, and checked the ETA of the second team. They were still 45 minutes away. “Tell me about the rest of the concert.”

Birkhoff tuned them out and focused on getting a visual on Nikita.

“Well,” Nikita huddled close to the stone, trying to conserve body heat. “The Strauss was nice. Then they played something really energetic, kind of jumpy and wild ...”

Michael frowned and tried to recall the program -- it seemed like weeks since he’d sat next to her in the concert hall. “Bartok?”

“No ... that wasn’t it ...”

“Oh ... Liszt,” Michael said, finally remembering. “What did they play? I can’t remember ...”

“Ummm .... some Hungarian thing...”

A fierce gust of wind ripped around the building, and Michael heard her gasp. She was flagging, he could tell. “Bohemian? Wasn’t Liszt the one who told people he was a gypsy? What did the program say?”

“He ...” Nikita shivered convulsively and blinked wind-induced tears away. “He was a child prodigy ... he was mostly a performer, but he ... he had a good ear ... he and his father toured when he was a child and teenager. Then his ... his father died, and he and his mother moved ...”

Her voice faded, and Michael prompted, “Where?”

“Ummm ... Paris, I think.” Tired of standing, Nikita shifted her position and sat down on the ledge, her legs in front of her. Needles of pain shot through her stiff muscles and she winced. “How much longer, Michael?”

“Just a few more minutes,” Michael assured, raising his eyebrows at Birkhoff, who nodded back. “So ... what happened after Paris?”

“He played ... taught people ... had some affairs ... one of his daughters married that Nazi guy.”

Momentarily confused, Michael wondered who on earth she could be talking about. “Nazi guy?”

“Yeah, you know ... the one Hitler was so crazy about ... they played him last month ...” her voice faded, and Michael’s anxiety rose.

“Wagner?”

“Yeah, that’s it ...”

“Wagner did operas,” Michael said. “And he was not a Nazi.”

“Well, they played something or other of his when you were in San Paulo.”

Nikita gave a huge yawn and shivered convulsively. Michael was a regular chatterbox tonight, she thought grouchily. Figures. I try for four years to get him to talk about something, anything, and he waits until I’m 14 floors up on a ledge.

First he leaves me in a concert hall, then he leaves me on a ledge, she thought crossly. If I weren’t so tired and cold I’d be really mad at him right now. This night can’t get any worse, she decided.

Something cold and wet splotched on her forehead. She wiped it off, wonderingly, then looked up. Another splat.

Snow. The wet sploshy kind that mushes up the streets and only looks pretty when it’s coming down.

Nikita groaned.

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

By the time the team arrived to extract Nikita, she was half-frozen and a thin, slippery layer of snow lay damply on her and her ledge. Very small nubs of ice sickles were forming on Grant’s nose and chin, and Nikita was so stiff she had a very difficult time making it to the window without falling. In the end, the operatives inside formed a small chain and Laura, who was the lightest, shinnied out on the ledge, grabbed Nikita, and was pulled back inside.

She dozed on the way back to Section, and when Operations saw her, he silently held out his hand. She pulled out the external hard drive, dropped it into his hands and sneezed so hard she nearly went over backward.

“At this stage in the game, debriefing is not only unnecessary, it’s most likely unhealthy for all concerned,” Operations said, somewhat distastefully. “Andrew has given us all the information we need. Go home.”

Nikita nodded numbly, pushing damp hair out of her face. Not for the first time she wished she’d worn her union suit -- Walter was always lecturing her on it -- “You never know where you’ll end up and it’s best to be prepared” -- well, next time I’ll listen, she promised herself. And I’ll wear underwear, too.

Usually, Nikita wasn’t sloppy about her goings and comings in Section. But tonight, damp, cold and miserable, she hailed the first cab she saw and relaxed against the cracked Naugahyde seats. Without even looking at the denomination, she paid the taxi driver too much and lurched inside, still shivering.

It was almost dawn. Through her gauzy curtains, the sky was fading to a dark periwinkle. It was freezing inside -- she’d left the windows open because it was too warm when she left, and now it was an ice box. Nikita looked around her apartment -- had it only been a few hours ago that she’d been here? Seemed like an eternity. She slammed the doors and windows closed and stood over the heating vent for a moment, trying to get some feeling in her feet.

She pulled off her wet clothes, which seemed adhered to her skin like saran wrap, and stepped into a luke warm shower. As her body warmed, she increased the hot water, so by the time she was finished, her skin felt almost normal. She put on her flannel pajamas and her purple robe and stepped out of the steamy bathroom.

Michael turned toward her as he heard the bathroom door open. Nikita halted. “What’re you doing here?”

The kettle whistled, and Michael took off the pot, pouring boiling water over a tea bag. “It’s really cold in here. Is the heating broken?”

The scent of mint filled the air, and despite herself, Nikita’s mouth watered. “I’m calling the man tomorrow,” she waved his concern away. “Are you trying to seduce me with tea?”

“Of course not.” He added some sugar, stirred, and brought her the cup. Nikita wrapped her fingers around it, appreciative of the warmth. “I just wanted to say I’m --”

“--Sorry,” Nikita finished for him. “Yeah. I know.” She took a sip of tea, burned her tongue and contented herself with placing the warm mug against her cheek. “First you leave me at the concert. Then you let me spend the night on a ledge. Make it good.”

“What do you mean?”

Nikita stared at him, challenge clear in her eyes. “I want to hear a good excuse. So start talking.”

“I don’t have an excuse. You know the way things are.”

Nikita took another drink of tea, this one a little cooler. “All right then,” she decided. “Do you want to make it up to me?”

Why was it that he was always at fault in these situations? Michael didn’t know, and frankly, he didn’t really want to think it through. He had a feeling the answer would make him even more uncomfortable than he already was. So instead, already dreading the answer, he said, “What did you have in mind?”

“Tickets. Good ones. To the next performance of whatever they’re having. Front row. Or, if you can’t get front row, far enough from Little Precious so I don’t kill her. And you have to come, sit with me and stay for the entire performance.” She jabbed an accusing finger in his chest, fixing him with a glare -- the same one she’d earlier given Little Precious, but neither Michael or Nikita realized it.

“Dinner, too?”

She considered. “If you like, but it’s not compulsory.”

That didn’t sound so bad. “All right,” Michael decided, taking her empty tea cup. “Under one condition.”

“What’s that?” she asked suspiciously.

“You get some rest.” He took her unresisting hand and led her to her bed, relieved her of her housecoat and gave her a gentle shove. She toppled over, and Michael tucked a heating pad between the sheets.

Nikita gave a jaw-cracking yawn. “You should rest, too,” she said, eyes closing. “You stayed up all night.”

“I have to go back to Section. Anyway, I wasn’t the one on a ledge in the snow.”

“It was only a little snow,” Nikita mumbled, huddling down in the covers. She roused herself momentarily. “Remember, you promised: good tickets and you come with me.”

“I promise. Anything that’s not SRO.”

Satisfied, Nikita fell asleep. A few minutes later, Michael left her apartment, carefully locking the door behind him.

Tickets. She might as well have asked for the Hope diamond -- the symphony was sold out, and he didn’t have a prayer of purchasing good seats. Briefly, he considered using Section to procure tickets, but dismissed the idea -- too many questions.

Wait -- of course, Michael thought, finally finding a loop hole. She hadn’t specified what kind of tickets. It wasn’t Christmas yet, probably there was a performance of Nutcracker going on somewhere. If that didn’t work out, surely someone somewhere was doing Twelfth Night. Or maybe she’d enjoy the opera ... he’d heard Carmen was pretty good this time around, and he thought it would appeal to Nikita.

And he wouldn’t have to contend with Little Precious.

Michael had almost a jaunty bounce in his step when he arrived at Section. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad, after all, he thought.

--End--