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section7mfu2013-03-24 05:58 pm
glennagirl.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2013-03-24 05:58 pm
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C'est La Vie - Conclusion
C'est La Vie Began Here
~~~~~:
The day was warm and sunny, a contrast to the moods of the two men who walked side by side out of UNCLE Headquarters. The lobby served the role of what had been Del Floria’s, although it was now the only entryway into the world that used to occupy the old faux brownstone.
Illya and Napoleon had discussed the obvious faults of the current set up, neither of them comfortable with the evolution of the Command’s outward appearance. Truth be told, neither man was particularly confident with anything about the New UNCLE. So far, the original version was superior in every way, including its former stars. It was merely an honest observation.
When their shoes hit the pavement a car was waiting for the new Chief and … Whatever Kuryakin was currently was as yet undefined. What he would be, even less certain.
Illya took the wheel of the little car that was being surrendered by a Section III agent; a look of wistfulness lingered on the young man’s face.
“Is he looking at you or the car?”
Illya rolled his eyes, a familiar gesture that brought a smile to Solo’s face.
“Very funny, Napoleon. The car, undoubtedly. The Fiero is somewhat of a prize, I believe. For us it’s the affordable UNCLE car.”
Both men gave an involuntary shudder as they recalled the horrors of that iconic disaster. R&D had been forced to abandon car manufacturing after several years of vociferous complaints from every agent who ever drove the silver drone.
Napoleon opened his communicator to establish contact with Janice Friday. She would be coordinating the back up for this operation, something that Napoleon figured they would require soon after making contact with Gervaise Ravel. The destination to which they were heading was a house in Quogue, a small village that still offered a lifestyle that Gervaise would demand. In all likelihood she had a boat nearby as well, a luxury that she seemed to always find necessary.
“The boy told me that his mother will most likely be on guard. It may be difficult to take her without some resistance, possibly violence.”
Napoleon thought that Illya didn’t sound sorry enough about that last.
“I have six agents standing by, four more at the marina. It’s small so any boat coming or leaving will be visible. Illya…’
In all the years spent working with the Russian, Napoleon had never before felt the need to ask this question.
“… Are you going to be able to separate yourself from the personal events? We should try and take her alive.”
Illya understood the concern and the question. What he didn’t understand was how to lie convincingly about either.
“No, Napoleon, I can’t separate the fact that this woman killed … murdered Marion. She murdered Sir John and she wants to kill my daughter, me and you and God only knows who else.’
He shot a glance at his friend.
“I won’t fire without justification, Napoleon. But I also won’t hesitate if she threatens to kill again.”
Solo breathed deeply, his own emotions were not yet settled.
“I understand. What else can you tell me about the house? Do we have a clear entry or is it going to require exposing ourselves in order to get inside?”
As the scenery sped past, the two men discussed the strategy they would use for capturing Gervaise Ravel. At five minutes before noon, Illya pulled the little Fiero into a parking spot just out of sight of the house he identified as belonging to the woman they now sought. Harold Bolero had described it perfectly in addition to giving the address. It was modest looking from the street, a bungalow surrounded by flowering bushes at the base of a wooden porch that circled the house. Because of the height of the porch, the only way onto it was via the front steps. If someone came in from there the glass fronted door would make him or her easily visible from inside the house.
“Can you still do those gymnastic tricks you used to be good at?”
A mild snort informed Napoleon that indeed, the lithe blond of years past was still in shape.
“I can get in from the back, and you my friend can knock on the front door.”
That was the plan, just walk up to the door and say ‘hello’ to the woman who killed the head of UNCLE Northwest. It had a certain degree of risk, but it also said a lot about the man who would be doing it. Napoleon hadn’t lost his nerve, and as Continental Chief it was unlikely he would ever shy away from meeting the enemy on his, or her, own turf.
“Are you ready?”
The blond nodded.
“Be careful, Napoleon. This woman has no limits, and is perhaps true to the meaning of her name.’
At the beckoning expression on Solo’s face, Illya explained…
“Spear servant. I have developed an odd sort of curiosity about the origins of names. This one suits her, and she is, perhaps, servant or slave to the violence that this implies. In any event, do not give her opportunity to strike first.”
“All right, and I would say the same to you then, tovarisch. I’ll see you inside, then?”
“Yes. Here we go… again.”
With that nod to their past, the two men exited the Fiero and took their respective paths to the home of Gervaise Ravel. Napoleon’s was a bold approach, right up to the front door. Illya circled around to the back, finding a foothold in which to propel himself up onto the porch under cover of foliage that shielded him from observation. As Napoleon was preparing to ring the doorbell, the blond was scrambling over the railing.
Napoleon straightened his tie and flicked an invisible piece of lint. Some mannerisms were too much a part of the man to stop now. He pushed the doorbell, listening as the sound of multiple chimes alerted those inside that someone was waiting at the door. Even though he knew there were a half dozen agents close by, Napoleon had a momentary sense of unease at the thought of facing Gervaise. It wasn’t the threat of violence to himself, rather the fear that he would strike first in retaliation for what she had done.
Instead of Gervaise, it was her daughter, Buffy, who answered the door. Her surprise was genuine when she saw Napoleon Solo standing on her front porch.
“Mr. Solo, I … What are you doing here?”
If she were truly unaware of her mother’s actions and how they might provoke this man to hunt her down, Buffy’s response was understandable. Otherwise, she was a pretty good actress.
“Hello, uh… Miss Haroldson is it? I am here to speak to your mother. May I come in?”
The moment it took for Buffy to consider Napoleon’s bold approach was all it took for him to take command of the situation. He gently but without hesitation pushed the girl aside, entering the door as he withdrew his gun from the shoulder holster. Buffy started to object, but her mother appeared at the top of the stairs, quieting the girl and gaining Napoleon’s immediate attention.
“Mr. Solo, I must say your visit here is not exactly what I expected.”
Napoleon stopped to acknowledge the woman he had come to collect. Gervaise also had a gun, something that she now held in clear view, establishing a sort of stand off between them.
“Hello Gervaise. It’s been a long time since we last met. Unfortunately you didn’t gain any sense of remorse during your, um… rehabilitation.”
Gervaise Ravel raised her pistol and pointed it her unwelcome visitor.
“I don’t know what you have in mind, Solo, but I assure you my daughter’s presence here won’t inhibit me in any way. I’d just as soon shoot you here as in the City.”
That brought a smile to Napoleon’s face, but it was dangerous smile, something that should have served as a warning to the cold hearted woman who faced him. She lacked instinct.
The girl had been watching this little exchange with a calculating eye. Buffy was her mother’s daughter without having been raised by her. Exacting revenge had been an easy decision for her, unlike her brother. Harold was weak, and no doubt the very reason that Solo was here now.
“My brother led you here, didn’t he? I knew he wouldn’t be able to take the pressure. Mother, give me the gun, let me have the pleasure of killing Napoleon Solo.”
Napoleon saw a movement in the kitchen, the room at the back of the house and place where Illya had entered. His expression never changed, and he turned his attention to Buffy.
“My dear, you have not yet done anything that can’t be handled with consideration of your mother’s influence. You’re not too far gone, yet. If you kill me, then…’’
“If I kill you then I avenge my own father’s death. How is that not the right thing to do, Mr. Solo?”
The voice that answered her caught both women off guard, something that allowed Napoleon to grab the gun from Gervaise before she recovered from the shock of hearing Illya’s response.
“It was I who shot Harold Bufferton, so killing Napoleon would neither avenge your father or make sense as a tactical move.’
The blond moved into the room, his gun poised for whatever action might be required. As Gervaise continued to struggle with Napoleon, Buffy made a lunge for a cradenza where she knew a gun was located. Illya tackled her before she could get her hands on the weapon, but her intensity for revenge was fueling the girl. She grabbed for Illya’s gun and the two grappled and rolled across the floor while Gervaise and Napoleon watched. When Buffy, whose strength surprised the agile Russian, was able to put her finger on the trigger, it was one quick movement that turned the gun away from Illya and towards the two observers. Napoleon tried to turn away but the bullet that fired from Illya’s gun caught Gervaise.
“Mother! Oh, what have I done?”
Illya relaxed his grip on Buffy as she collapsed onto the floor, crawling towards her stricken mother. Napoleon and Illya were helpless to do anything more than watch as her grief consumed the girl over her actions.
At the sound of gunfire two agents had immediately come from their positions and entered the house, guns drawn.
“We’re fine, gentlemen. Please call for a clean up crew to come in and take care of the scene. And notify the local police, let them know this was an UNCLE operation and that a murder suspect has been shot and … killed. Killed by one of her accomplices.”
Everything seemed to be operating at full speed, and only the sense of déjà vu caused the room to come to a standstill for Illya. A woman dead, the grieving daughter…
“Illya? Hey, let’s get out of here. Let these agents take care of things.”
Kuryakin was only too glad to oblige, and he and Napoleon exited the house with little more than the grim awareness that a chapter of their lives was now fully closed. It hadn’t taken long, and the result was what he had wanted: Gervaise Ravel was dead. The murdering bitch was dead.
It didn’t help. None of this helped anything, didn’t bring back Marion or help him to assuage the guilt of not protecting her. He had promised to protect Marion and Nicolette, but Illya had failed Marion. When that awful moment came, he couldn’t save her from Gervaise and the torment of that woman’s thirst for vengeance.
And now his revenge was complete, or should have been. He had wanted Gervaise to pay with her life, but now that she had, all it meant for Illya was an empty feeling instead of the cry of victory.
“Why don’t you let me drive.”
Napoleon knew the beginnings of his friend’s lapse into a dark mood. It wouldn’t do to have him behind the wheel and not able to concentrate on the road. Better to let him brood in the passenger seat. And why not? The past thirty hours had been like a bad dream, only when they all woke up tomorrow, it would be to the awful truth that it was all very real.
The only thing that kept Napoleon from falling into the same pit of remorse was his genuine enthusiasm for the road ahead of him. Claiming his spot as Number One, Section of New York and beyond truly was his destiny. No matter the years spent reinventing himself as an entrepreneur, he was meant to come back here to UNCLE and take the reins of this Region. His hope now was that his partner and friend would join him here. Together they could get the Command back on track and doing the business that Alexander Waverly had envisioned was the eternal flame of his cherished organization.
The drive back to Manhattan was mercifully short, all things considered. When the Fiero pulled into the garage beneath the new UNCLE building, a Section III escort was waiting for the Chief and his Number Two. That’s what everyone assumed about Kuryakin, even if he didn’t yet know it.
Little conversation had passed between the two men, and now as they made their way up to Napoleon’s office, the silence seemed like a cement block; heavy and impossible to see through. Illya had only one thing on his mind, one person he needed to see and hold. Napoleon knew it, understood. Envied.
Janice and Nicolette were both sitting in Napoleon’s office when he and Illya entered. Without any hesitation Illya went to his daughter, lifting her up off the floor into an embrace that spoke of their shared grief, of resolution and fears. Janice Friday was near tears as she watched the dramatic reunion, and only Napoleon’s sense of respect for what was going on with his friend prodded him to signal Janice that they should vacate the room.
Closing the door behind them, Napoleon and his Girl Friday reviewed the afternoon from her office space that also served as a waiting room. The reports from the clean up crew were beginning to come in, as well as a call from more than one police department. The crimes committed and the eventual demise of Gervaise Ravel spanned several cities and jurisdictions. Only UNCLE would serve as a common thread to all of it. The two children would face charges, although Napoleon’s first instincts were to show some mercy. He would take counsel on the subject before making a decision.
Illya and Nicolette finally let go of each other, the father almost unwilling to relinquish his hold on this girl who had stolen his heart.
“My darling, precious Nicolette…”
The girl’s eyes were glistening, both from tears and how much she loved hearing her father’s voice.
“We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”
Illya wiped tears from his daughter’s eyes; hands that had killed were tenderly ministering to her needs now. Hands that had gone from violence to sketching dresses and cutting silk now had no greater purpose than to care for Nicolette. He had failed to protect Marion, but he would never fail her daughter. Their daughter.
“Yes, we are going to be fine. I promise.”
Illya kissed her forehead, something Nicolette had grown to love and crave. Every little thing that was just between the two of them was added to her list of favorite things.
“Illya … er, dad…’
She smiled self-consciously at her continuing use of his name.
“Dad… I’ve been thinking, and … well, I hope you agree because it’s what I really, really want to do.”
In a sudden surge of dad-consciousness, the words ‘really, really’ seemed to strike fear into the Russian’s sturdy constitution. Still, he doubted he could deny his daughter anything.
“What lyubimaya doch?”
Nicolette loved it when her father used Russian endearments, and she knew this was the right thing for her to do. She only hoped it would make this wonderful man happy, or at least as happy as either of them could be now… for a while.
“I want to go to design school. I want to work at the House of Vanya. I want to be a designer, like you.”
Had he heard her correctly? Was this what he had built Vanya for, as an inheritance for his child? Sometimes, in rare moments such as this, life made just a little bit of sense.
“Yes!’
The shout had been involuntary, but it seemed to please Nicolette. Napoleon heard and took a chance on opening the door to make sure everything was all right.
“I think this is perfect, and I have no doubt that you will be a brilliant designer. You can work while you’re in school, there’s no need for you to wait.’
Illya turned to see the audience they had gained.
“Napoleon, Janice… Meet my new partner.”
It would take a few minutes to explain everything, but at the end of it there was no doubt about the reason why the name had struck Illya all of those years ago. It would be truer than ever now.
It really was becoming The House of Vanya.
~~~~~:
The day was warm and sunny, a contrast to the moods of the two men who walked side by side out of UNCLE Headquarters. The lobby served the role of what had been Del Floria’s, although it was now the only entryway into the world that used to occupy the old faux brownstone.
Illya and Napoleon had discussed the obvious faults of the current set up, neither of them comfortable with the evolution of the Command’s outward appearance. Truth be told, neither man was particularly confident with anything about the New UNCLE. So far, the original version was superior in every way, including its former stars. It was merely an honest observation.
When their shoes hit the pavement a car was waiting for the new Chief and … Whatever Kuryakin was currently was as yet undefined. What he would be, even less certain.
Illya took the wheel of the little car that was being surrendered by a Section III agent; a look of wistfulness lingered on the young man’s face.
“Is he looking at you or the car?”
Illya rolled his eyes, a familiar gesture that brought a smile to Solo’s face.
“Very funny, Napoleon. The car, undoubtedly. The Fiero is somewhat of a prize, I believe. For us it’s the affordable UNCLE car.”
Both men gave an involuntary shudder as they recalled the horrors of that iconic disaster. R&D had been forced to abandon car manufacturing after several years of vociferous complaints from every agent who ever drove the silver drone.
Napoleon opened his communicator to establish contact with Janice Friday. She would be coordinating the back up for this operation, something that Napoleon figured they would require soon after making contact with Gervaise Ravel. The destination to which they were heading was a house in Quogue, a small village that still offered a lifestyle that Gervaise would demand. In all likelihood she had a boat nearby as well, a luxury that she seemed to always find necessary.
“The boy told me that his mother will most likely be on guard. It may be difficult to take her without some resistance, possibly violence.”
Napoleon thought that Illya didn’t sound sorry enough about that last.
“I have six agents standing by, four more at the marina. It’s small so any boat coming or leaving will be visible. Illya…’
In all the years spent working with the Russian, Napoleon had never before felt the need to ask this question.
“… Are you going to be able to separate yourself from the personal events? We should try and take her alive.”
Illya understood the concern and the question. What he didn’t understand was how to lie convincingly about either.
“No, Napoleon, I can’t separate the fact that this woman killed … murdered Marion. She murdered Sir John and she wants to kill my daughter, me and you and God only knows who else.’
He shot a glance at his friend.
“I won’t fire without justification, Napoleon. But I also won’t hesitate if she threatens to kill again.”
Solo breathed deeply, his own emotions were not yet settled.
“I understand. What else can you tell me about the house? Do we have a clear entry or is it going to require exposing ourselves in order to get inside?”
As the scenery sped past, the two men discussed the strategy they would use for capturing Gervaise Ravel. At five minutes before noon, Illya pulled the little Fiero into a parking spot just out of sight of the house he identified as belonging to the woman they now sought. Harold Bolero had described it perfectly in addition to giving the address. It was modest looking from the street, a bungalow surrounded by flowering bushes at the base of a wooden porch that circled the house. Because of the height of the porch, the only way onto it was via the front steps. If someone came in from there the glass fronted door would make him or her easily visible from inside the house.
“Can you still do those gymnastic tricks you used to be good at?”
A mild snort informed Napoleon that indeed, the lithe blond of years past was still in shape.
“I can get in from the back, and you my friend can knock on the front door.”
That was the plan, just walk up to the door and say ‘hello’ to the woman who killed the head of UNCLE Northwest. It had a certain degree of risk, but it also said a lot about the man who would be doing it. Napoleon hadn’t lost his nerve, and as Continental Chief it was unlikely he would ever shy away from meeting the enemy on his, or her, own turf.
“Are you ready?”
The blond nodded.
“Be careful, Napoleon. This woman has no limits, and is perhaps true to the meaning of her name.’
At the beckoning expression on Solo’s face, Illya explained…
“Spear servant. I have developed an odd sort of curiosity about the origins of names. This one suits her, and she is, perhaps, servant or slave to the violence that this implies. In any event, do not give her opportunity to strike first.”
“All right, and I would say the same to you then, tovarisch. I’ll see you inside, then?”
“Yes. Here we go… again.”
With that nod to their past, the two men exited the Fiero and took their respective paths to the home of Gervaise Ravel. Napoleon’s was a bold approach, right up to the front door. Illya circled around to the back, finding a foothold in which to propel himself up onto the porch under cover of foliage that shielded him from observation. As Napoleon was preparing to ring the doorbell, the blond was scrambling over the railing.
Napoleon straightened his tie and flicked an invisible piece of lint. Some mannerisms were too much a part of the man to stop now. He pushed the doorbell, listening as the sound of multiple chimes alerted those inside that someone was waiting at the door. Even though he knew there were a half dozen agents close by, Napoleon had a momentary sense of unease at the thought of facing Gervaise. It wasn’t the threat of violence to himself, rather the fear that he would strike first in retaliation for what she had done.
Instead of Gervaise, it was her daughter, Buffy, who answered the door. Her surprise was genuine when she saw Napoleon Solo standing on her front porch.
“Mr. Solo, I … What are you doing here?”
If she were truly unaware of her mother’s actions and how they might provoke this man to hunt her down, Buffy’s response was understandable. Otherwise, she was a pretty good actress.
“Hello, uh… Miss Haroldson is it? I am here to speak to your mother. May I come in?”
The moment it took for Buffy to consider Napoleon’s bold approach was all it took for him to take command of the situation. He gently but without hesitation pushed the girl aside, entering the door as he withdrew his gun from the shoulder holster. Buffy started to object, but her mother appeared at the top of the stairs, quieting the girl and gaining Napoleon’s immediate attention.
“Mr. Solo, I must say your visit here is not exactly what I expected.”
Napoleon stopped to acknowledge the woman he had come to collect. Gervaise also had a gun, something that she now held in clear view, establishing a sort of stand off between them.
“Hello Gervaise. It’s been a long time since we last met. Unfortunately you didn’t gain any sense of remorse during your, um… rehabilitation.”
Gervaise Ravel raised her pistol and pointed it her unwelcome visitor.
“I don’t know what you have in mind, Solo, but I assure you my daughter’s presence here won’t inhibit me in any way. I’d just as soon shoot you here as in the City.”
That brought a smile to Napoleon’s face, but it was dangerous smile, something that should have served as a warning to the cold hearted woman who faced him. She lacked instinct.
The girl had been watching this little exchange with a calculating eye. Buffy was her mother’s daughter without having been raised by her. Exacting revenge had been an easy decision for her, unlike her brother. Harold was weak, and no doubt the very reason that Solo was here now.
“My brother led you here, didn’t he? I knew he wouldn’t be able to take the pressure. Mother, give me the gun, let me have the pleasure of killing Napoleon Solo.”
Napoleon saw a movement in the kitchen, the room at the back of the house and place where Illya had entered. His expression never changed, and he turned his attention to Buffy.
“My dear, you have not yet done anything that can’t be handled with consideration of your mother’s influence. You’re not too far gone, yet. If you kill me, then…’’
“If I kill you then I avenge my own father’s death. How is that not the right thing to do, Mr. Solo?”
The voice that answered her caught both women off guard, something that allowed Napoleon to grab the gun from Gervaise before she recovered from the shock of hearing Illya’s response.
“It was I who shot Harold Bufferton, so killing Napoleon would neither avenge your father or make sense as a tactical move.’
The blond moved into the room, his gun poised for whatever action might be required. As Gervaise continued to struggle with Napoleon, Buffy made a lunge for a cradenza where she knew a gun was located. Illya tackled her before she could get her hands on the weapon, but her intensity for revenge was fueling the girl. She grabbed for Illya’s gun and the two grappled and rolled across the floor while Gervaise and Napoleon watched. When Buffy, whose strength surprised the agile Russian, was able to put her finger on the trigger, it was one quick movement that turned the gun away from Illya and towards the two observers. Napoleon tried to turn away but the bullet that fired from Illya’s gun caught Gervaise.
“Mother! Oh, what have I done?”
Illya relaxed his grip on Buffy as she collapsed onto the floor, crawling towards her stricken mother. Napoleon and Illya were helpless to do anything more than watch as her grief consumed the girl over her actions.
At the sound of gunfire two agents had immediately come from their positions and entered the house, guns drawn.
“We’re fine, gentlemen. Please call for a clean up crew to come in and take care of the scene. And notify the local police, let them know this was an UNCLE operation and that a murder suspect has been shot and … killed. Killed by one of her accomplices.”
Everything seemed to be operating at full speed, and only the sense of déjà vu caused the room to come to a standstill for Illya. A woman dead, the grieving daughter…
“Illya? Hey, let’s get out of here. Let these agents take care of things.”
Kuryakin was only too glad to oblige, and he and Napoleon exited the house with little more than the grim awareness that a chapter of their lives was now fully closed. It hadn’t taken long, and the result was what he had wanted: Gervaise Ravel was dead. The murdering bitch was dead.
It didn’t help. None of this helped anything, didn’t bring back Marion or help him to assuage the guilt of not protecting her. He had promised to protect Marion and Nicolette, but Illya had failed Marion. When that awful moment came, he couldn’t save her from Gervaise and the torment of that woman’s thirst for vengeance.
And now his revenge was complete, or should have been. He had wanted Gervaise to pay with her life, but now that she had, all it meant for Illya was an empty feeling instead of the cry of victory.
“Why don’t you let me drive.”
Napoleon knew the beginnings of his friend’s lapse into a dark mood. It wouldn’t do to have him behind the wheel and not able to concentrate on the road. Better to let him brood in the passenger seat. And why not? The past thirty hours had been like a bad dream, only when they all woke up tomorrow, it would be to the awful truth that it was all very real.
The only thing that kept Napoleon from falling into the same pit of remorse was his genuine enthusiasm for the road ahead of him. Claiming his spot as Number One, Section of New York and beyond truly was his destiny. No matter the years spent reinventing himself as an entrepreneur, he was meant to come back here to UNCLE and take the reins of this Region. His hope now was that his partner and friend would join him here. Together they could get the Command back on track and doing the business that Alexander Waverly had envisioned was the eternal flame of his cherished organization.
The drive back to Manhattan was mercifully short, all things considered. When the Fiero pulled into the garage beneath the new UNCLE building, a Section III escort was waiting for the Chief and his Number Two. That’s what everyone assumed about Kuryakin, even if he didn’t yet know it.
Little conversation had passed between the two men, and now as they made their way up to Napoleon’s office, the silence seemed like a cement block; heavy and impossible to see through. Illya had only one thing on his mind, one person he needed to see and hold. Napoleon knew it, understood. Envied.
Janice and Nicolette were both sitting in Napoleon’s office when he and Illya entered. Without any hesitation Illya went to his daughter, lifting her up off the floor into an embrace that spoke of their shared grief, of resolution and fears. Janice Friday was near tears as she watched the dramatic reunion, and only Napoleon’s sense of respect for what was going on with his friend prodded him to signal Janice that they should vacate the room.
Closing the door behind them, Napoleon and his Girl Friday reviewed the afternoon from her office space that also served as a waiting room. The reports from the clean up crew were beginning to come in, as well as a call from more than one police department. The crimes committed and the eventual demise of Gervaise Ravel spanned several cities and jurisdictions. Only UNCLE would serve as a common thread to all of it. The two children would face charges, although Napoleon’s first instincts were to show some mercy. He would take counsel on the subject before making a decision.
Illya and Nicolette finally let go of each other, the father almost unwilling to relinquish his hold on this girl who had stolen his heart.
“My darling, precious Nicolette…”
The girl’s eyes were glistening, both from tears and how much she loved hearing her father’s voice.
“We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”
Illya wiped tears from his daughter’s eyes; hands that had killed were tenderly ministering to her needs now. Hands that had gone from violence to sketching dresses and cutting silk now had no greater purpose than to care for Nicolette. He had failed to protect Marion, but he would never fail her daughter. Their daughter.
“Yes, we are going to be fine. I promise.”
Illya kissed her forehead, something Nicolette had grown to love and crave. Every little thing that was just between the two of them was added to her list of favorite things.
“Illya … er, dad…’
She smiled self-consciously at her continuing use of his name.
“Dad… I’ve been thinking, and … well, I hope you agree because it’s what I really, really want to do.”
In a sudden surge of dad-consciousness, the words ‘really, really’ seemed to strike fear into the Russian’s sturdy constitution. Still, he doubted he could deny his daughter anything.
“What lyubimaya doch?”
Nicolette loved it when her father used Russian endearments, and she knew this was the right thing for her to do. She only hoped it would make this wonderful man happy, or at least as happy as either of them could be now… for a while.
“I want to go to design school. I want to work at the House of Vanya. I want to be a designer, like you.”
Had he heard her correctly? Was this what he had built Vanya for, as an inheritance for his child? Sometimes, in rare moments such as this, life made just a little bit of sense.
“Yes!’
The shout had been involuntary, but it seemed to please Nicolette. Napoleon heard and took a chance on opening the door to make sure everything was all right.
“I think this is perfect, and I have no doubt that you will be a brilliant designer. You can work while you’re in school, there’s no need for you to wait.’
Illya turned to see the audience they had gained.
“Napoleon, Janice… Meet my new partner.”
It would take a few minutes to explain everything, but at the end of it there was no doubt about the reason why the name had struck Illya all of those years ago. It would be truer than ever now.
It really was becoming The House of Vanya.