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Consciousness returned slowly and painfully. He rolled carefully onto his side, breathing steadily through the resulting dizziness, only to come face to face with Napoleon sitting in a chair next to the bed, sipping a cup of coffee.
“You are back.”
“And a Merry Christmas to you too, Illya.”
He winced against the daylight streaming through the window.
“I know, I know, ‘Christmas is for children and naive fools, Napoleon.’ Well, this naive fool just spent 37 hours straight on a train, a chicken truck and a plane in order to make it back in time to spend Christmas with you.”
He dragged himself up into a sitting position against the headboard. “A Chicken truck?”
“Always good to see your razor sharp mind in action.” Napoleon handed him a glass of water which he quickly drained. “I got here just before midnight and let myself in. The alarms weren’t on. I could have been anyone, Illya, and there you were, passed out over your coffee table.”
“It has been a hard week. I was tired.”
“You were drunk and lying half in a shallow bowl of water. You were lucky you didn’t drown or set yourself on fire.”
“It seems highly unlikely given the water that I’d have caught on fire.”
“There was a burned out candle and wax everywhere.”
“I can explain.”
“This should be good.” Napoleon settled back in the chair.
“I was reminiscing about the old days, drinking vodka and remembering how my grandmother would tell fortunes by dripping candle wax into a shallow bowl of water.”
“How?”
“By reading the shapes. If it looked like a house you were to be married. If it looked like tree branches pointing downward it meant trouble… Or you might see your true love’s face.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” He put the empty water glass he’d been clutching down on his bedside table. “My explanation was quite succinct.”
Napoleon looked exasperated. “Why were you drinking vodka and reminiscing on a holiday for naive fools, my melancholic friend?”
He had decided he would never tell Napoleon that he knew. “Angelique, Spiros, Amelia, Lavinia and, I'm told, Hadley.” So much for never saying anything.
Napoleon put his coffee cup down and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, looming over him. “Rumors of my infidelity have been greatly exaggerated.” And then he kissed him.
When Napoleon pulled back he stared deep into Illya's eyes, caressing his cheek. “You’re ripe. You need to take a shower.”
He’d made it unsteadily as far as the bathroom when Napoleon called out after him.
“Oh and Illya, if you saw any face in that bowl that wasn't mine your grandmother taught you wrong.”
He grinned. His babushka had never been wrong about anything.