For the duration of the ride, Napoleon stewed and watched his superior. Waverly said very little else, and nothing that indicated the scope of his plan, but apparently he wanted Napoleon to rescue Illya.

Which he would be doing, regardless.

He had to assume that Waverly did *not* want him to sacrifice himself for Illya outright, however.

"Sir--?"

"Just a minute, Mr. Solo. I'm in the middle of a paragraph. I'm afraid I may not finish the book before I am traded." He tsk-ed.

Napoleon sighed and leaned his head back against the seat. He needed to come up with some plans of his own.

---/-/---

"Princess Ilyana--" He froze, looking down into Claire's face. "Prince... Well, I can't very well-- Well, I suppose there's no other-- Now, look here..."

She continued to look up at him, and finally, his expression softened.

"If she is a he, then his name will have change. I hesitate to make the obvious decision..."

"There's an obvious decision?" Micheal asked idly. He wondered if it involved escape, which would be infinitely more exciting than a story, even one with magic frogs.

"I suppose it is obvious only to me." He sighed. "Very well, then. Since I have no imagination for names, Prince Illya."

Claire gave a small nod of satisfaction.

"--danced in the arms of her-- his-- prince. Then, the king requested a da-- see, Claire, it doesn't work. Ahem, the king requested a dance. Since nobody refuses a king-- not twice, anyway-- Prince Illya accepted. During this dance, a lively waltz, he first flung one arm out, and the wine from his goblet formed a lake near the orchestra. Then he flung wide his other arm, and the bones flew out, forming themselves into swans. The swans then floated on the lake."

"Did anyone fall in? How come there was just room for a lake?" Micheal questioned.

"There was room, because palaces are very large. And no one falls in just yet."

This, the boy decided, had promise.

"Well, first Piotr's wife tried to imitate the frog princess-turned human prince. But the wine that came out of her sleeve didn't turn to water, and it stained the bosom of her gown. Then Ivan's wife tried, but the chicken bones that came out of her sleeve didn't turn to swans, and one of them hit the king in the eye."

Illya clapped a hand over his own eye, and the children laughed.

"The king made Prince Napasha his successor. He and Prince Illya would rule the kingdom justly and wisely, for years to come."

"And did they live happily ever after?" Claire pressed.

"Princes and princesses live happily ever after, dummy." Micheal elbowed her.

"You're a dummy!" She shoved him back.

"No fighting." Illya again used the cold, intimidating voice he used to ply information from enemy agents. "Or else."

Claire and Micheal grew quiet quicker than they ever had in their lives.

"And yes, the two princes *did* live happily ever after. They, um... they were the best of friends. Yes, right... the end."

The guard gave him a small round of applause.

---/-/---

Halfway through sorting their own mission reports, April elbowed Mark.

"What?"

"How do you think it happened?"

"Well, the duck flew at the windshield, and--"

"Not that!" She snatched the report away, exasperated. "*Them*. Napoleon and Illya. How do you think they finally figured it out?"

"Figured what out?"

She sighed. "Really, Mark. That they were meant to be together."

"I don't know." He reddened. "I mean, presuming that they did figure it all out."

"Of course they did. You read the letter. It was a little more than just friendly."

He turned a deeper shade of scarlet. "Well, yes, I read it, but-- I mean, it could be-- well, maybe it's only, I don't know, half-figured. And how would I know how they figured it?"

"I just wanted your best hypothesis."

"I haven't got one."

"You haven't wondered at all?"

"Not actively." He shrugged. "I mean, of course I wonder, but I haven't come up with any guesses. It's their affair, after all. I mean, their business, you know..."

"I think 'affair' is right on the money." She grinned. "I wonder which one's on top."

"April!" He leapt to his feet, shocked. "Really!"

"If you can't handle it, I'll just go talk to Ginger. She'll be happy to bat around hypotheses."

"You'd leave me with all the report-writing?"

"What do you think?"

"I think it's still slightly better than emptying the cat box."

"That's what she's doing?"

"Yes."

She took her seat. "Right, I'll keep writing. But you could stand to loosen up."

"I'd loosen if we weren't discussing the-- the private lives of two of our co-workers. Our *superiors*."

"Suit yourself." April shrugged. "How about them Mets?"

Mark looked at her. "You do have a queer sense of humour sometimes, you know that?"

---

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