"Was," Ravel echoed, the ghost of a smile on his face at the memory. "Was a better dancer." And then something cold clutched at his heart and he shook his head, banishing those thoughts back to the dark recesses they crawled out of every night. They would be back in due time. They always were.

"And never let it be said I didn't appreciate you cooking," he continued, tone lighter than before. "Or warm socks. We never would have lasted the war out without you, Mother."

It was a tease, but it was true. Not because of the socks, necessarily, but how many times had they been forced to fall back behind Anton so that he could release the gist? How many of those fights would they have survived without Anton?

Ravel seized on the opportunity to change the dance. "Viennese waltz," he said instantly, taking Anton's hands and moving them where they needed to be for the more formal ballroom dance. One in Ravel's own hand, the other on Ravel's side. "You remember?"