Half truth. Half lie. She’d never had any particular affection for him, and the decade since he’d last been in Russia didn’t look as though it had been especially kind to him. She knew he was only thirty, but he looked far older.
He was a familiar face, though. And more, the leader of the Bolsheviks in Paris. She intended to remain firmly on his good side, so she fastened on a smile and held out a hand.
He took it, but he didn’t shake as she’d intended. Just held it for a moment, his gaze steady on her face. She didn’t much like the way the glow at the end of the cigarette dangling from his lips mirrored the gleam in his eyes when he looked at her. But then, she’d long ago grown accustomed to such looks—and had learned how to dissuade them.
Stay on his good side, she reminded herself. And so she merely lifted her chin and reclaimed her hand rather than punching him in the nose with it. “Where is Evgeni? He hasn’t replied to any of my messages since I left Petrograd.”
The glow turned to a smolder. A temper-heated one. “The first time you see me in a decade, and you greet me with ‘Where’s Evgeni?’ You don’t ask after my parents? My life here?”
She lifted her brows. “I said it was good to see you, didn’t I? And I’ve seen your parents since you have. Not to mention that you greeted me with ‘It’s about time you showed up.’ My question is at least relevant.”
He grunted. And actually reached for her. No, for her bag.
Tired as she was from the travel, she wasn’t about to get off on such a foot. And she made a point of it by stepping back. “Don’t be a caveman, Paul. I am a soldier. A comrade in arms. I will carry my own bags.”
“Have it your—”
Something whistled overhead, drowning out the obvious ending to the phrase. She looked up, but by the time she did, there was nothing to see. A boom sounded from somewhere in the not-far-enough distance, and a plume of dust and smoke shot into the sky. “What is that?”
Paul took the cigarette from his lips, waved it in the air, and blew out a puff of smoke. “The Germans’ new siege gun. We will have time to get home without fear of another.”
That ball of anxiety in her stomach wanted to quake, to quiver. She swallowed against it and indulged only in gripping her bag’s strap tighter as Paul struck out down the street. “Evgeni?”
He muttered something she didn’t quite catch. Or perhaps her French just wasn’t as thorough as his when it came to colorful phrases. But he pointed ahead. “Resting in his room. He was too near a shell the other day, when he was out looking for his brother. Reinjured his ribs. Sprained an arm.” He shrugged and ran his tongue over his teeth. “He won’t die from it. Probably.”
He took another long drag of his cigarette, then held it out to her. When she shook her head, he put it between his lips again with another shrug. “I hope you intend to explain to me what is so important that you have both come here.”
She kept her gaze straight ahead. “It is a military matter.”
“Military.” He laughed. Until he saw she didn’t. “But you are—”
“I am what?” She wasn’t wearing her uniform now. It hadn’t seemed like a good idea when traveling across lines that had once been enemy. “A comrade in the new Red Army? Yes. I am. A senior unterofitser in the First Russian Women’s Battalion of Death? Why, yes. Yes, I was, when such a ranking mattered.”
“Easy, Nadezhda.” He looked about ready to pat her on the head. If he tried it, she’d bite his hand.
Good side. She forced another smile. “I am not authorized to tell anyone the details of what Evgeni had been about. But I can say that the party deems his brother a threat.”
“I would think the party has threats enough in Russia to worry about, without traveling so far in search of one that has gone astray.”
All too true. She’d welcome the day when they could hunt down all their enemies. But that day couldn’t possibly come until they’d gotten their newly built house in better order. “He is an exceptional case.”
Paul led her toward a métro station. “Why? What makes him so special?”
“He has knowledge that could put us all at risk if he shares it with the wrong parties.”
Paul said no more about it as they approached the ticket counter, just exchanged a few quick French words with the attendant, handed over coins, and nodded Nadya down a tunnel.
She looked up at the low ceiling. “Are you certain another shell won’t strike while we’re in here?”
“Perfectly.”
Keenly aware of the bodies packed around her, both on the platform and on the train, Nadya made no attempt at further conversation during the ten-minute ride. She was far too busy counting the minutes since the last shell. It was one thing to die for a cause that mattered, but not in a train tunnel from a random German shell, thank you.
Once they were back out in the sunshine, in a section of the city that looked nearly as run-down as her neighborhood in Petrograd, Paul turned to her again. “I have put out a few queries about a room for you. I have no doubt that someone will offer something by nightfall.”
She looked behind her at the name of the métro station, then forward again to note the street signs, the buildings. “You needn’t bother.”
“It is no bother. We are soviets, we look out for one another. Besides, you are an old friend.”
A stretch, but she wasn’t going to contradict him. “I will stay with Evgeni. We have much to plan.”
Silence pounded her for three steps. Five. Ten. Paul cleared his throat. “I . . . respect that you have much to plan. But you will still need to sleep.”
Nadya shifted her bag to the other shoulder. “Must I spell this out for you, Paul? I will stay with Evgeni.”
His scoff sounded disgusted. Or jealous. Something, anyway, that made her hackles rise even before he opened his mouth again. “I’m sure your mother would be thrilled to know th—”
“My mother died a slave to the old ways. Giving birth to her tenth child, though she was too old for it. Too weak. A babe that couldn’t last more than a day anyway.” Like six of the others. Nadya shook her head, clenched her jaw. That had been the very day she’d stomped from her father’s house. From the farm. The day she’d hitched a ride all the way to the city and sought out the women’s battalion she’d heard about.
If she was going to die, it would be for something bigger than herself. Fighting an enemy she could see.
“I am sorry. About your mother. I hadn’t heard.”
Nadya didn’t look at him. “I won’t be enslaved to the same outdated institution. I won’t accept the archaic idea that a man can do what he wills, but it is a woman’s duty to stay at home and give him baby after baby in the hopes that one will survive. I will live the life I please.” She shot him a glare. “And I will sleep wherever I please.”
And in the new Russia, they could all do the same. Those women who actually liked tending squalling children could do so for them all, when they turned the children over to the state to be raised. This was a cause, a goal worth fighting for. Freedom.
Paul pointed to the right at the next intersection. “How very . . . forward-thinking of you.”
His shin may yet taste the bite of her boot. “Are you judging me, Paul?”
“Your ideals? No. Your particular choice?” He made a face. And despite her frustration with him, she relaxed. Jealousy and male petulance were easier to swallow than judgment. “I cannot approve of that smooth-faced boy. Why have you chosen him?”
That jumpy place in her stomach made itself known again. She certainly hadn’t intended to get involved with the too-handsome soldier she’d found herself serving beside in the trenches last year. It was cliché. And ill-advised.
But there was something about Evgeni she hadn’t been able to resist forever. Not the charm in his smile. No . . . it was something in his eyes when he looked at her. Something that went beyond desire. When he looked at her, he saw what she wanted. What she stood for. He saw all she railed again
st. He saw it, and he respected it, and he liked her all the more for it.
She wasn’t about to explain any of that to Paul, though. Instead, she tried on one of his shrugs. “Perhaps I like smooth-faced boys right now. And when I decide I do not any longer, then I’ll simply move on.”
She made no attempt to interpret his grunt. Especially not when he pointed at a particular door. “Well, he’s in there. I’ll leave you to your reunion. My lunch break is over, and I must get back to work. I’ll be back this evening.”
It was much easier to like Paul when he was leaving. Her smile was unforced this time. “Thank you for meeting my train, comrade.”
He waved that off and hurried toward the corner, where he turned to the left and out of sight.
Nadya strode up to the door, paused only long enough to drag in a deep breath, and then knocked. Through the cheap wood she could hear the sounds of a scraping chair and shuffling feet. She tried to brace herself for the feeling sure to punch her in the stomach when she saw him again—that strange weaving of want with need and the wishing that she didn’t want or need it.
The door opened, and for a moment she saw the expression on Evgeni’s pale face that she had to think he prepared for Paul. Because the second his gaze dropped to her, it shifted to something far different. The only word she had for it was something she’d had little enough experience with in her life.
Joy.
“Nadya! How did you get here so soon?”
Were she a romantic like her little sister, she would say love for him had given her wings. Had she been the family-oriented woman her mother tried to make her, she’d have said he needed her, and so here she was.
But she was a soldier, so she stepped inside and said, “Surprisingly, I ran into no obstacles.”
Still. Even soldiers had passions beyond the battlefield. So she nudged the door shut and leaned into him, stretching up on her toes and capturing his lips with hers.
He moved slowly, stiffly, but she knew it was only his injuries. He slid one arm gingerly around her waist, but the hand he pressed to her cheek was as urgent as ever. “Nadezhda,” he murmured against her lips.
She sighed, closed her eyes, and only now, when they’d been proven false, let the fears gnaw at her. She’d thought he was dead. Feared it. Dreaded it. “I have bad news.” It wasn’t her fault, but still she kept her eyes closed to keep from seeing the frustration that would enter his eyes. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, and she let it fall to the floor. It made it easier to grip his shirtfront in her fingers. “He is dead. Our Prussian.”
With her eyes closed, she could feel the hitch in his breath, hear it. “How?”
“The war, so far as I could gather. I claimed to be his sister, traveling to escape the unrest at home. They showed me his body. Bayonet through the chest.”
“Then there is no option,” Evgeni said. “We must find my bag. I have not yet been able to make it back to the site of the wreck.”
“Clearly.” She opened her eyes again so that she could visually trace each scrape, each bruise, each shadow visible. “How you survived so long on the front lines with barely a scratch and then managed to nearly die twice in France when you’re out of uniform, I will never understand.”
He breathed a laugh that was only an echo of his usual good humor. “I am a man above men.”
He was. And yet when he said it, he was joking. She shook her head and touched a finger to a cut on his cheek that had mostly healed over. It must have been from the train accident, rather than the shelling. “We will find your bag. And we must also find your brother.”
His expression shifted, shuttered. He pulled away. Didn’t let go of her completely, but angled himself toward the table, where she could see a white rectangle with Zhenya scrawled across it. “That is going to prove a challenge too. He’s gone to London.” His voice said it was bad, even before his words did.
She braced herself. But even so, it didn’t prepare her for the blow.
“He’s working for the British Admiralty.”
WEDNESDAY, 10 APRIL 1918
Lily licked the tip of her pencil and leaned closer to the sturdy paper secured to her easel to trace a darker line around the eye of the bird on the page. The real creature had flown away twenty minutes ago, but not before posing just long enough for her to put a rough sketch down. It had stood there on the tree branch, mostly obscured by leaves, peeking out at her. Curious but hesitant.
She’d snapped a photo first, and no doubt that would turn out better than this. But she did like to work on her other media too.
“You have such an eye for composition, Lily Love.” A smile lit Mama’s voice as she turned from her own easel to take in Lily’s. “It never ceases to amaze me. That’s always my biggest struggle in a painting.”
Lily looked over at her mother’s work in progress—a watercolor today, since it was easier to transport and would dry quickly. Not what Euphemia Blackwell was famous for, but she often used them as practice for her commissions. Lily could sit for hours and watch her work, try to pick up her methods. Or she had once, when she had the time to spare. This leisurely morning in the park with her mother had become more the rarity than the norm. “If you struggle with composition, no one would ever know.”
Mama laughed. “Because I struggle with it, I put much time and effort into it. Not like you—you make it look so easy. Just lift your camera at the perfect moment, click, and there you have it. A perfectly composed piece of art.”
“Oh, absolutely. It’s just that simple. Much like you lift your pencil, scratch a few lines on the page, and have a masterpiece.”
They shared a chuckle and both turned back to their easels. “I’ve missed this,” Mama said on an exhale, dipping her brush into her water jar. “We haven’t had nearly enough time to draw and paint together since the war began.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.” She tilted her head a bit, debating whether the markings on the wing needed darkening. No . . . she’d darken it with pigment later.
“I suppose this has been good preparation for me, though.” Her mother’s voice had a note of sorrow in it . . . but more loudly, a note of probing. “Soon enough you’ll be married and off on your own, both of you. I’ll need to learn how to get used to a quiet house.”
Lily looked over again, a burst of laugher escaping. “Subtle, Mama.”
Her mother shot her a grin, only seconds long before she turned back to put a masterful stroke of purple onto her paper. “I still can’t quite believe your father finally found gentlemen you both like, and that they happened to come together. Quite convenient, to my way of thinking.”
“Don’t go marrying us off in your thoughts just yet. We’ve only seen them half a dozen times.” Six times in the two weeks of their acquaintance. They’d come to dinner twice more since Easter and had dropped by to take them for a walk in Hyde Park too.
Pleasant, each and every visit. Pleasant and . . . strange. Zivon Marin liked her—she felt sure of that. But she wasn’t so sure he ever would have spoken to her again if it weren’t for Clarke and Ivy. It made her wish she didn’t like him quite as much as she did. But there was something about him. A depth. A layering. And that awareness . . . Never was there a time that he didn’t react to something before she’d even noticed it.
She turned her pencil on the leaf partially obscuring the bird.
Before Mama could do more than open her mouth in reply, a rumble from the sky invaded the day. They both looked up, years of habit making them hold their breath, waiting to see what mechanical beast might appear. One of theirs, doing a routine patrol? Or one of Germany’s, ready to drop bombs on them?
Lily, like probably every other resident of London, had learned to identify the silhouettes of each British aircraft, and she let out a loud breath when she recognized the Camels. “I hate never knowing when we’re safe,” she murmured as the engine noises faded again. “First they were only at night, then only during the day. . . . Now, unless i
t’s raining, we just never know.”
Mama’s silence drew Lily’s gaze back to her. She found her mother looking at her, her eyes so very serious. “That, my love, is why your father and I have been trying to secure your futures. Because we never know. Whether we’re at war or not, we never know. We never have forever.”
Lily gripped her pencil, not knowing what to say to that.
Mama sighed. “You don’t seem quite as lovesick as your sister, I’ve noticed. Though I couldn’t be sure if it was that you actually like Mr. Marin less than she does Lieutenant Clarke, or if you just hide it better.”
For a moment, Lily simply studied her drawing. “There is a third option. That he doesn’t like me as much as Clarke does Ivy. I’d be a fool to pin my heart to my sleeve for him to steal and then toss aside.”
“He’d be the fool if he did that.”
He certainly didn’t strike her as such. Not in terms of intelligence, anyway. But what did she really know about him? He shared tidbits here and there, spoke of his brother and his parents, but never of his work. Never of the Revolution. Never of anything that determined why he’d decided to come here.
“Do you think . . . ?” Afraid even to put words to the nebulous fear that had been plaguing her, she had to start over. “Do Daddy and the admiral really trust him? Or is it, perhaps, that Daddy’s trying to keep an eye on him for Blinker?”
Mama’s brush paused mid-stroke. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because . . .” Because her father had slung an arm around her shoulders last Sunday after the gentlemen had left and said how glad he was that she wasn’t quite so eager to leave them as Ivy. Maybe it was just Daddy teasing her. Or maybe it was a warning not to give her affection—or her trust—to the Russian too quickly.
A lesson she’d learned the hard way four years ago. Sunday night she’d gone up to her room and dug out the letter her old friend Johanna had posted to her as her family left England. Don’t take it personally, it had said at the end.
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