But she did. And if he were all he promised, then she’d be a fool not to try to win a place by his side.
Assuming he even wanted her there.
Letting out a sigh of disgust with herself, she spun back to her desk and picked up her scalpel. Best to focus on what she knew.
The humming drew her up the stairs like a siren song. Lily’s exhaustion slipped off her shoulders as she reached the landing and turned down the corridor, toward where her and Ivy’s doors stood nestled together in the corner of the house. She could knock on her sister’s door. Go in and sprawl under the canopy on her bed to exchange the news about their days.
Instead, she went to her own room, tossing her bag aside and turning on the lights after checking to make sure the blackout curtains were in place. Then she settled in the corner, onto the pillows she kept here just for this purpose. After getting comfortable and pulling a blanket over her legs, she tapped on the wall. Tap, tap-a-tap.
From the other side came a scurry. A laugh. And the distinct sound of an enthusiastic someone throwing herself to the floor in the next room. An answering knock. Tap-a-tap, tap. And a muted “You’re home late! Did you just get in?”
Lily let her eyes drift closed as she rested her forehead against the wall. She’d worn a shiny spot in the paper just there—and Ivy had a matching one on her side. “I did. Daddy and I had dinner together.”
“So said the note he sent home. Mama and I seized the excuse to go out too. We haven’t had much time together, just the two of us, since the school term began.”
“A good evening, then?” Without looking, Lily visualized the pattern of her wallpaper. Where the stripes should be, where the flowers. Lifted a finger and traced her imagined line. A peek to check her accuracy brought a smile. “Did a certain someone find you today?”
“A certain someone may have walked me home from school.” The wall between them didn’t stand a chance of dampening the grin in Ivy’s tone. “We couldn’t linger. He was only out running an errand and had to report back to the office yet. But I think Daddy gave him the errand to run just then because he knew it was when I’d be walking home.”
And he’d known too that Lily hadn’t been anywhere near finished enough to meet her sister herself. “That sounds like Daddy. And like your Clarke, to take the opportunity.”
“Well, that’s going to have to change.”
Lily’s eyes flew open. “What?”
“Oh!” Ivy laughed. “Sorry. I moved my dressing table today, and I just looked up and realized I can see myself in the mirror from here. That won’t do at all. Just a second, let me tilt it up. I can’t stand looking at myself when I’m trying to talk.”
Lily chuckled and said loudly enough to still be heard as Ivy moved, “I don’t know why. Your Clarke seems to quite enjoy staring at you while you talk.”
“Oh, stop.” Ivy’s voice was more distant. But then footsteps, and the sound came of her settling in again. “And also, don’t. I love how you call him that—my Clarke.”
Lily pressed her hand to the wall where she imagined her sister to be. “He is your Clarke. I think he was the moment he set eyes on you. Has he proposed yet?”
She asked it solely because she knew it would send her sister into peals of laughter. The sound of it filled both their rooms and probably stretched out its fingers to find their parents too. “Silly Lily.” Even the words were a chuckle. “A bit too soon for that, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It wasn’t too much longer than this that Ara and her Camden knew each other before he proposed. Sometimes you know.”
Emphasis on the you. Lily’s breath hitched, and she prayed Ivy wouldn’t hear it. She couldn’t even be certain that the Zivon she thought she was getting to know was the real Zivon. Every time she turned around, she saw a new layer under the previous one. The man of faith. The man of intelligence. The man of devotion. The man afraid to trust.
Were any of those men one she should hope to make a future with?
Ivy hummed out an agreement that sounded dreamy where Lily’s would have sounded tormented. “Yes. Sometimes you do. Even so—this part is so delicious. Why would I want to rush it? Every moment I’m wondering if he’s going to find a way to kiss me. And to be quite honest, I wonder if the anticipation is even better than a kiss could possibly be.”
Sweet Ivy. Lily leaned back against the other wall in her corner. “I certainly hope not. If you marry, you’ll not have to wonder anymore if he’s going to kiss you, but I should hope you’ll enjoy it when he does.”
Another laugh. Then the sound of a finger tapping on the wall. Saying, as she’d said so many times in just that way, What about you? “Do you think about it? With your Russian?” Walls did nothing to filter the teasing out of her sister’s voice either.
Lily pursed her lips. “Maybe.” She drew the word out into three syllables. She’d tried to imagine what it would be like. How she would feel. And yes, whether she could imagine looking into his chocolate-drop eyes every day, forever.
But somehow . . . somehow her every imagining always stopped with him a foot away. That was where it always seemed he was. Not physically, but in a way even more real. Whatever secrets he held tight, they kept him distant.
No. Not just his. If he stayed always a foot away, only six inches of it were his fault. The other six were her secrets.
“Lil?”
“Hmm?” She stirred, wondering what teasing or question she had missed.
Enough, apparently, to signal to her sister that the wall must go. A moment later her door creaked open and Ivy slipped inside. They had no reason to sneak about these days, but she still closed the door with nary a sound and padded over to her as if they were breaking curfew by talking when they ought to be in bed—a nightly occurrence ten years ago.
Lily held up the blanket so that Ivy could snuggle into the spot beside her.
“So.” A word she drew out even more than Lily had her maybe. “What is it? With your Russian?”
Lily sighed. “It’s that, I suppose. He doesn’t feel like my anything.” When she saw the lift of her sister’s brow, she added, “All right, that’s not true. He’s my friend. But that doesn’t make him mine. Not in the way that Clarke is—and clearly wants to be—yours.”
Ivy’s head came to rest against Lily’s shoulder. “Do you want him to be?”
In lieu of a shrug, Lily rested her head against Ivy’s. “I don’t know. Maybe.” If she could be sure wanting it was wise. She poked her sister in the side. “But you do.”
“I do.” Only Ivy could combine a giggle with a sigh to spell pure bliss. “Clarke is everything I ever dreamed of, Lil. No. Actually, he’s everything I didn’t even know to dream of.”
“That’s just too sweet for words, you know. I’m not certain I can stand it.” The poke turned to a tickle.
Ivy shrieked with laughter and pulled away for a second—long enough to bat at Lily’s hand—and then settled back at her side. “He said today that he’d mentioned me in a letter to his mother. She’s coming to London for a visit this summer. He wants to introduce me to her.”
“Oooo.” Lily bumped their shoulders together. “You’re as good as engaged, I think.”
“In July, maybe. Maybe.” She grinned, looking so perfectly radiant. Blissful.
Lily had to squash down the surge of loneliness that swelled up. She couldn’t feel lonely now with her sister, her best friend, beside her.
But Ivy was in love. She’d marry. And married women didn’t live forever in the room next door.
And yet . . . never in her life had she seen her sister so happy. How could she be anything but happy for her? Tomorrow’s loneliness could just wait its proper turn.
“The important decisions, then.” Lily made a show of folding her hands in her lap and looking intently at her sister, all rapt attention. “Hemlines have changed since our last discussion of the perfect wedding gown. Should our sketch change accordingly?”
“N
ow that is a fabulous question.” Lunging to her knees, Ivy reached for the stack of sketchbooks that Lily had stashed on a low bookcase at the foot of their chatting nook. She was already flipping them open as she sat.
Lily let out a squeak when photos slipped and tumbled from the pages. She’d forgotten she’d stashed those in there, thinking to finish a sketch sometime.
“Oh, sorry!” Ivy gathered them up . . . and began to laugh.
Lily snatched them from her sister’s hands. “What?”
“You know very well what.” She pointed at the photos. Three of them, from three different days. All of Zivon as he stood in that way he did, with his hands clasped behind his back. Eyes not quite closed as they sometimes were, but distant behind his glasses. When he was listening. Picking out patterns. “You may say you don’t know how you feel . . .”
Huffing out a breath, Lily shuffled them back into chronological order, straightening the edges. “I was doing a sketch, that’s all.” To prove it, she flipped open the sketchbook Ivy still held until she landed on the one she’d started a few days ago.
“Oh, I didn’t doubt you were sketching him. I was pointing out that there’s meaning to be found in the fact that you’re sketching him. Just look at this.” She pointed at the page where Zivon stood in rough outlines, three-quarters of his figure filling the white space.
“What about it?” Surely nothing had worked its way into the picture that she hadn’t known she was putting in. And surely—surely—it wasn’t some key to understanding her own feelings for the man.
Ivy bumped Lily’s shoulder now. “He intrigues you. How many photographs have you taken of him?”
“A . . . few.” Her brows drew together. She took a few every time they were together. Not exactly abnormal for her. Except, now that she thought about it, she hadn’t taken quite so many of Clarke and Ivy together, though they did make the sweetest picture as they walked in the park. But, while charming, Ivy and Clarke weren’t . . . well, as Ivy put it, intriguing.
Ivy lifted her brows. “So if I were to go into your workroom and look through your box of photos, I would see . . . ?”
Lily lifted her chin. “As I said. A few.” Dozen.
Her sister laughed. “And you’re sketching him. You never sketch people.”
“That is not true!” In proof, she flipped back through the pages. Past Zivon, past the birds in the park, past Mama’s lazy pug who never stirred from his rug when he could help it, past the last iteration of the perfect wedding dress. Eventually she landed on one of their four-year-old cousin. “There. See?”
“Mm-hmm. I certainly do.” With a look of supreme indulgence, Ivy made a show of turning to the wedding gown again. “All right, I’ll relent for now. But I maintain that your heart knows something your mind hasn’t caught on to yet. And your camera tells the tale.”
Oh heavens. She certainly hoped not. Lily sighed and tapped a finger to the page. “Gowns.”
She needed a while to think of something less terrifying than the prospect of having fallen for a man who could well be an enemy.
11
SATURDAY, 20 APRIL 1918
Evgeni knocked on yet another door, fixed his lips in yet another smile. He’d lost track at this point of how many French farmhouses he’d visited over the last few weeks, in search of the belongings that had “mysteriously” vanished from the wreck site before officials could take them anywhere to be claimed by survivors.
Blighted scavengers. Not that he didn’t understand. In German-occupied France, one had to take whatever one could find, borrow, or steal. But he wasn’t searching for Zivon’s ruby ring. Just their personal items.
The door swung open, and a frazzled-looking woman who didn’t look more than twenty-five filled the space. Well, along with the toddler on her hip and an older boy half hidden behind her skirts.
“Bonjour.” His French, at least, had improved with these visits. Matushka would be proud. He directed his attention fully onto the toddler, a little girl, probably three or four. “You must be the lady of the house.”
The girl giggled and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. The woman released a breath that sounded a little bit amused, anyway. “Can I help you, monsieur?”
“I hope so.” He had his hat clasped in his hands and made it a point not to crowd her. Much like he’d made it a point to wear the shabbier of his shirts. “Two months ago, I was involved in a train accident about a mile from here. It has taken me many weeks to recover and now . . . well, to be perfectly honest, I’m hoping someone in the area came across a few of my personal items. I had no money.” Not true, but he knew better than to hope any of that would be returned. “But I was hoping to reclaim my photographs. They are all I have left of my family. Have you, by chance, picked up anything blowing about the countryside?”
“Photographs, you say?” She eased back a step, though it looked more like uncertainty than an invitation. “I may have found a few, though I don’t recall when it was. We . . . we make a habit of picking up any papers we find blowing about.”
“As any good steward of the land would do.” He inclined his head, having discovered many knocks ago that he gained far more knowledge through this humble show than by simply stating he was looking for his belongings and asking if anyone had stolen them.
No one wanted to admit to being a scavenger. But they all were. They couldn’t afford not to be.
The woman pursed her lips, looked over her shoulder at the boy, and then gripped the door. “Would you wait here for one moment? I will bring out what I found.”
“Of course. Merci beaucoup.” He backed up and turned half away, so that she wouldn’t feel he thought her rude when she shut the door on him.
His fingers toyed with the frayed edge of his cap. He knew better than to get his hopes up. He’d been shown dozens of photographs over the last fortnight. No one cared enough about such frivolity to hide them from him. But none had been his. He’d seen not so much as a thread of anything in his bag. The clothes he expected had been worn already, the money used or stowed away, the food long ago put into empty bellies.
But all that could be replaced. The photograph the Prussian had taken could not.
His eyes scanned the lane, hunting for curls turned gold in the sun. He grinned at the mere thought of Nadya trying to act nice and sweet, as he’d told her she must do when knocking on doors. She was many things, his Nadezhda. But nice and sweet weren’t on the list.
His mother would have hated her. Hated her determination to buck tradition, hated the way she spat out the statement that there was no God, no need for family, nothing worth fighting for but the State. And Zivon . . .
The grin faded, gathered, twisted into a frown. Zivon wouldn’t like her either, but that was no surprise. He and Zivon could never agree about anything. Not their books, not their friends, not their beliefs, not their politics.
Definitely not their politics.
But even so. They were brothers. And Evgeni should have tried harder to stop him from making such an enormous mistake. He should have tried harder to learn his plan. To read a few of those thoughts ever flying through Zivon’s mind. He should have actually spoken to him last Christmas of the dangers his czarist leanings would pose, rather than spending their few hours together teasing him about Alyona.
The door opened again behind him, and the woman stepped out, absent the children but holding more than a single photograph, that was for certain. Evgeni’s eyes went wide when he saw she had a whole album.
Not just a whole album. Zivon’s album. “All of them!”
The woman’s smile was tight with guilt. “The children looked through them, pretending it was a magazine. You are in here. It must be yours, then, oui?”
“Oui.” Or close enough, anyway, that his hand shook with awe as he reached out. “May I?”
“Of course. It is yours.” She handed the album over.
He flipped open the cover, sucking in a breath at the image that stared at him
. Him and Zivon, from their last Christmas with both Batya and Matushka. They were both in uniform—a contrast of army and navy, field officer and intelligencer. Both grinning, showcasing the two traits they actually shared. Batya’s eyes. Matushka’s smile.
So different, they had always been. Differences so clear in this frozen moment. Zivon, with the spectacles that bespoke too many hours of reading. Evgeni, with the scrapes on his knuckles from his last fistfight.
Yet this was the first photograph in his brother’s album. Not Alyona or Matushka or Batya or any of his colleagues. Them. Together.
The woman folded her arms across her middle. “Your brother?”
He could only nod.
“Did he . . . not survive the crash?”
“He did. But we were separated. I have not seen him since.”
She muttered something too low or too quick for him to catch and leaned into the doorway. “I found a bag. This was in it. There were clothes, nice ones. Shoes. Money.” She shrugged. “All that is left are the photos. I am sorry.”
He shook his head. “These are hard times. I do not blame you. Only . . .” He looked up at her again, brows knit. She didn’t have to volunteer that information. But if she was feeling generous, he would push just a bit. “This is actually my brother’s. And I am grateful to you for it. But I wonder—I have been unable to find my passport, and I cannot easily travel without it, to find him again. Did you see this? Or a friend of yours, perhaps? It was in a bag like the one this was in.”
The shake of the woman’s head was quick enough that it announced her certainty, without being so quick that it hinted at deception. “I am sorry. There were a few passports collected from the site, I know, but none for a man your age. And—Russian?”
He nodded. His French might be greatly improved, but he’d never been able to speak it without an accent.
She folded her arms over her stomach. “That is the sort of thing that would have been whispered about, though not exactly valued. Not to insult you, but no one around here would be interested in running away to Russia just now. And I saw no other bag like the one this was in.”
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