A Portrait of Loyalty

by Roseanna M. White

  The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of the admiral, but it took everything within her to hold it back. “How? How can I not?”

  “Because that is grossly unfair to all the lives you save with your work. All the bombs that have not fallen because you helped me dissuade the enemy or redirect them. All the soldiers and agents whose identities you protect.” He lifted her bag, shoved it back into her arms. “You will not resign.”

  Her arms closed around the bag. But she couldn’t convince her brows to stop frowning. “Sir—”

  “You will, however, upon your father’s request, work from home rather than here.”

  At least the sudden fury burned away the threat of tears. “He didn’t!”

  Hall blinked at her. “You may feel free, of course, to take home any and all supplies from your darkroom here. After which, your father will act as courier for you.”

  Too many thoughts and feelings swamped her for her to make sense of them all right now. Hall’s argument against guilt, his directive, would all have to wait until later to be processed. “This is because of Zivon Marin, isn’t it? And you don’t think that a bit of an overreaction?”

  He moved back to his chair. “You’re his daughter, Lily. Of course he’s being cautious.”

  The way he sat was a dismissal. One she would have obeyed without a squeak on any other day. Today, she moved forward and leaned on the edge of his desk, much as he had done. “What exactly is it that has suddenly appeared to make you suspect him?”

  He didn’t look as though he meant to answer her. But after a moment, he sighed and pulled a manila envelope from a stack of other papers. “This is what I came down to show you yesterday.” He opened the flap, pulled out a photograph, and handed it to her.

  She looked at it. But had no idea what it meant. It was Zivon, that much she could clearly see. In dress uniform, bowing over the hand of someone in full military regalia. “I have no idea why this would cast a poor light on him.”

  “Because the other man, my dear, is Lenin. Leader of the Bolsheviks.”

  That didn’t make sense. The expression on Zivon’s face in the photo was one of respect, even adoration. But he’d never felt that for Lenin. He’d spoken against him—that’s why Alyona had been killed. “No.” She pulled the photo closer to her nose, traced her gaze over Zivon’s outline. She couldn’t see any lines, but that only meant it was well done. If she had magnification, she could no doubt spot them. “That can’t be right. He hates the Bolsheviks.”

  “He says he does.” The photo was plucked from her fingers. “And being a socialist is certainly no crime here. But if the truth of his loyalty is so diametrically opposed to what he says of his loyalty—well, then, one must ask why.”

  She reached for the image again, though Hall held it back, eyes flashing. Hers no doubt flashed right back. “Let me fetch my loupe, Admiral, and look at it more closely. That’s why you wanted to show it to me yesterday, isn’t it? To check its authenticity? Because you know as well as I that photographs can be falsified.”

  He set it on his desk and rested his hand atop it. “I also know that when one’s heart is involved, one is far from unbiased in any examination. I’m sorry, Lily. But I saw how you looked at him last night.”

  Her cheeks went hot. “That doesn’t mean I can’t do my job.”

  “No, but for now, at least, I’m going to respect Captain Blackwell’s wishes and keep you out of this inquiry. Rest assured that if my other photographer contacts don’t prove as skilled as I require, I will overrule your father’s request.”

  Huffing out a breath, she slung her bag’s strap over her shoulder and straightened. “Zivon Marin is a good man, Admiral.”

  Hall sighed. “The problem is that good is a bit too relative when it comes to matters of national trust. My agents are good men too—good Englishmen. That certainly doesn’t mean the governments in whose domain they’re operating would agree.”

  She didn’t know how to argue without sounding like Zivon’s love-blinded sweetheart. And, frankly, she was all too aware of the photo in her bag with Johanna’s face in it. Proof of her past mistakes in matters of affection.

  Maybe Hall and Daddy were right to keep her out of it.

  A battle for another day, at any rate. She took out the stack of photos—she’d nearly forgotten them when he gave her bag back to her—and slid them onto his desk. “I understand you have to be cautious. Just please assure me you’ll find someone skilled to look at that. And that you’ll remember the lessons you’ve learned to use so well against your enemies when it comes to this—that the same facts can be used to tell multiple stories, depending on how one tells them.”

  He smiled and slid the image of Zivon back into its envelope. “And you tried to say you’re not suited for this work.”

  He probably meant the chiding as a sort of compliment. But it weighed heavy as guilt on her chest as she turned away.

  Rain had begun to fall by the time she regained the street—and she hadn’t thought to grab an umbrella. She could make a run for the tube, but by the time she got to the nearest station, she’d already be soaked. She could go back and wait it out. Or duck into a café, perhaps. But neither of those options suited her mood. She wanted to go home. Think things over.

  A large black umbrella appeared over her head. And the man holding it made her heart patter as fast as the rain in the puddles. Zivon had deep shadows underscoring his eyes that his glasses did little to hide, and his cheeks were pale.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder. “I should not be speaking to you, I know. But if you will grant me one last walk, Lily, I will be obedient hereafter.”

  She didn’t see her father or Blinker anywhere. And if anyone saw them from a window, it would be impossible to identify them under the umbrella. In answer, she wrapped her hand around the arm holding the brolly. “I’ll walk with you anytime you ask. I don’t care what he says.”

  “Of course you care. You should respect his wishes—after this time, I mean.” He grinned, but it looked sad and was too soon gone.

  They hurried away from the OB, silent. But she made no argument when he steered them toward Hyde Park rather than going directly to Curzon Street. Their feet found their familiar path, and as they neared the tree beside which they’d talked before, he drew them to a halt.

  “Lily.” He shifted so he faced her, the umbrella’s rod between them. “I have caused you trouble, and I never meant to. Your mother is very angry?”

  “She is. But that isn’t your fault. I should have told her long ago.” She tried to smile, but she suspected it didn’t look very convincing. “We’ll work it out.”

  “I pray you do. But even so. I am so sorry for how last night ended. I am sorry for the anger I directed at you when it belongs to anyone but. And I am sorry for not telling you before of Alyona.”

  She wrapped her fingers around his. “I’m glad you told me at all. I can’t even imagine the grief you must feel.”

  “It is as much guilt as grief.” His face twisted. “She was killed because of me. A bullet put through her head because of my opinions, my words, my actions.”

  “But not your hand.” Her heart twisted to match his countenance. “The guilt rests on the perpetrator, not on you.” But she understood the shake of his head. How could she not? She’d been struggling with the same feelings just minutes ago.

  He leaned forward until his forehead touched hers. “I will not have the same happen to you. I will not put you in danger by associating with me. You mean too much to me.”

  She lifted her hand, touched her fingers to his cool cheek. “I am not in danger, Zivon.”

  “You could be. I have enemies, and they seem to have found me. Whatever it is that has put the admiral on his guard, it is their work, I am certain.”

  The Bolsheviks? Here, in London? That didn’t seem possible. From what she’d read—and the little he or her father had told her—the political situation in Russia was far too chaotic for th
em to spare precious resources for hunting down one stray naval officer.

  She brushed her fingertips along his jaw. “I obviously can’t speak to that. But I can promise you that whatever this trouble is, we’ll sort it out. Solve it.”

  His lips turned up. “You cannot promise. I wish you could. But I will promise you something, milaya. I will never put you in the position of wondering if I am using you. Tell me nothing that the admiral or your father says. Tell me nothing you see in your work for them. Never disobey him.”

  “After this.”

  “After this.” He leaned in just a bit more, touched his lips to her cheek in a move too soft, too lingering to be classified as a simple kiss. “My one request—not a direct disobedience, though likely only because he did not yet think of it. Letters—may I write to you? Send them with Clarke? I am told this is how one courts a girl here in England.”

  With all that had gone wrong in the last day, such words shouldn’t be able to make a thrill course through her. But they did. “I would like that.”

  He kissed her then. Not an invisible touch, like in the car. There was heat in this one, and the urgency that came of not even knowing when next they’d see each other. She could taste his grief and his determination and his wish that it could be different. No doubt because they mirrored her own.

  When he pulled away, his breath was ragged. “I never . . . I never thought I was the sort of man who would feel this way. Certainly not now.”

  That thrill coursed again. “I wish This Lily were here. She would have something clever to say.”

  He chuckled. “I do not need clever flirtations. Just these precious moments in your company. They will see me through the long days ahead.”

  Days, perhaps even weeks or months, without seeing him. Without snapping his picture. Without trying to reveal one more layer.

  Days, perhaps weeks or months, when he would have no one to believe in him.

  “The last time we were standing by this tree, I told you I trusted no one. But I have found that this is untrue.” He pressed one more kiss to her lips and then pulled away a few inches, his gaze tangled with hers. “I trust you, Lilian Blackwell. I have from the first.”

  A sweeter declaration than one of love at this moment. She rested her hand over his heart, as she had daringly done that day. “Zivon, I need you to promise me one thing more.”

  “Anything.”

  “Last night, when you spoke of what the Bolsheviks did . . .” There, his eyes darkened again. She pressed a bit more against his heart. “Guard yourself against those feelings. It’s understandable that you hate them. But—”

  “I do not hate them.” Yet even as he said it, vitriol filled his words. “We are told to love our enemies.”

  Her smile no doubt looked sad. “We are. But you do not. If you trust me, then hear me in this. They have already stolen so much from you. Don’t let them steal your heart. They’ll ruin it.”

  He frowned, but he didn’t argue. He wanted to, she could tell. But instead, he reached into his pocket, coming out with a small piece of paper. A photograph. He pressed it into her hands. “This is all I have left of my family. They were always my heart. Will you keep it for me?”

  She glanced down, saw the image of two lads, the familiar Parisian landmark behind them. She slid it into her bag. “You know I will.”

  16

  TUESDAY, 28 MAY 1918

  Nadya disappeared behind one of the shelves in the grocer’s, scowling at the largely empty space while Evgeni, blast him, smiled at the girl behind the counter, leaning into it as if he had all the time in the world. According to him, he could wheedle supplies from the shopkeeper’s daughter.

  He probably could. The question was, how did he achieve this miracle? She’d come along to find out. Though when he gave the girl the grin Nadya clearly remembered from the first time they’d met, she began to regret her decision.

  “Bonsoir, Claire.”

  The girl grinned back, of course. And darted a glance around the store. According to Evgeni, her father didn’t much care for him.

  Smart man. If ever a fellow was a danger to a daughter, it was Evgeni Marin. Nadya peeked between the shelves so she could see without being seen.

  “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come to see me this evening, Zhenya.” The chit twirled a dark curl around her finger.

  “And miss out on some of the only joy to find in a day?” He winked and made a show of peering over the counter to see what might be behind it. “The shelves are a bit bare. Have I waited too long?”

  Her laugh was low and soft. “You know I put something back for you.” She said it with a smile . . . but unless Nadya had gotten worse at reading silly girls, she also said it lightly. As if it were a game, nothing more.

  Nadya’s muscles relaxed a bit. She could handle a harmless flirtation if it meant food.

  Claire pulled out a parcel from under the counter. “You know the deal, Zhenya.”

  He laughed and made himself comfortable, apparently not prickling any over the nickname. Why should he? Most people used it—all but Nadya. Still, it sounded odd to hear it spill from a French girl’s lips.

  “All right.” He tapped a finger to his chin in a caricature of thought. “Have I told you the story of the Crystal Mountain yet?”

  “Last week.”

  “Ah yes. What about Princess Never-a-Smile?”

  “That was the first tale you told me.” Her bottom lip came out in an inane little pout she probably thought was attractive. “As well you know.”

  “Hmm.” He stroked his chin, though no doubt he already knew what tale he planned to tell. “I know! The Snake Princess.”

  “I do love the ones with a princess.” The girl sat on the stool behind the counter, grinning. “Let us see what odd turns this one takes.”

  Nadya rolled her eyes at the shelf. A pretty girl who liked princess stories. Could she be any more cliché? Evgeni didn’t actually like such girls, did he? If so, then he must be miserable with Nadya.

  “It begins with a Cossack—a young man, well worn from travel and fighting. He ventured off the road for a rest and found a haystack in the middle of a grove of trees. That seemed like a perfect bed, so he made himself comfortable and even enjoyed a pipe.”

  Claire’s brows lifted. “Always wise around hay.” So perhaps the girl wasn’t utterly senseless.

  Evgeni narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger. “Do not get ahead of the story.”

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  “As I was saying. He enjoyed his repose and soon got back to his feet, not noticing that a spark fell from his pipe and landed on the hay until the whole thing went up.”

  “I am all surprise.”

  “Hush.” He grinned and pulled forward the parcel, unwrapped it. No doubt his ever-growling stomach was curious as to what mysteries it held. “Here is the surprising part—in the middle of the hay stood a beautiful young maiden, and she was crying out for help. ‘Save me, good sir,’ she called to him. But the heat was so great that he couldn’t get near enough. So she bade him to stretch out his lance so that she might use it to pull herself to safety. He obeyed. But when the fair maiden laid hold of the lance, she turned instantly to a snake and slithered up it.”

  “Oh!” Claire shuddered. “I suppose I should have known from the title there would be a snake, but still.”

  What was in the package? From what Nadya could see, it looked like a good-sized chunk of cheese, a jar of olives, a few eggs. Was the smaller package flour? She could hope. She hadn’t had bread in weeks.

  “Luckily for our hero, he did not react so, though no doubt he was alarmed as the snake slithered up the lance, up his arm, and wound herself three times around his neck, biting her own tail to hold herself in place. ‘Do not be frightened,’ she said to him.”

  Claire huffed out a breath. “And how is she talking if she’s biting her own tail?”

  Evgeni laughed. “A maiden in a fire who turns into a snake, and t
hat is the part you take issue with?”

  “Well, obviously she was enchanted. But I don’t know why that would allow her to talk around her tail.”

  “Can you not talk with your mouth full?” Evgeni bit his finger and said around it, “Do not be frightened.” Garbled, but understandable.

  Nadya rested her forearms against the shelf and looked around the rest of the dismal little shop.

  Claire sighed. “Very well. Rude but not utterly incomprehensible. Go on.”

  The sound of rustling paper indicated Evgeni was rewrapping the food. “She went on to say that if he carried her around his neck for seven years and looked for the tin kingdom, and then stayed in that kingdom for seven more years, he would find true happiness.”

  “Ah! Her kingdom, I suppose?”

  “No, actually. I am not sure whose kingdom it was.” His frown was audible in his voice.

  Claire’s laugh was a bit too loud this time, and a board creaked above them. No doubt the father would be coming down to see what she found so amusing. “Why tin, then?” she asked.

  Nadya peeked through the shelves again and watched him shrug. “Let us call it a mystery. But when finally he reached it after seven long years of travel, the snake unwound from his neck, leapt to the ground as the beautiful maiden again, and then promptly disappeared. He went inside the walls of the castle, saw to his horse, and took a tour. It was a beautiful place—everything was silver and ivory, shades of white and grey. In the banquet hall, a feast was laid out on the table. But nowhere was a soul to be seen.”

  “A feast.” Claire sighed and sagged onto her elbows on the counter. “I can scarcely remember what that would have been like.”

  Now, with that Nadya could commiserate.

  The creaking was moving. Evgeni fished a hand into the pocket where he’d stashed some money. “Well, he feasted every day for years. Each day, new food would appear. In the stable, there were always oats for his horse. But there were no people to be found, and the solitude began to wear on him.”