“I can imagine.” Claire wrinkled her nose.
The footsteps above them had halted. Evgeni held out his money, brows raised. “How much today?”
Instead of answering, she reached and plucked a bill and two coins from his palm.
“Claire, that is not enough.”
Idiot—why was he arguing?
“The olives are a gift, from my personal stash.” Claire grinned and put the money in the register. “Finish the story, Zhenya. Could he go a whole seven years without any human contact?”
“Well, he lost track of the days. Eventually, it drove him mad. He drank until he was drunk and decided he could take it no more. He stormed toward the nearest door—but a wall flew up in front of him.”
Claire turned back to him with a frown. “Wait. The castle stopped him from leaving?”
“At every turn. He fetched his faithful horse and tried riding out, but the gates slammed closed. He tried every door, every window, but walls rose in the place of the openings.” Evgeni was grinning, his arms swinging to demonstrate how the walls would have moved. “Our Cossack lashed out, smashing all the dishes, breaking all the decorations, shattering the mirrors. And then the next day when he came down, he found the banquet table empty. ‘It is my own fault,’ he said. ‘If I hadn’t behaved as I did yesterday, then I wouldn’t be hungry today.’ Only after he’d admitted this did food reappear.”
Another creak overhead, and this time it was quickly followed by a footfall on the wooden stairs in the back of the store. Nadya shifted, ready to slip out the open door just beside her.
The girl’s frown didn’t ease. “A fine moral, I suppose, but . . .”
“But?” Evgeni pocketed the change. “There is no but. Three days later, the fair maiden appeared to him, and all the gates were opened. She told him he had served out his time, and that he had freed her from the enchantment put upon her by an evil sorcerer who had been in love with her. She had scorned him, and he had turned her into a snake. But her parents would be so overjoyed at her freedom that her father, a king, would surely grant the Cossack anything he asked for.”
“No, that isn’t right at all.” Claire slapped a hand to the counter. “He didn’t serve out his time. Not willingly. The castle took the choice from him. Had it been left to him, he’d have lost it all less than a week from completion!”
Her father was at the bottom of the stairs. He’d be coming around the shelves any moment. Nadya coiled, ready to spring. Evgeni chuckled at Claire’s frustration and took a step away from the counter. “Perhaps the castle was on his side. Or perhaps it was the princess, helping him.”
“Not good enough.” Claire lifted her pretty little chin. “A man doesn’t deserve to be the hero of the tale unless he can make sound decisions on his own.”
“Well. Perhaps you will prefer his decisions in the second half of the story. Next time?”
She glanced toward the back of the shop, where her father was coming into view. Nadya took her cue and darted out the door. Though still she heard the girl say, “Next time. Bonsoir, Zhenya.”
“Bonsoir, fair maiden.” With a wink, he hurried out of the store.
He nearly collided with Nadya on the sidewalk, where she’d stopped to wait for him, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He held up the parcel of food and switched his speech back to Russian. “Success.”
She pivoted on her heel. “I ought to have known you’d get it by flirting.”
He chuckled and put a hand to the small of her back—a move she’d balked at when first they met. But she’d grown used to it. Liked it, even though she’d never admit it to him. “Oh, come now. It’s not so bad, and you know it. A story for the food. A fine trade.”
It was. It was one she’d have made readily enough if the situation were reversed. And she didn’t mind too much, given how lightly the girl seemed to take it. Still. “Oh yes, I’m certain it’s the story she’s interested in.”
He slid half a step behind her. “At any rate, we’ll be adding olives to our feast tonight.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can hear you smiling, you know.”
Another laugh slipped out. “Over olives, no doubt. I haven’t had any in years.”
Olives. Right. Certainly all it was. She shoved aside the image of pretty Claire DuBois and rolled her shoulders. “We’d better pick up the pace. Paul will be waiting for us.”
Now he went stiff, and Nadya looked up at him with raised brows. “You need to get over whatever it is you don’t like about him. He is the head of the Bolsheviks in Paris. Without him—”
“I have no problem with him as the head of the party in Paris.” But he scowled. “My problem is with the way he follows you with his gaze every time you move.”
She didn’t care for that either, but it was her problem to deal with, not his. And she dealt with it just fine. She planted an elbow in his side.
Though the hit hadn’t been that hard, he let out an exaggerated grunt. “What was that for?”
“For acting like a caveman, ready to fight with another caveman over a woman. It’s degrading to us all. I’ll make my own decisions on who I choose to be with, thank you, and your little manly displays of possession aren’t going to impress me.” The same words, more or less, that she’d given Paul.
His brows hiked up. “Hold on just a moment. My getting irritated with Paul for failing to respect our relationship has nothing at all to do with my opinion of you.”
“Ha! In some ways, Evgeni, you’re like every other man. Those old-fashioned instincts are still there, ready to flare up and name me yours. Try to own me. Dictate to me. Convince me my only value is as your woman.”
She’d expressed similar sentiments before, and he never disagreed with her. Not out loud. But he always looked amused. Which irritated her even as she admitted silently that perhaps she repeated herself too often. Who, after all, was she trying to convince?
This time he interrupted her with a quick tickle to her side and leaned a bit closer when she squealed. “And what of your old-fashioned instincts, Nadya?”
She pulled away enough to glare at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He jerked his head backward, toward the shop. “That reaction to Claire DuBois? How is that any different than my reaction to Paul? Should I accuse you of degrading us all with the feelings? Of being possessive of me? Of being ready to start a fight with the girl?”
She cocked her head to the side. This was why she’d yet to grow tired of Evgeni Marin. He had a way of calling her out—and yet making it clear he liked even her faults. “I could make mincemeat of her.”
He laughed. “In half a second. It’s one of the things I most admire about you. But if you do not like my fighting spirit so much . . .”
She drew her lip between her teeth. She’d spent so much of the last few years trying to prove to the men around her that she could fight every bit as well as they could. But that was another reason she’d found herself drawn to this man beside her—he never doubted her abilities. He just fought right alongside her. “All right, you caught me. Jealousy is, perhaps, a natural reaction when you have invested time and . . . and heart into someone. Maybe it does not necessarily make us cavemen.”
It was the first time she’d even mentioned such sentiments. It had seemed dangerous. She didn’t want to be one of those girls who fell in love with a fellow and threw her whole life away.
But at the same time, when she’d thought he was dead, the world hadn’t looked quite right.
He grinned at her. “As long as we share the same standards, correct? The injustice you balk at is if I were allowed to indulge my jealousy but still dally with other women. You would be right, then, to be angry. That said . . . Is it such a bad thing to want a bit of security with the one we’ve chosen to be with?”
She tilted her head to the side. Investing so much in another person was a risk. And yet, wasn’t it more of one not to invest anything? “I suppose I wouldn’t mind a bit of assurance that you’re no
t inclined toward dark curls and full lips, even when they offer you free olives.”
He chuckled. “You have nothing to worry about there. I have always preferred hair of spun gold. . . . At least until the brunette can offer chocolate. Or, better still, baklava. Now, if she had baklava—”
This time she interrupted him with a merciless tickle in his side, making him laugh and pull away, hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. I prefer you even to dessert. And that, milaya moya, is saying something indeed.”
Her smile probably looked a bit like the one a cat would wear when it got into the cream. But it was rather nice to know he didn’t plan to run off with a pretty Frenchwoman in the middle of their mission. “Good. And, for the record, I much prefer smiling, teasing army men to dour-faced party officials. Don’t waste a minute of jealousy on Paul.” They rounded the corner as she spoke, and they both caught sight of his figure leaning against their wall. Nadya huffed out a breath and added quietly, “All the same, don’t antagonize him, Evgeni. We need him.”
Which was probably why he kept smiling as they approached. “Bonsoir, Paul,” he called out, fishing the key to their room from his pocket.
Paul kept right on glowering. “I suppose it is, when one has the leisure to while away the day laughing and visiting the shops. Unlike some of us, who work for a living.”
Nadya rolled her eyes. “As do we. And we’ve been doing our job. Now stop your bellyaching and tell us if you’ve managed what we asked.”
Paul grunted and held out a hand indicating Nadya should enter first. She did, though she shot Evgeni an amused look as she stepped past him into the dim interior. Paul then stomped through the doorway, and Evgeni brought up the rear, closing the door behind him.
“I still do not understand why so many resources are being expended over your brother.” Paul tossed his hat on the table.
The muscle in Evgeni’s jaw ticked for a moment before he forced a smile. “He is of interest to the party, as I’ve said before.”
Nadya took the parcel of food from him and set to putting it all away before he squished the cheese.
“I don’t know why. The man does nothing but jog, go to work, and go straight home.”
Evgeni froze in a way she’d seen a few times before. The way a tiger froze before it pounced. Muttering a curse, she shoved the food onto the table and lunged.
Too late. Evgeni had already lunged too, right for Paul. By the time she grabbed his arm, it was already on the recoil, having socked the older man firmly in the nose.
Yes, part of her wanted to smirk—she’d dreamed of punching Paul a few times over the last weeks herself. But still. “Get ahold of yourself, Evgeni. What has come over you?”
Evgeni shook her off, eyes still on Paul as the man cursed in French and Russian, hand over his bleeding nose. Probably waiting for—and hoping for—a retaliation, though he wasn’t likely to get it from Paul. “He could only know that if he had someone following Zivon.”
Usually she could follow his train of thought fairly well. Not so now. “And?”
Evgeni finally took a deep breath and eased up. “He would have spotted a tail in half a second. Now he’ll be on the alert. And no doubt will figure out who it is, that he has socialist connections, and put together that it’s the party.”
Paul dabbed at his nose. “You worry too much.”
If he said anything else so stupid, Nadya would have to punch him too. “You do not know this man. You do not know all our purposes. Why do you assume this is anything less than life or death? And if so grave, why do you go off without our input and authorize something that could endanger the entire mission?”
A bit of fight finally sparked in Paul’s eyes. “Perhaps because I don’t know your mission!”
“It’s simple. And we need to stay focused on it.” She held Paul’s gaze just long enough to convey her opinion of his methods. And then looked to Evgeni. “We find the names of the Germans trying to start a mutiny, and we kill them before they can. We keep this war going in Europe as long as we can, to keep the Westerners out of Russia longer. On this we can all agree. Right?”
Evgeni nodded.
Paul lowered his bloodstained hands. “That’s what this is about? What does his brother have to do with it?”
A beat of silence. Then Evgeni sighed. “Because if he has my passport—which I believe he does—then he has the names.”
And he had knowledge of it even before that, so he was likely to piece together what he had. Nadya wetted a towel and handed it to Paul. Perhaps they should have told him sooner, rather than just expecting his blind help. But they hadn’t been given permission to read anyone else in on the mission.
A mission that he could have seriously hindered now because of his ignorance. She motioned to the bag he’d dropped when Evgeni punched him. “You have more photographs in there?”
Paul nodded and, with a wary glance at Evgeni, reached for the bag. “Are you going to tell me why these are necessary? Or just let me guess about that too?”
When he set the satchel on the table, Nadya flipped it open. She drew out the first of the images, smiling at seeing exactly what she’d instructed Paul’s photographer friend to create. It may not be quite as incriminating as the first one they’d produced. But it would tell a story. A continuing story. “Also simple,” she said.
Evgeni didn’t look quite as cheerful as he pulled out a chair and sat. “That’s right. We’re convincing the authorities in England that Zivon is one of us. Which will mean, to their way of thinking—”
“He’s not one of them.” Paul smiled and pulled out the second chair. “I believe I’m beginning to understand.”
17
FRIDAY, 7 JUNE 1918
There. Lily held the magnifying glass over the image, finally happy that everything was blended properly. For a moment, she could take satisfaction simply in a job well done. At least until the questions started tapping away at her heart again.
What would this one be used for? All she’d been asked to do was remove someone from the background—probably one of Hall’s agents. This was, in all likelihood, one of those cases where she was helping preserve someone’s secrecy. The photo would be slipped into a file somewhere, replacing an original, perhaps. Or fed to an enemy. Something good. Helpful.
Right?
Blustering out a sigh, Lily swung around to put the magnifying glass away and knocked her elbow, for the twelfth time in the last two and a half weeks, into the table against the wall. Her “Ouch!” turned to a growl. And maybe a frustration-relieving slap to the offending piece of furniture’s top.
This was not working. Her home darkroom was fine for a few rolls of film at a time, or working for an hour here or there. But not until she’d tried to move all of her equipment from the OB in here did she realize how small it was. She had prints in the drying rack, prints clipped to lines above, prints stacked on every possible surface. She had furniture pushed this way and that to try to accommodate the new additions.
As a result, she barely had room to turn around, much less accomplish anything.
And she meant to relay that to Daddy and Blinker this evening, when the admiral and his family came over to dine with them.
“Lilian.” Mama’s voice was accompanied by a light knock on the door. “Ivy is home. You had better go upstairs to prepare for dinner.”
“Yes, Mama.” They’d established a peace . . . of sorts. All conversations were civil. They put on smiling faces whenever anyone else was around. Mama hadn’t made a peep when Daddy announced that Lily’s resignation had been refused and all the supplies from the OB were carted to the house.
But never would her mother actually step foot in here. And every time she addressed her, it was Lilian. Never Lily anymore. She was still a conscientious, responsible mother.
Just no longer a friend.
Lily stood, switching off heaters and lights and what fans she no longer needed. She had to slide sideways to make her way to the
door, and by the time she opened it, Mama had vanished. Another sigh slipped out.
She missed her friend.
As she neared her bedroom, her brows drew together at the scraping noises coming from Ivy’s. What in the world was her sister moving around now? She’d just rearranged everything last week, though no doubt that meant she’d found issue with something.
Smiling, Lily slipped into her room and went straight to the spot on the floor by their shared wall. Once the noise stopped on Ivy’s side, she lifted a knuckle. Tap, tap-a-tap.
“Oh! You’re here!” Instead of an answering tap, footsteps moved toward the hall, and a moment later Ivy entered Lily’s room, closing the door behind her. From the conspiratorial smile on her face, Lily knew there’d be a letter in her pocket. “Secret delivery.”
Lily patted the cushion next to her. She’d known her sister would be a willing partner in this most innocent of crimes, but she’d underestimated Ivy’s enthusiasm. “Did you and Clarke have a good walk?”
Ivy managed somehow to both smile dreamily and sigh sympathetically. “We did. It was a positively perfect afternoon. The only thing that could have improved it would have been had you and Zivon been there.”
Lily could hardly argue with that.
“But enough of that. Here.” From her pocket Ivy pulled an envelope with Lily written on the front in that elegant script she’d grown increasingly familiar with since the wedding. “Oh! No, wait.” Rather than hand it over, she held it high, away from Lily’s reaching hands. “It’s my turn.”
“Ivy.” She tried to inject into her voice the same censure that Mama could achieve with no effort. “Just give it to me.”
Apparently she failed, because her sister laughed and shook her head. “Nope. You know the cost of my cooperation. Now, settle down and let me serenade you with the sweet music of your beloved’s words.”
Though she rolled her eyes, it was largely for show. “Fine. But no dramatics.”
“No input from the audience, please.” Ivy cleared her throat, sent Lily the look that she probably used on her students to keep them in line, and said, “‘My sweetest milaya . . .’”
A Portrait of Loyalty Page 20