“Well.” He grinned. “I’m planning for a trip. I decided I’d better have time enough to try to wheedle a bit extra from you.”
“A trip?” Claire kept on sweeping. “Where could you be going? It isn’t safe to travel, is it?”
He lifted his brows. “And it is safe here? Need I remind you of my experience the last time I tried to attend Mass in your fair city?”
She laughed. “All right, all right. Though I ought to be put out that you’re abandoning me.”
“Mm. I suspect you will survive without my stories.”
“I suppose that depends on if you leave me in the middle of one. You never did finish ‘The Snake Princess,’ you know.”
“I couldn’t! Your father—”
“Isn’t here right now.” Grinning, she reached under a shelf with her broom, though she pulled out no dust that he could see. “So begin. Then I will see what extra supplies I might be able to find for you.”
“All right.” He leaned against the counter, arms folded over his chest. “Where did we leave off? The Cossack had just been set free from the castle and the princess was released from the enchantment, oui?”
Claire nodded, though she still tossed him a scowl. “Over my objections. She also explained about the sorcerer.”
“Yes. And she said that her father, a king, would surely grant the Cossack anything he asked for. This is where we were, correct?”
“Oui.” She swept her way down an aisle.
“Well, she went further in her explanation. She told the Cossack that her father was certain to offer him all sorts of tantalizing rewards—gold, jewels, land.”
“Chocolate,” Claire added on a sigh. “I would ask for a storeroom full of chocolate.”
A chuckle slipped from Evgeni’s throat. “You and I have much in common, Claire. But the princess told the Cossack that he must refuse and instead ask for the cask stored in the king’s cellar.”
“A cask?” She looked over her shoulder. “It had better be a magical one. One that never runs dry of the finest wine, perhaps?”
“Mais non. Well, magical, yes. But not because of what it was filled with. If one were to roll the cask to the left, a magical castle would appear. And then it would vanish again when one rolled it to the right.”
“That would do too. If there was chocolate to be found in this castle, anyway.”
He laughed again. “We can hope. Anyway, the princess and the Cossack traveled together to her father’s kingdom, where, as expected, the king and queen were so grateful to have their daughter back that they offered the young man anything his heart desired. As instructed, he turned down the jewels and gold paraded before him and instead requested the cask from the cellar. The king was none too pleased, but he had promised. So he delivered the cask to the Cossack, who bade them farewell and went on his way.”
“Went on his way? Without the princess?” Claire rounded the end of the shelves and disappeared into the next aisle. “What kind of story is this?”
“Be patient. He had to see what it did, didn’t he? And he couldn’t very well open up a castle inside a castle. Plus, the princess would want to visit with her family, I’d think.”
Claire’s hmph sounded unconvinced, but she said no more. For the moment.
“So off went the Cossack. He hadn’t gone far, however, when he came across an old beggar sitting in the road.”
“Ah!” She peeked over the shelf to grin at him. “It is always an old beggar. Is he a magician? The sorcerer? Another king in disguise, to see if our hero is worthy?”
“Whatever he was, he was hungry. He asked the young man if he perchance had anything to eat. So the Cossack put down the cask and rolled it to the left, and voilà! A magnificent castle appeared. So he invited the old man inside. They found the dining hall, where a grand feast was laid out, awaiting them. The old man ate an entire roast ox and drank a full barrel of wine and said he could eat more but didn’t want to be rude, so he thanked his kind host and said he had better take his leave.”
Claire chuckled as she came into view again. “This is a tormenting story, mon ami. All this food . . .”
“No more feasting, I promise.” He glanced out the door at the people passing by. None of whom, thankfully, seemed poised to join them. “The Cossack left with the man, rolled the cask to the right, and the castle vanished. Well, the old man was quite impressed. ‘I could do with a cask like that,’ he said. ‘Would you be willing to make a trade?’”
Claire paused at the end of the aisle and leaned on her broom. “What could he possibly have to trade that would be worth it to the Cossack?”
“Exactly what the Cossack asked, at which point the old man pulled out a beautiful, shining sword. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is an enchanted sword, capable of smiting anything you command it to smite, of its own power. With this sword at your side, you can never lose a battle.’ To prove it, he commanded the sword to fell the grove of trees near at hand, and off it flew, chopping down each and every one.”
Claire frowned again and moved to open the door so she could sweep her little pile of dust and dirt outside. “If he had this, why was he a beggar?”
Evgeni sighed. “You ask too many questions, Claire.”
“It is a reasonable one! With a sword like that, he could have taken over a kingdom of his own!”
“I suppose the old fellow wasn’t that smart. But the Cossack was. He knew exactly what to do. He made the deal with the old man and gave him the cask—”
“The princess’s father would probably have something to say about that.” She swept the debris into the street and closed the door again.
He ignored her. “And he took the sword. Well, the moment it was in his hands, he told the sword to cut down the old man, and of course it did. So he took the sword and the cask and went back to claim the princess as his wife.”
Claire came to a halt, her hand still on the door. “You must be joking! The hero is now not only incapable of making his own choices, but he is a cold-blooded murderer of old men?”
Evgeni straightened. “He saw the way forward to all he ever wanted, and he took it.”
“What a terrible story.” Looking genuinely put out, she stomped around the counter and leaned the broom into its corner. “I thought the old beggar character in a folktale was supposed to be a test to the main character. That he would prove himself a true hero by treating him nicely, or be stripped of everything if he scorned him. If this is instead the sort of tale your people tell, it is a wonder you do not all go around murdering each other and stealing from each other.”
Evgeni sighed. He didn’t have time to get into an argument with her about whether a story was a good one. Better to laugh it off. “Well, we were ruled by the Huns for several hundred years. Blame it on their influence, marauders as they were.”
Her movements jerky, angry, Claire pulled out a few supplies she’d tucked away and then stormed back into the store proper. “Give me just a moment to gather you a bit more.”
“Claire.” He trailed her to the shelves of canned meats. “Why are you so upset? It is just an old story.”
“An old story that you chose to tell, of all the old stories you had to pick from.” She snatched a few jars and pressed them to his stomach, then grabbed a few others. “I’m not certain what that says about you, Zhenya Marin. But perhaps I should be glad you’re leaving.”
It shouldn’t have stung. She was just a grocer’s daughter. Barely more than an acquaintance. “Be fair. I don’t remember many of the tales, not well enough to recite them. I’ve only been telling you the ones I recall clearly.”
“And that is one you remember?”
“Perhaps because of those oddities that have you hissing like a cat.”
She pierced him with a sharp gaze and strode around him, back to the counter. “I don’t think so. I think you favor that one because you like the thought of just taking whatever you want from life.” She smacked her jars onto the countertop. “Perhaps Papa was r
ight about you.”
“Now, wait just a moment.” He followed behind her, though he kept his distance. He wasn’t sure what had her so hot under the collar, but wisdom said to stay out of swinging range. “You have no idea what the Cossack did after that. For all you know, he used his newfound wealth and power to bring health and happiness to everyone in the region. Sharing equally with all.”
“Until they had something he wanted, you mean?” She gathered all the food together and then her hands stilled. “No. I find it very hard to believe that men who would steal and kill innocents to get their way would ever then be so selfless.” She met his gaze and told him the total for the food.
More than she usually would have charged him—though not more than she should have. He drew the bills and coins from his pocket. “Sometimes people have to make a hard choice, you know. For the greater good.”
“And more often people trample the helpless for their own good and just say it is for the sake of others.” She moved to put the cash into the register, leaving him to load up his basket.
“You have a dim view of humanity.” He strove to keep his voice light, though it was difficult with that scowl still in the place of her usual flirtatious grin.
She paused, hand on the register, and looked at him. “I just find it sad that so many people think they can find true happiness by taking. They can’t. We can only ever find it by giving.”
Now she sounded like Matushka. And perhaps Zivon. Evgeni picked up his basket. “Perhaps your father should rethink leaving you in charge of the till.”
Her chin lifted. “Perhaps you should have tried to go to Mass again after that last time.”
She really was like Matushka and Zivon. He fastened a grin into place. “Au revoir, Claire. Try not to break the heart of every young man left in the neighborhood.”
She slid the register drawer shut. Softly. “Au revoir, Zhenya. Try not to cut down any innocents in your path.”
“Oh, I think they are all safe. I have no magical sword, after all.” He would cling to levity, even if she had forgotten their script. He topped it with a wink and hurried out the door.
Suddenly, he was rather glad to be leaving Paris.
Lily stepped out of Charing Cross Hospital and made her way to Whitehall with a light step that went even lighter when she spotted Zivon’s familiar figure striding away from the OB. She’d planned to catch him later, after her afternoon shift back in her basement darkroom, when he’d be leaving for the day too. She came armed today with an official invitation to dinner on Sunday, which meant she had a Daddy-sanctioned reason for seeking him out.
She’d hoped to see him yesterday, the first day it would have been possible since Daddy had reluctantly agreed to loosen his restrictions. But she’d missed Zivon at every turn.
The same would not happen today. She dashed down the street faster than Mama would have liked. She wasn’t going to shout, but that meant she had to be quick if she wanted to catch up.
He was aimed for St. James’s Park, it seemed, which probably meant she should stop and turn around. Daddy had still put his foot down on promenades in the parks. But this wasn’t a promenade; it was simply an invitation-issuance. Completely different.
And she hadn’t set eyes on him in weeks. Eagerness fueled her, sent her onward. They hadn’t walked here as often as in Hyde Park, since the other was closer to Ivy’s school, but often enough that it felt familiar. He didn’t turn toward their usual path, though, which nearly threw her. She’d aimed that way without thought before she spotted him on another course. And he was walking at a quicker clip now too.
“Zivon! Wait!” She sucked in a breath and ran for him.
He turned. Hesitated, eyes going wide. Then he smiled, but it wasn’t quite right. Wasn’t the smile he usually gave her.
He wasn’t happy to see her.
She stumbled on a rock, arms flailing out, but pointlessly. There was nothing to grab on to, and when she stepped to the side to regain her balance, she found a puddle rather than solid ground.
“Lily!” At a speed she wouldn’t have thought possible had it been anyone else, he was at her side, steadying her. And he didn’t let go of her once she was back on her feet either. Which seemed a contradiction to the false smile he’d given her.
“Hello.” Her own smile felt fluttery and uncertain. She searched his eyes, looking for some answer to his hesitation. Had he changed his mind about her? It certainly didn’t seem so, from the letters he’d sent. But . . .
“What are you doing here?” He softened the harsh words by lifting her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Your father would not approve.”
And yet she didn’t think that was the cause of his reaction. “I’ve come with an invitation. But . . .”
Another flash of something in his eyes, partially hidden behind the glare on his eyeglasses. “Forgive me, milaya, if my joy at seeing you has been eclipsed by alarm at your finding me at this particular moment.” His words were so quiet she could barely hear them. “I am out here on covert business.”
She may have laughed it off, had he not looked entirely serious. And if it didn’t seem entirely possible, given recent events.
Doubt flashed through her. What sort of covert business? Should she be concerned?
But he smiled. “Someone has been following me lately. Hall has men in place to apprehend him even now. My task is to lead him to them.”
“Oh.” She smiled back, though she suspected his had been more for show than because he felt happy. “I had better walk with you, then. It would look odd if I took off in the other direction, wouldn’t it?”
“Lily—”
“Don’t make me leave, Zivon. I have missed you so terribly.”
He sighed. Kissed her hand again. And then tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Your father will not be pleased. And I doubt Hall will be either.”
“If they didn’t want me chasing you down today to issue the invitation for dinner they said I could give you, someone should have warned me against it. So, it’s their own fault.” She shouldn’t feel so happy about the chance to indulge in a small rebellion, but there it was.
He chuckled. The fingers that he rested on hers were warm and caressing too, soothing the uncertainty his greeting had sparked. “You look beautiful today.”
She laughed at the obvious exaggeration. She was in her VAD uniform, after all, and hadn’t even taken the kerchief from her hair. “Fairer than the lilies of the field, I’m sure.”
“Exactly my thinking.” He let his arm brush hers. “I have missed you more than words can say, milaya.”
“How fortunate, then, that we have the chance for something more than written words now. Although”—she bumped his arm back—“I admit that I do quite like your letters. I can read them over and over again when I miss you.”
“I have had this same thought.”
She drew in a long breath and looked about them. She didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary, but she also didn’t want to look obvious as she searched for them. Pitching her voice low, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“A bench. It is not much farther.”
“Well, that’s a shame. I was hoping it was on the opposite end of the park.”
His fingers squeezed hers. “I wish the same. But you mentioned an invitation?”
“Dinner. Sunday. If the weather’s fair, we’ll be playing croquet beforehand, and you’re welcome to join us for that too.” She gave him her cheekiest grin. “Mama said so, and Daddy grows tired of disagreeing with her, I think.”
“And you and your mother? You have smoothed things over?”
Her grin faded. “It isn’t how it used to be. I’ve been missing her too.”
“Sweet Lily.” He nodded toward a path that forked off from theirs and the bench within sight alongside it. “Perhaps you should tell her so.”
“Perhaps.” Would it help? Ease some of the hurt Mama must be feeling?
“You will not regret i
t if—”
A loud crack cut him off. Before Lily could even process what it was, Zivon had pushed her to the ground, covering her body with his own. Shouts sounded, and footsteps, and another crack that she realized with horror must be gunfire. “Zivon?”
“Stay down.” Somehow, he sounded both frantic and controlled. “I will not have you injured.”
But he eased off her, his attention on the path behind them where the sounds of a struggle continued. She could tell from the breath he exhaled when Hall’s men must have succeeded in getting their suspect under control.
“All right. He will not escape them now. Have I hurt you, milaya?”
She shook her head and got to her knees, accepting the hand he offered to rise the rest of the way. “A bit muddy, but that hardly matters.” Her hands, however, were shaking. “Was it him who shot first?”
“I believe so. He must have spotted them closing in.”
That did nothing to calm her. If this fellow had been following Zivon, if he had no reason to think today was out of the ordinary, did that mean he always carried a weapon? And was so willing to use it?
Perhaps Zivon read her thoughts. Or just had matching ones. He touched a hand to her cheek. “They have him now. All the other ‘what ifs’ are now moot, yes?”
“Yes. Of course.” But she gripped his hand and was ready to argue if he tried to tug it free.
Her gaze was pulled toward the group of navy men, the prisoner still struggling—though in vain—to break free of them. The man had twisted enough that he faced them now, and he spat in their direction, though he was far too distant to even hope to reach them.
“Blighted capitalist!” he screamed. “They should have done you in when they had the chance!”
A socialist. A Bolshevik? She glanced up at Zivon’s face.
It was blank. Still. But only for a moment. His nostrils flared, a million thoughts flashing through his eyes. His mouth twisted. He held her fingers so tightly it hurt, though she’d never say so.
The officers dragged the man away while he was still shouting about the evils of capitalism and imperialism. Zivon didn’t relax any when he was out of sight. “How am I to do it, Lily? How am I to stop hating them?”
A Portrait of Loyalty Page 22