“Of course I will.”
But as she bade him farewell and let herself into her darkroom, she couldn’t help the fear that seized her. Because she knew better than most that light didn’t always heal, didn’t always bring grace and forgiveness.
Light could destroy too, when applied in the wrong way. Turn on a light while the film was developing, and the whole batch could be ruined. The truth, when tossed into the world without explanation, viewed in the wrong way, could be just as harmful. It was as she’d reminded Hall when this all started.
The same facts could tell many stories. And the truth, when viewed from the wrong angle, didn’t necessarily set one free.
21
SATURDAY, 22 JUNE 1918
Finally. Finally the crowd of nosy Russian women dispersed, following a middle-aged woman who had just arrived as if she were a piper leading them all from the city they’d been infesting. Nadya had been sitting on this same bench outside a yarn shop most of the week, knitting needles flashing while she kept an eye on Zivon Marin’s building and the swarm of matchmakers whose individual demises she’d entertained herself by devising.
More time lost. Each and every day one of them had arrived before he left for the morning, and rather than leave again when he did, they instead settled in to chat. Blighted busybodies. Nadya had never much appreciated their sort in her own village, where they’d tried to arrange her marriage to no fewer than five idiot men over the years. And she certainly didn’t appreciate them now, when they’d cost her five precious days.
But finally, they were gone. Even the landlord and his wife were out. She’d watched them leave ten minutes ago.
She gave a smile to the other women on the bench knitting or crocheting—socks for soldiers, she was guessing, given the basket of them by their side. She’d promised Evgeni she would blend in somehow, so his brother didn’t notice her, and this had seemed the safest way. She added the pair of socks she’d completed that morning to their basket and then slipped off toward the building.
She’d better act quickly before the nest of bees came back to buzz. Striding forward with a confidence that would tell passersby she belonged here, she slipped through the front door and up the stairs to the flat Nabokov had told her was Marin’s. Too bad he hadn’t been able to miraculously provide her with a key, but she’d spent a few coins on a set of lockpicks in anticipation of this moment, and it only took her a few anxious minutes to convince the door to give her entrance.
When she swung it open just wide enough to slide through, a silent huff slipped out at what met her eye. It was at least four times the size of the little cupboard she and Evgeni had found to rent. Sunlight poured in from generous windows, and the furniture couldn’t be more than five years old. He had artwork on his walls—the kind that looked expensive—and books on his shelves, their spines a rainbow of unintelligible English words.
From all Evgeni had told her—and from the house in Moscow she’d snooped through with a far bigger sneer—she knew the elder Marin brother had bowed and flattered his way into wealth he had no right to possess in Russia. But what sort of bargain must he have struck with the English to be given such a prime flat here, now? When she knew very well that finding anything in this part of the city was all but impossible?
Well, he would get his just deserts. And she would get to work to make that possible. She slid the deadbolt to make sure no one could surprise her and started her search in his bedroom, which seemed the likeliest place for him to hide Evgeni’s passport.
She looked in every drawer, every pocket of every jacket. She checked under the mattress, examined the seams to see if there was an opening he could have slid it into. Beneath rugs. In the few boxes she found. She jiggled each baseboard to see if any would pull away from the wall. She pulled off and squinted at every cushion and pillow in the flat.
Standing in the center of the living room an hour later, a few choice words were swirling about her mind. It had to be here somewhere. It had to be. She stared for a moment at the oil painting, a snarl curling her lip. She’d promised she’d put everything back the way she found it, but a sudden temptation to take a knife to the canvas nearly overcame her.
Nadya swallowed it down and strode over to the other piece, the photograph. The Eiffel Tower, mocking her. Reminding her of the time already wasted in Paris. Of the German officers somewhere in the French countryside whose names she must discover soon.
Why, why could nothing just go right? She needed this. She needed to succeed in the mission they’d given her. She needed to be able to go home with her head high, having proven to the party that she was a comrade worthy of their esteem. She needed to know that the life she and Evgeni would build together wouldn’t be stripped away on a tyrant’s whim if the Whites regained power.
She needed to prove to herself, her family, her whole village that she’d been right to walk away, to scorn all they’d demanded she accept. That she didn’t need them, she didn’t need a husband, she didn’t need a heartless king or an archaic God to be what she wanted to be.
The next surge of temptation had her arm sweeping back, her gloved hand fisting. She landed it square in the middle of the glass covering the photo, relishing the crackle of every fracture. That was what she thought of the reminder of Paris.
Pivoting, she was ready to give up subtlety elsewhere too and start ripping the place to shreds. But a squeak beneath her foot stayed her.
Just the floorboard. They squeaked, this was nothing abnormal. But it was the one place she hadn’t checked yet.
She dropped to her knees, examining each seam. The noisy one seemed firmly in place, but she didn’t let that hinder her.
She had her reward five minutes later, when she found a short piece of wood near the wall that wasn’t sealed into place as the others were. Smiling, she slid the lockpick into the crack and levered it up.
And there, in the space between the board and the underfloor, was the boon she needed. A Russian passport.
“Yes!” She kept her exclamation quiet but couldn’t deny its utterance, especially when she grabbed it up and saw inside it the name Evgeni had been traveling under. A quiet laugh joined the affirmation. Evgeni’s photograph was gone, but that was no surprise. Zivon had probably needed it to show to the ambassador.
No matter. The rest was here. Nadya pocketed it, put the board back in place, and cast one more satisfied look at the shattered glass over the Eiffel Tower. Yes, Zivon Marin would know someone had been here.
Let him. It didn’t matter. She had what she needed.
She escaped the building without anyone noticing her, hurried to the nearest underground, and forty minutes later made it back to their stifling little room. As she neared, she shot a grin up at their window.
Evgeni was lounging in it, and he smiled down at her too. He had been watching for her. Not that he’d admit as much if she asked. “You’re back early, mon amour,” he called down in French.
She rolled her eyes at the endearment. He’d been taking far too much pleasure in using them since Paul had given them their documentation identifying them as married.
And she didn’t mind nearly as much as she pretended she did.
Rather than call up to him, she simply rushed up the stairs, sidestepping a cluster of babbling children, one of whom stuck her tongue out at her. In some indefinable way, the girl reminded her of her littlest sister.
A surge of affection welled but was chased quickly away by the resentment that had possessed her when she watched Anya fade away. Starving, fevered. All the food of her own Nadya had given her, all the hours she’d spent nursing her instead of pursuing her own dreams—worthless. If there was a God, He was capricious and cruel to snatch away the brightest of them and leave the rest to mourn without ceasing.
She snapped her teeth at the English brat and stormed on by.
Evgeni opened the door for her as she neared. “Is early a good thing?”
A grin stole her lips again. As soon as he closed the door behind
her, she pulled out the passport. “Early is a very good thing.”
Eyes flaming bright, he laughed, picked her up, swung her around, and set her on her feet again with an enthusiastic kiss. “I knew you could find it. What was it like? His flat?”
She tossed the passport onto the tiny table. “Too large for one man. He has fine artwork on his walls, books on his shelves, and his kitchen was overflowing with more food than he could possibly eat—probably the work of that gaggle of fools trying to match him with one of their daughters.”
Evgeni had turned to the table, but he paused, turned back to her. “Do not begrudge him that, if he wants it. Especially today. It would have been his wedding day.”
Was that why Evgeni had looked so muted this morning? Why hadn’t he said something?
All right, she knew why. She was the one who had taken that from his brother. Why would she be the one he spoke to about it? Even so, the realization that he’d been mourning that today and kept it to himself made her go prickly.
She sneered. “I’m sure he could replace her easily enough. If the mothers are any indication, the daughters would be happy to accept the handcuffs and bow to his patriarchal authority. None of them would dream of stepping outside expectations—just like Alyona.”
His jaw ticked. She’d seen it before, but never directed at her. “You know, for someone who speaks so much about equality, you are quick to take the chance for it from those you don’t agree with. Alyona was a sweet girl who did the best she could with the life she was given. Who knows what she may have done later if her life hadn’t been sacrificed?”
Nadya leaned toward him. Tapped a finger to his chest. “You sound as though you . . . liked her. Alyona.”
He didn’t so much as flinch. “She was like a sister to me. Would have been a sister to me, as of today. And it isn’t right what was done to her. She shouldn’t have paid the price for my brother’s opinions.”
Had he been blaming her for that all this time? “Oh, don’t start with all the morality nonsense. I thought you were above such sentiments. What’s right is what works—”
“And it didn’t.” He spun away. “Her death was senseless and ineffectual. All it accomplished was driving my brother here. She should have been one of the people you fight for, Nadya. One of the women who deserves a chance at more from life. But she was denied that.”
“Sacrifices have to be made sometimes.” Nadya straightened her spine, planted her hands on her hips.
“I know. But how do we keep from becoming just like the tyrants, then? Isn’t that the same thing they always said, when we were dying on the front lines?” He stopped at the window, staring down at the street below, as if looking out where strangers walked would make clear all the mysteries of humanity.
Didn’t he remember that they’d already made sense of it? “The difference is that we’re not serving just ourselves—we’re serving everyone.”
“Everyone but those we don’t like or agree with, you mean.” He leaned his shoulder against the peeling wallpaper by the window frame.
She eased up behind him, the question scorching her tongue. Fear of the answer scorching her heart. “Are you doubting the party, Evgeni? Doubting all we stand for, all we’ve been working for?”
“No.” He turned enough to look at her. And somehow, his eyes were clear. Easy. “But Batya used to say that the difference between a wise man and a fool was not that the wise man was right and the fool wrong—but that the fool always assumed himself right, and the wise man would wonder if he could be wrong. We cannot learn from our mistakes and grow wiser if we never admit to the times we’ve chosen the wrong path.”
Chosen it. She frowned, the grocer’s daughter’s outrage over the tin kingdom sneaking back into her mind. He’d argued against Claire’s objections, but here he was, condemning those in command for taking Alyona’s choices from her. But it was different, wasn’t it, when you tried to protect, rather than destroy?
“Sometimes you confuse me.” She tilted her head, studying him. “I think I know you, know your views, and then you defend someone whose beliefs are vastly opposed to yours.”
He studied her right back. “We are more than just our views, Nadya. At least, I certainly hope so. Otherwise, if we are ever convinced of a new thing, it means our entire person changes.” And maybe that was why he still loved his brother so fiercely, even knowing they’d never see eye to eye. “Disagreeing with someone shouldn’t mean I think they have no right to live, to work, to be given a chance for happiness.”
She lifted her chin. “Even when they would take that chance from you?”
His grin battered down a few of her blocks of anger. “Especially then. We cannot prove ourselves better than our enemies by denying them what they denied us, but only by giving them what they denied us.”
For a long moment, she simply stared at him. These certainly weren’t ideas he’d picked up in Russia. They weren’t ideas she’d ever really heard offered as a reasonable way to live. They were ideas she should have scoffed at as being utterly impossible.
And yet, as she saw the light smoldering in his eyes, they didn’t seem so impossible at all. “I think . . .” She leaned against the wall on the other side of the window, her gaze never leaving his. “I think I like your version of equality. It’s dangerous. But then, the best things usually are.”
He reached out and trailed his fingers down her arm. “Very true. And in the spirit of that, here’s another truth you may find dangerous. I love you.”
She jerked. She couldn’t help it. But she didn’t bolt for the door as she probably would have done a few months ago. “Are you trying to shackle me?”
He breathed a laugh, shook his head. “Who said love had to be shackles? I’m not trying to hold you anywhere, force you to do anything. This is a gift to you, Nadya. I give it freely. I demand nothing in return. You can love me or you can not. You can stay with me or you can go. Either way, I will love you. I will love the very spirit that may insist you run far and fast.” He caressed her fingers but didn’t grip them. Instead, he held his hand beside hers, palm up. “But I hope, of course. I hope you’ll stay. I hope you’ll accept my love—not as a prison trying to make you be something you don’t want to be. But as . . . wings. To help you reach whatever heights you strive for.”
She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t sure she believed him. Or trusted him enough to take that kind of gamble. Because whatever words he might say, the fact was still that love—committing to love, anyway—did put demands on a person. It demanded one think of the other, not just oneself. It demanded one think of the other above oneself. It demanded one work through the problems instead of choosing the easy way out and leaving when life got difficult.
And life would always get difficult. Every Russian knew that.
Did she dare take that kind of gamble on anyone?
She didn’t know. So, instead of answering with words, she eased closer, stretched up, kissed him. It would have to be enough for now that she wanted to be with him. That she wanted to live at his side when they got home. That was all she could offer.
Perhaps he read her mind. When finally she pulled away, his gaze went to the table, his hand reaching out a moment later. “Where was the passport?”
“Under a floorboard. Clearly he wanted no one to find it.”
Evgeni’s brows pinched together as he opened it. “The photograph is missing.”
She waved a hand. “That hardly matters, does it? You don’t need to use this as identification anymore.”
“No, not the one of me. The photo of the officers that the Prussian gave me. Zivon must have taken it out.” His eyes darkened. “Would he have given it to them, do you think? The British?”
“Does it matter?” Though she admitted it gave her a prick, and any joy she’d felt over the find started leaking out. “How will they know what it is? Or find the men with just one photograph to go on? As long as they don’t have the names, we are fine.”<
br />
“Right. The names are written on . . .” He flipped more pages. And then hissed out a curse and slapped the passport back to the table.
Her stomach dropped all the way to her feet. “What? What is it?”
“I had a small snapshot also in there. I didn’t want the Prussian writing on the photo of the officers. Seemed a bad idea to have all the information in one place.” He shook his head. “The photo was the only paper I had to offer, so I let him write on it. It’s gone.” He paced a few steps, pivoted. “It has to be somewhere. Somewhere else in the flat.”
“No.” She shook her head, heart thudding. “I didn’t see any photographs. I checked everything.”
“Everything? Every page of every book? Every binding? Every—”
“Everything!” Though, of course, now she doubted herself. She’d flipped through each book, but could a photograph have been stuck between pages and escaped her notice? Could it have been under the insole of a shoe? Behind peeling wallpaper?
Not that his wallpaper had been peeling. She pressed her hands to her temples. “What was it a photograph of?”
He cursed again and then sighed. “The two of us as boys. From our trip to Paris.”
Could it have been with that other picture from Paris? Or hidden behind the oil painting? Or—worst-case scenario—would he carry it with him? She let her hands fall. Whichever the answer, clearly her work wasn’t done.
Not even close.
22
Zivon claimed to be no expert on English garden parties, but from his perspective, this one had been quite a success. He’d been amused to discover that the duchess he’d tried to avoid at the wedding had come, and that she knew Kira Suvorova from her time in Monaco. She had, in fact, been the friend the Suvorovs had come to visit when they were stranded here by the outbreak of war. He’d been touched at the arrival of Father Smirnov and his wife, who reported that she’d cleared all the matushkas and babushkas from his building for him that morning. And he’d been encouraged by the number of his colleagues who had made an appearance too.
A Portrait of Loyalty Page 25