A Portrait of Loyalty

by Roseanna M. White

  Just in time to see her sister’s pale face a moment before Ivy crumpled to the ground.

  23

  You were right.”

  Zivon let those lovely words sink into his mind as he sat before Hall’s desk, a balm on the wound he’d been trying to ignore. He didn’t ask what he’d been right about, he didn’t pump a fist in triumph at the mere statement, he didn’t even heave a sigh of relief. He just sat there, still and calm, and waited for the admiral to go on.

  DID tapped a finger to something on his desk, though Zivon couldn’t see what it was from this angle, other than a photo of some sort. “These two are definitely grumbling about mutiny among the German soldiers. You may be on to something here, Marin.”

  Sweet vindication sang through his veins, but he did nothing more than nod. “Which two, sir?” He’d said it as if Zivon should know.

  He apparently should, Zivon saw, when Hall lifted the photo he’d tapped.

  The photo that had been stuffed in Evgeni’s passport.

  His mind whirled. Screamed.

  The admiral didn’t seem to notice. “Lily helped us put it together. She had another shot of them in her archives, but from the first few months of the war, when they were but oberjägers, both of them. It seems they’ve advanced in the ranks through a series of battlefield promotions, but both are from humble origins. Not gentlemen, like most of the officers.”

  “Their sympathies, then, are still with the common soldier.” Half of Zivon’s mind followed the information well enough. But the other half . . . Why would Evgeni have had a snapshot of those two? The very two who were of interest to Zivon? The two who were alluded to in the last message he’d decoded in Moscow, the one he had been wanting so desperately to recover? Had Zhenya, in fact, been an intelligence agent?

  “We had their names on file, from that first photograph Lily dug up.” Hall set the photo down again and leaned back in his chair. For a long moment, he regarded Zivon without speaking. Then, quietly, he said, “You were right about this. And so, I’ve been giving some thought to what you insisted at the start. About the proper reaction from us. You weren’t born a gentleman either, were you?”

  Zivon started a bit at the question, so out of the blue.

  But not. Not out of the blue at all, from Hall’s perspective. All this potential trouble for the Germans was coming about because two common men had risen through the ranks. Two common men saw the plight of their true comrades and wanted it to end. Two common men were ready to start a rebellion among the soldiers to force their superiors to listen.

  Not so different, really, from all that had happened in Russia over the last year. Something Zivon should understand, given his similar story. “No. I was not. My mother’s family had connections to the intelligentsia, but we had none at all to the nobility.”

  Which would make Hall question where Zivon’s loyalties had really lain, even in Russia. He, like these Germans, was more common than elite, by rights.

  Hall blinked at him. “Popov was going to retire at the new year. You would have taken over command of the division.”

  A fact he’d made it a point never to mention here, where he’d been forced to take a position at the bottom. Zivon drew in a long breath but didn’t answer.

  Apparently Hall didn’t need one. “I knew Popov well. We set your division up together, mirroring ours here, you know. We still kept in touch—he mentioned you often. Your brilliance. Your talent with the work. He said he could imagine handing the reins over to no one else.”

  Zivon’s throat went tight. “I admired him greatly.” He had no idea, now, where his mentor even was. He’d vanished a few weeks before Zivon had fled too. Was he dead? Or safe somewhere in Allied territory? He prayed that it was the latter.

  “Had you actually received that promotion, it wouldn’t have come just with a military title.”

  Ah, so this was his point. Zivon nodded. “I realize it would have given me access to social circles to which I did not by rights belong.” He ran his thumb over the ruby of his ring. “I am not like those German officers, sir. I know well to whom I owe thanks and loyalty for my advancement. And more, though I can commiserate with how my people suffer, I cannot condone the way the soviets have chosen to institute change. It is not freedom that is extended to all, only to those with whom one agrees. This is what our American allies have taught the world, is it not? True freedom means freedom to disagree.”

  Hall smiled and opened his mouth. But before he could say anything more, his office door burst open.

  Zivon spun, frowning when he saw Clarke there, out of breath and wild-eyed. “It’s Ivy—the captain just got word and took off in his car. They couldn’t find me fast enough. She’s ill. This flu.”

  Zivon pushed to his feet.

  “Go.” Hall had already rounded the desk, his own face lined with worry. “If Blackwell has left, it must be bad. Keep me updated.”

  He needed no more permission than that. Zivon charged for the door, he and Clarke both running down the corridor, the stairs, and out into the summer sunshine. Neither paused to debate the path to take or how best to get there.

  They simply ran. Heedless of the pedestrians that stared at them. Despite how constricting Zivon’s suit jacket felt on his shoulders, how his shoes rubbed his heels. He ran, barely keeping up with Clarke—who usually could barely keep up with him. He ran until the Blackwell house came into view, until he heard his friend’s fists pounding on wood, until the door opened and he could skid to a halt on the polished floors.

  He expected Eaton. Perhaps even the captain. But it was Lily who stood in the entryway, gripping the latch. Lily, her eyes empty. Her dress stained.

  Clarke’s breath heaved in and out, words barely finding purchase in the air. “Ivy. They said—Ivy.”

  Lily’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. Her fingers moved from the latch to the door itself, gripping it with white fingers. Even so, she swayed a bit.

  Clarke gripped her by the shoulders, panic turning his usually smiling face into a mask Zivon scarcely would have recognized. “Where is she?”

  Lily shook her head. A wisp of hair had slipped free of her chignon at some point, falling directly before her face, but she didn’t even bother to move it aside.

  A guttural cry tore from Clarke’s throat. He dashed away from her, toward the stairs neither of them had ever dared to go up, the ones that would lead to the family’s bedrooms. Someone would probably stop him—Mrs. Blackwell, the captain, a servant. But that didn’t seem to occur to him.

  Lily still stared at where he’d been. “She’s . . .” Her voice was so faint Zivon could have convinced himself she hadn’t spoken at all. She swallowed, blinked. “Gone.”

  “No.” Zivon whispered it.

  From above them, Clarke screamed it.

  Lily’s eyes slid shut, and he feared she was going to topple, so he did the only thing he could think to do. He pulled her to his chest with one arm and urged the door closed with the other. “Lily. My love. What happened?”

  She trembled in his arms, if tremble was a fitting enough word for the violence of her shaking. “We sent word to Daddy as soon as we got her settled. It moved so fast, though. So fast. She must have been hours trying to get home. I don’t know—she was fine this morning, but her lips were blue already when she got here.” A sob overtook her, and her fingers gripped his lapels. “There was nothing I could do. She was gasping for breath, and there was nothing I could do!”

  “Milaya.” He held her tightly, far more tightly than he usually would have dared, but he couldn’t fight the thought that she’d fall to pieces if he didn’t.

  Some part of him hadn’t believed all the stories about this flu. Not until now. The keening from upstairs, the woman falling apart in his arms, demanded he admit the truth.

  He buried his face in Lily’s hair. “I’m so sorry.” The words came out in Russian. He couldn’t convince his tongue to correct itself and didn’t imagine it really mattered. The wo
rds meant nothing anyway. She probably wouldn’t even hear them. His arms would speak more loudly, more clearly.

  Another sob tore through her, sounding as though it carried her very soul with it. Her knees buckled, though she didn’t fall. She couldn’t, not as firmly as he held her, as tightly as she gripped him. And he wouldn’t let her. Instead, he scooped her up and carried her into the drawing room, to the familiar sofa with its faded pattern, where they’d sat together countless times. Her arms slid around his neck for the journey and showed no signs of letting go when he leaned down to try to put her on the cushions.

  The last thing he wanted was to force her to release him, so he recalculated. Turned. Sat himself, letting her curl into his lap. Not exactly an appropriate posture under normal circumstances, but this was hardly normal. And it let him cradle her against his chest, run a hand up her back. Keep whispering words that would mean nothing to her. In Russian. In French. A few in English that would sound just as meaningless.

  He pressed his lips to her forehead at one point, when fear overtook grief. Cool. No fever. The flu that had stolen her sister didn’t have hold of her, not yet. Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

  He didn’t, he knew that. All he could do was beg God to insulate her from it. For her family’s sake, for her own, for his. The prayers came in every language he knew too, the words a chaotic jumble that he hoped would make more sense to the Lord than they did to him.

  He held her until the sobs turned to gasps. Until the shaking slowed to more properly termed trembling. Even then, her arms didn’t relax, and she didn’t lift her head from the home it had found against his neck.

  “This is—my fault.” Her words were ragged. One of her hands moved, though not far. Only enough to shove at her hair and then fall to his chest and grip his shirt.

  She’d utterly failed at getting her hair out of her face. It stuck to her cheeks, glued there by tears. He eased the strands free of the mess and smoothed them back. For a moment, he debated digging out his handkerchief to give to her, but it was in the pocket against which she was pressed, and that would require more movement than he was willing to risk. “Do not be ridiculous, milaya. You did not bring this illness to London.”

  “No. But I—I must have brought it—home.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and a new keening gathered in her throat. “From the—hospital.”

  “No, milaya. You cannot blame yourself. It is everywhere, you know this. In the train stations, on the streets—in her school. We have had a few cases even in the OB. Your father or Clarke could have come in contact with it.” He shook his head and let it rest against hers. “There is no blame.”

  She didn’t rebut his claim, not in words, but he knew his logic hadn’t found a hold on her heart. Not yet. He could only pray it would eventually. Pray she wouldn’t fall victim to the guilt that could eat a person whole and leave one’s spirit gaping, prime fodder for bitterness.

  He had no idea how long she battled the tears, sometimes letting them have their way, sometimes fighting them back. Time didn’t much matter. He would send word to Hall when he could, but he had no intention of returning to the office today. He intended to stay right here until someone told him to leave. He couldn’t bear to let this family, this woman suffer alone.

  After a while, she did shift, though, sliding to a seat beside him—primarily, he suspected, so she could dig her handkerchief out of her pocket. Mrs. Goddard slipped in not long after with water and tea. She didn’t say anything—her face looked as worn and streaked with tears as Lily’s—but she met Zivon’s gaze, nodded toward the tray, and then glanced at Lily. A clear command that he was to make sure she at least had a drink. He nodded his understanding.

  Lily held out a hand to keep the housekeeper from leaving again. “Mama? I should go and check on her.” She didn’t look like she had enough energy to carry out the task.

  Mrs. Goddard came closer, smoothed back Lily’s hair, and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Something he suspected she hadn’t done in a decade or more, as proper as she usually was. “I just came from there, luv. Your mother cried herself to sleep, so leave her to rest. The fever’s no worse than it was an hour ago.”

  Zivon tightened his hold on Lily. Mrs. Blackwell was ill? He hadn’t heard that part. But it must be why Lily had been at home already today.

  Mrs. Goddard patted his cheek too. “Let your young man here take care of you for a bit. We can’t have you getting sick now. Drink something. Eat, if you can. You’ve had no more than a few bites all day.”

  For the housekeeper, Lily nodded. But as soon as she left, she shook her head. “I can’t eat.”

  He could understand that. But he got up and poured a tall glass of cool water. “Drink, at least. You need it.”

  She took the glass from him, sipped at it. Her gaze remained glazed, latched on nothing. “She can’t be gone. She can’t. She was well this morning. Worried for Mama but perfectly fine.”

  “I know. It makes no sense.” No more sense than getting the news his mother had been trampled to death in a riot. Or seeing his fiancée dead on his doorstep. No more sense than realizing his brother had perished trying to find him.

  He shook his head. “I wish I could take this for you, milaya. That I could carry it instead.” Just as he wished he could have found a way to be here, to meet her still, without it requiring the deaths of his own family.

  A moment later, heavy steps dragged their way toward the entrance. Zivon looked up, wincing when Clarke stumbled his way in like a drunkard and collapsed onto a chair. His eyes were every bit as unfocused and swollen as Lily’s. Zivon had never seen his shoulders so bowed.

  “The doctor is finally on his way.” Clarke let out a little puff of breath that was more incredulity than laughter. “As if he can do anything now.”

  “He couldn’t have done anything before either.” Lily took another sip of water. “Not when it gets into the lungs.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

  Clarke scrubbed at his face and then leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. “She was in perfect health yesterday. We were to go for a walk this evening. We had plans to see a show this weekend.” His fingers curled into his hair. “I was going to marry her. I have a ring. I was going to ask just before my mother arrived, so she could celebrate with us.”

  Lily’s water glass shook until she lowered it to rest against her leg. “She would have said yes. She loved you.”

  Lifting his head just enough to reveal his eyes, Clarke nodded and looked over at them. “We’d said those words, at least. I’m glad of that.” His gaze focused on Zivon. “How do we do this? How do we . . . keep on living?”

  Something he had done such a poor job of that he really shouldn’t even try to answer. Except he did know how. He knew the words. He’d just been executing them all wrong. “We must be still—not our hands and feet, but our minds. And know that He is God. That He has not changed. That the same Lord who loved us when all is well loves us still when all is lost. His promises are as true today as they were yesterday. He has been enough to see people through the worst since the dawn of time. We must trust that His love is enough to see us through now.”

  He didn’t know if the words could mean anything yet to these two people who meant so much to him. But for the first time in six months, a trickle of peace washed over the rocks of his soul.

  THURSDAY, 11 JULY 1918

  Lily sat on the cushions on the floor, her head resting against the shiny spot of her wallpaper. The room was dim, despite it being the middle of the day. Her curtains were drawn against the disrespectful daylight, and she’d shunned the light switches.

  Brightness had no place here.

  Light couldn’t accomplish anything anyway. All this last week, the sun had shone, but it had done nothing to help her see. Her gaze refused to really take in anything. Not at the funeral, the church, the graveside. Not when Zivon gripped her hand so tightly it seemed he was trying to hold her in th
is world by force. Not when the crush of people descended, or when they left, taking their black clothes with them but leaving their shadows behind.

  Nothing could ever be bright again. It wasn’t possible. Ivy, her sister, her best friend, had taken all that with her when she left.

  Though Lily’s arm felt like it weighed five stone all on its own, she lifted it. Raised her finger to the flower she always pointed to. Tapped. Tap, tap-a-tap.

  Waited. And waited. And waited. Some stupid, childish, foolish part of her certain that if she sat here long enough, it would all return to normal. That tap-a-tap, tap would sound from the other side of the wall, along with Ivy’s laugh. All light. All brightness. All joy.

  Tap, tap-a-tap. Her finger slid down the wall, the effort of holding it in place too great. Her eyes burned. She didn’t want to cry again—didn’t know how it was even possible that her tears kept replenishing every day, every hour. Shouldn’t they have run dry?

  Tap. It was all she could muster, not even in the right spot. The sound wouldn’t carry so well from that close to the baseboard.

  It didn’t matter anyway.

  But then a creak from Ivy’s room had her head lifting, her heart racing. Were those footsteps?

  Stupid. Childish. Foolish. But maybe—maybe it really had all been a dream, this whole last week. Maybe she was the one who’d fallen ill, and it had all been a fever-induced delirium. Maybe—

  Her door cracked open, and Mama stepped inside. Even in the dimness of her room, Lily could read her expression. Sorrow, unimaginable and deep. But something else too. Something Lily couldn’t name, perhaps because she couldn’t bear to look at it long enough.

  Mama clicked the door shut behind her, moved to the window, and pulled open the curtains. Lily winced at the onslaught but didn’t object aloud. It would do no good.

  A moment later, Mama sat in Ivy’s spot at her side. Rested her head in Ivy’s spot on Lily’s shoulder. Wrapped her arm around her in a way that Ivy never did. “You need to get up, Lily Love. Out of this room. I want you to go back to work tomorrow.”