Words. Tiny, barely legible against the shadows in the image, certainly not without a light directly above them.
“Names.” Even that didn’t bring Zivon’s voice out of its monotone. “But the names we already have.”
“We do. But clearly they don’t.”
“And they will kill to get them.” Zivon’s hand covered the photo, pressed it to the table. “Leave it here, milaya. Do not carry it anymore. Do not—do not even act as though you know me. Do not try to defend me. Just . . . make me a copy of this, perhaps. Without the words. Blot them out, or put false ones on. I will give it to Evgeni in a week, when he has said we will meet.”
He stepped away, bowing to the room at large, which quieted Hall and Daddy in time for him to address them. “That will give me time to make arrangements. I thank you all for what you are trying to do, but I will not be responsible for anyone else suffering because of me. I will leave England.”
“No!” It burst from her lips. “You can’t just leave. You can’t let them win!”
“They will not win. Not at what matters most to them. These German officers will remain safe, and their rebellion will move forward. But I . . .” He shook his head. “I will reap the consequences for what my family has done. And I will apologize, Admiral, for not thinking clearly when he turned up at my flat today. I should have followed him. But I . . .”
“Don’t fret about that, Marin. We’ll find him. We’ll stop him. And we’ll clear your name. I’m not about to let England lose you.”
The admiral’s determination ought to have encouraged her. But if she’d become convinced of anything, it was that Zivon Marin was the admiral’s match in nearly every way.
And Zivon Marin had absolutely no hope in his eyes. Whatever his brother had threatened, he was clearly convinced that leaving was the only recourse.
She couldn’t think he was right. And yet, if so . . . did she dare to go with him?
26
TUESDAY, 30 JULY 1918
The fire raged around him, above him, below him, within him. Evgeni watched the flames dance, watching for the snake that would turn into a princess. Sometimes he could glimpse her—the girl through the flames. Her hair was a brilliant gold, her eyes a startling brown. Her brows pulled always together into a frown as she reached for him.
Try as he might, he couldn’t lift his lance so that she could use it to escape the flames. His arm was too weak. Too heavy. But he must try harder. He couldn’t leave his princess in there to be consumed. “Nadya.” He whispered the name through a scorched throat. Reaching, always reaching for her. “Nadezhda.”
Her face wavered into view through the fire, and something cool touched his face. “I am here. Stay with me, lyubov moya. Here. Drink.”
Lyubov moya—my love. How long had he waited for her to say such words to him? He felt something hard press against his lips, and then water touched them. He opened his mouth, greedy for the cool liquid. But after a few swallows, it turned from dribble to torrent, and he coughed, pushed against it.
“Sorry.” A clank of glass on wood. Then she was back, his princess, dabbing at him with a washcloth. Even through the haze of smoke and fire, he could see the worry in her eyes.
Had she really called him her love? Or had it been only part of the folktale? He tried again to lift his arm, and this time he got it high enough to snag her hand. “Nadya. My princess.”
Her laughter soothed away some of the heat. Strange how that just made him more keenly aware of the aching in every limb, every muscle. “Now I know you are delirious. No one would ever call me a princess.”
The water he’d sipped reached his stomach—and set it to churning. He felt the heave working its way up from his core, and hard as he tried to subdue it, he couldn’t. He could only roll onto his side, toward the edge of the bed.
She had a basin there, waiting for him. And she held it as he retched, emptying his stomach of what felt like life itself. Not food—he hadn’t eaten, that he could recall. Just the water and bile.
Had he the energy, he would have been mortified. But he hadn’t. And as she eased him back to his sweat-soaked pillow, he had a vague recollection of having done this many times before. This time wouldn’t be any great shock to her. “Sorry.”
Her fingers caressed his forehead, cool and soft and welcome. “Don’t apologize. Just get well, Zhenya. Do you hear me? I won’t have you dying. I won’t.”
She’d used his nickname. He wanted to grin. To tease. To ask if she only needed him to help her fulfill their mission, or if it was something more. If perhaps she was finally ready to admit that she loved him.
Mission. What was it? Something . . . something urgent. Something . . . What day was it? Zivon. He needed to meet Zivon. Get the photo. The names.
He meant to ask. But the words wouldn’t come to his lips. Maybe because he was too tired, already drifting away.
When he blinked awake again, the light was different. Later that day? The next? The next week? He had no idea. But the fire had receded a bit, though the aches were as torturous as ever. The room was quiet, the rushing of flames gone from his ears. He moved his hands around, searching for a hand, a head, something. “Nadya?” He meant to speak it but wasn’t sure if it came out as anything more than a croak.
He waited a few long minutes, but he couldn’t sense her anywhere. No body sleeping next to his. No sounds of breathing or footsteps nearby.
Panic ate at him. Where was she? Not here or . . . or gone? “Nadya?” He managed to raise himself a few inches before he collapsed again with a groan. He couldn’t see every corner of the flat, but he could see enough to verify that she hadn’t fallen to a heap on the floor. He closed his eyes, telling himself she must be out looking for food. She had to eat, even if he hadn’t been able to in . . . however long this fever had been feasting on him. That must be it. It must be.
He would just wait for her. That was all. Wait until the door opened and then smile over at her and let her know he was on the mend. Surely he was on the mend. He had to be on the mend.
He intended only to blink. But when he lifted his lids once more, the light had shifted yet again, and precious sounds of life met his ears, bringing instant relief. Even if the particular sounds were Russian curses from the direction of the window.
His lips curved up. “What is the matter, my princess?”
“Evgeni!” She was there in the next second, gripping his hand in hers and lifting it to her lips. “It is nothing. Nothing at all. How are you feeling?”
“Awful.” He tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry. “But less awful than before.” Probably. He knew where he was, at least, which seemed a vast improvement over the few recollections he had from before.
She eased a cup to his lips and helped him drink. With the water came a bit of clarity, which had him narrowing his eyes at her. “You are pale.” And she’d been nursing him, and he’d obviously had this flu that had struck the city, that had left one of their upstairs neighbors dead. He gripped her hand. She couldn’t get sick. She couldn’t.
“I am well. Just tired.” She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead. “Don’t worry for me.”
He pulled away, as much as he could. “You ought to keep your distance. I don’t want you to catch this.”
But she laughed. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”
Yes, blast it all. He let his eyes slide closed. “You need to rest. How long has it been?”
“A few days, that’s all.” She climbed over him, into her usual spot on the bed between him and the wall. “I thought I was going to lose you.” Her hand settled on his bare chest, over his heart. “I don’t want to lose you.”
He covered her hand with his. “You won’t. I’ll beat this.” Wouldn’t he? He felt much better than when last he woke, which must be a good sign. He squeezed her fingers as the exhaustion crept over him again. “I love you.”
I love you too. He wasn’t sure if she said the words or if h
e only dreamed she did. Either way, he slept with the memory of them weaving into story after story in his dreams.
FRIDAY, 2 AUGUST 1918
Nadya waited until the rise and fall of his chest had gone steady, telling herself she would get up as soon as he was sleeping soundly. Telling herself she would reread the telegram. Go out into the city. Do what needed to be done.
Instead, she closed her eyes and nestled deeper into his side. She’d always thought love was a weakness. And maybe it was. But even so, it was true. She loved him. Beyond all reason, beyond all sense.
And it terrified her as much as the nausea that made the room spin. Terrified her because she’d thought for sure he was really and truly lost to her this time, and she didn’t know what she’d have done if it were true. Never had she wanted to be dependent on anyone else again. And yet here she was.
He murmured something in his sleep about his princess, and she surrendered a small smile. Perhaps she hadn’t meant to love him, but it was no great mystery why she did. There was no one else like her Zhenya. Handsome and strong, compassionate and respectful, quick-tempered and quick-witted.
She trailed weary fingers over his jaw, rough with nearly a week’s worth of beard. A week. He’d missed the rendezvous with his brother. Hadn’t even set one up. And though she should care, she hadn’t. All that had mattered was getting him well again.
But the telegram lying now on the table told her the time for such indulgence was over. Mutiny was imminent among the German ranks. If she didn’t leave within the next day or two, find the men, and put matching bullets in their heads, then all was lost. The rebellion would brew. Spread. The war would end. And the interfering imperialists could well come to the aid of the White Army.
She didn’t know how she was going to get Evgeni to France again in this condition. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Today’s was just as big. She had to arrange the meeting with Zivon herself and get that photograph from him. And if he wouldn’t give it willingly . . .
Levering her eyes open, she stared at her beloved’s profile. He’d never forgive her if she hurt his brother. He would leave her. She’d be alone again, as she’d thought she wanted to be, but which now sounded like the worst punishment in the world.
So, for Evgeni’s sake, she would spare Zivon. But there was another way to force his hand. When she’d been watching him before they gave the information to the press, she’d seen him with a girl. A girl he looked at in the same way that Evgeni looked at her, a smile always in the eyes they shared.
She hadn’t mentioned her to Zhenya. He would object to that too, saying they couldn’t take another sweetheart from Zivon, that it would destroy him. But if all went well, she wouldn’t have to actually hurt the redhead. She just had to convince him she would. That should be all the incentive he needed to hand over the photo and let them slip away.
Now. She needed to get up now and go to find him. She even pushed herself all the way to her feet before her stomach rolled and the few bites she’d managed to eat for lunch heaved their way upward.
She took off for the water closet they shared with two other rooms, a hand clamped to her mouth.
Later. She’d find him later. When she could convince her stomach to stop rebelling.
SATURDAY, 3 AUGUST 1918
Zivon stretched his legs to their full stride, modulated his breathing, and tried to memorize the way the early morning sunlight streamed over the buildings, through the trees, and into the park. Tried to see it as Lily would. To imagine the way she’d stop here, or perhaps there, and find a branch or bird or cloud to capture in her frame.
He’d not seen her since that day at the OB—by his choice. Her father had stopped by a few days ago to assure him he could come to visit, but he had informed the captain that he’d do no such thing. Being near him right now meant danger. And there was nothing in this world that could convince him to put her in such a position.
Leaving her would be like death itself, though. England he would miss now and then. The world of OB40 he would think of fondly all his days. His church he would grieve the loss of. But Lily . . . Lily had become air to him. He didn’t know how to see the world anymore without her camera lens pointing the way toward beauty. He didn’t know how he would smile without the love in her eyes to ignite it. He didn’t know how his heart would keep beating without knowing she was near.
But it would have to be enough to know that hers still beat. That by leaving, he had saved her.
He’d booked passage on a steamer to America that was scheduled to leave next week. He’d telegrammed a handful of universities and had quickly received three offers of a teaching position. They were all shorthanded. His skills would be welcome. He didn’t know yet which he would choose. He’d make his decision on the crossing.
Or maybe a U-boat would sink his ship and save him the trouble.
Forgive my morbid thoughts, Father God. He’d spent countless hours on his knees in prayer. For himself. For Lily. For England and Russia and Germany.
For Evgeni. Especially for Evgeni, and doubly so when the expected note didn’t arrive and his brother didn’t appear in his flat again. Worry had begun to gnaw at him, as it had done that week of the shelling in France. Something had happened to Zhenya. And, furious as he was with him, the thought had accomplished the impossible.
Don’t let him die, Lord. The same begging filled his mind now as it had been doing for the past three days. He doesn’t know you. Don’t take him. Not while his heart is hard to your grace. Have mercy on him, Lord. If you must take one of us, take me.
Mercy above justice. He understood it now.
He rounded the final curve of the mile circuit, and the sunshine glistened in a way he hadn’t expected, off human hair of spun gold. Curls. A woman, sitting on a bench. Young, twenty or twenty-one. With distinctly Russian features.
He slowed, stopped.
She stood, looking exhausted, with pale cheeks and circles under her eyes.
His hand curled around his ring. She too was his enemy. But no hatred filled him at the sight of her. This woman his brother loved. This Bolshevik. She was just a girl, too young for the horrors she had probably seen. A girl who also needed mercy.
“Nadya, I believe?” Remembering that she apparently spoke no English, he opted for Russian. “Where is Evgeni?”
“Where’s the photo?” Her voice had a rasp to it.
He held out his arms, displaying his athletic clothes. Lily had created the duplicate just as he’d asked. She’d even matched the wear of the edges. The only difference was that the names written in the shadows were fake. Hall had delivered it days ago. “Obviously not on me. You should have come to my flat. My brother . . . what has happened? Is he well?”
Emotions chased each other over her face. “He’s fine. Let’s get it. Now.”
“All right.” He lowered his arms and turned toward the exit to the park. He wasn’t sure he believed her about Zhenya—or that he could trust her even to walk beside him. He focused his attention entirely upon her.
She wasn’t holding herself with the coiled readiness of a soldier, though. Her shoulders sagged, and her hands hung at her sides as if they weighed more than they should have. Only her eyes showed the alertness he’d expected of her, darting in every direction. Rather than try to maintain an awareness of everything around him, he let her do that for him and focused instead upon her reactions to each snapping twig, each tweeting bird.
For a few steps, she kept pace at his side. Then she hissed out a breath. “Ninety minutes. I will come to your flat. If anyone else is there, the redhead will pay. Do you understand me? I know where she lives, and if you don’t give me exactly what I want, I’ll put a bullet in her head as I did Alyona’s.”
She pivoted and fled. Zivon considered going after her, a million pointless screams vying to escape from his lips. But none would undo the terrible truth of reality, of the threat, of the despicable crime she’d just claimed. Bringing down Nadya would do nothing
to solve the bigger problem right this moment.
He instead opted for discovering what had scared her off. The moment he turned his head, he had his answer. Hall and Blackwell were both striding his way.
He met them with a nod. “Admiral. Captain. I have heard nothing from my brother, but the woman—Nadya—she was just here.”
Two sets of eyes flew to the path, but she must have been out of sight.
“I’m not surprised,” Hall said. “We intercepted a telegram to her from Petrograd that came in yesterday and just made its way to me. Orders to move immediately, that the window was almost closed. We believe it’s referencing the impending mutiny.”
“She’s clearly used up all their patience.” Blackwell’s gaze was still on the path. “It’ll make her desperate.”
“Tell us what she said, Marin.” Hall stepped closer, eyes flashing between blinks. They were knowing, those eyes. Not in the same way Lily’s were. He never left Zivon with the impression that he saw his heart, but somehow he saw more. He saw how people fit into the world, which meant he could predict what they would do in it. And he was shaking his head. “I know you well enough to know you’ll try to handle this on your own, to spare us. But don’t play the hero. Please. Trust us.”
With his own life, he would. He’d let them come to his flat and take the risk that Nadya’s exhaustion would dim her perception long enough. But this wasn’t just about him. There was Evgeni, who was still out there somewhere.
And more, there was Lily. Had the blonde really been the one to kill Alyona? Would she do the same to Lily? If she saw anyone from the OB lingering around his flat, she could take off and do it before anyone could stop her. No, he had to play it safe. For Lily’s sake.
Be still, and know that I am God.
Zivon let his eyes slide shut. The Lord would be exalted. He would make the wars to cease. But would He do it soon enough to save anyone Zivon loved?
Draw out also the spear, and stop the way against them that persecute me: say unto my soul, I am thy salvation.
A Portrait of Loyalty Page 31