A Portrait of Loyalty

by Roseanna M. White

“Step apart, now!” The command was in French.

  “Nadezhda. Relax. Let them have a moment.” Evgeni sounded terrible, if one were to listen only to the quality of his voice. But if one listened to the tone, he also sounded amused.

  Zivon turned his face enough to kiss Lily’s hand. “The album does not matter. My reputation does not matter. All that matters is that you are safe.”

  “And that I’m with you. You’re not leaving without me, Zivon. Where you go, I go.”

  How could that be possible? When it meant leaving all she’d ever known, the parents who loved her and needed her, her work here? Yet, as he looked deep into her eyes, he saw she did mean it. Somehow, this woman loved him that much. A blessing he’d done nothing to earn and could never deserve.

  Evgeni coughed, a hard, racking sound that drew Zivon around to face him. Nadya had crouched beside him and was rubbing her free hand over his back.

  Clearly, she’d been lying this morning when she said he was fine. “You are ill,” Zivon said.

  Zhenya waved that off. “Was. I am on the mend.”

  “He has no fever.” Lily wrapped her arms around one of his, as if to make it clear he wouldn’t walk away without her again. “I think he only needs to regain his strength.”

  “Which he’ll do in France. In Russia.” Nadya pressed a kiss to his brother’s brow and then stood again, her eyes cold and hard when she turned them on him and Lily. “We are leaving today. With the photograph. Hand it over now, English girl. You have dawdled enough.”

  In English, so quietly he barely heard her, Lily murmured, “How far behind you are the rest of them?”

  “Only a few minutes, I should think.”

  Evgeni narrowed his eyes at them. If he’d been able to hear, then he would understand.

  Zivon stepped forward, putting himself between Lily and the pistol. Hands out again, so Nadya could see he had no weapon of his own. “Please, lower the weapon. We are family. I have negotiated for your freedom, but you will compromise it if you use that.”

  “Our freedom?” Nadya barked a laugh. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You who would grow rich while others starve. Freedom comes only when the people steal the power from their oppressors and force them to do the right thing.”

  Zivon’s chest ached. How many times had he heard that sentiment being shouted in Russia over the last year? A cry from a desperate people who had been pushed past their breaking point. He commiserated. He cried for them, with them.

  But they were wrong. “No. Freedom comes only when the people realize that it cannot be stolen and forced. Freedom that is denied to anyone who disagrees is no freedom at all.”

  Lily had reached into her pocket, and she held out a photograph that he would have sworn was the same one from the passport, had he not seen that one tacked to her wall an hour ago. She must have made herself a duplicate too.

  Of course she had.

  “Here,” she said. “Take the photo. Give us the album.”

  “And put down the weapon,” Zivon added. “No one needs to get hurt.”

  “Nadya. My princess.” Evgeni reached out for her free hand. “We can all win. Put down the gun and get the album for him. Please. We can let them live their lives. We can live ours. Let’s just go.” To Zivon, he offered a small smile. “Sorry so many photographs have been ruined. I wouldn’t let anyone touch the one of Batya and Matushka, though.”

  The original telegram decrypt, then, could well be there. They didn’t need it anymore. But somehow it was a comfort to realize that his parents had, in a way, protected him. His secrets.

  Nadya hesitated a moment, in which Zivon could see this going many different ways. But then she nodded and reached to set the gun on the table. “For you, Zhenya. For us. For our future.”

  It all would have been perfect. If only the door hadn’t burst open behind them at that exact moment.

  One moment, Lily had been watching the descent of the gun, anticipating the reach for the lone book on the shelf. Thinking in the back of her mind that she wished she could get a photo of Evgeni and Nadya before they left.

  The next moment, chaos poured in. At first she could see only the blur of fast-moving men in dark blue. Then she recognized Daddy, Hall, Barclay, and, of all people, Father Smirnov behind them.

  There were shouts—from Daddy, from Evgeni, from Nadya. A single bullet fired, which must have lodged in the wall, given the plaster raining down. Zivon threw himself in front of Lily. Evgeni tried to protect Nadya. Nadya brandished the smoking gun with such clear intent that Daddy, who had probably never dreamed of raising a hand to a woman in all his life, had no choice but to go on the offensive.

  He caught her wrist with one hand, struck her arm with the other. She lashed out, kicking at him, but he sidestepped. Tugged her forward with that arm. Bent his knee in what Lily assumed was meant to be a blow to the stomach to make her double over and relinquish her weapon.

  Only before contact could be made, Nadya screamed. All but tossed the gun aside. Wrapped her free arm around her middle and recoiled as far as she could get from Daddy, eyes wild. “Nyet! Nyet!” she screamed over and over again.

  Lily’s father, still caught in the throes of adrenaline, didn’t seem to hear her. Didn’t seem to see the desperation in the young woman’s eyes.

  But Lily saw it. Just as she saw the single bed in the room. As she’d seen the looks between Nadya and Evgeni. She saw the our future Nadya had really meant, and she did the only thing she could think to do.

  She jumped around Zivon, between Daddy and Nadya, with her arms raised. “Stop!”

  The whole room went still, other than the heaving breaths of the men who had stormed in thinking to rescue them. Her father’s eyes cleared, then confusion descended. “Lily?”

  She stepped into his arms, letting him crush her to his chest. “I thought I’d lost you,” he muttered into her hair. “That you were gone like Ivy. I couldn’t have borne it, Lily White.”

  She clung to him, as much because he needed her to as because she needed it as well. “I’m fine, Daddy. I promise you.”

  “No thanks to them.” Daddy drew back, lightning flashing in the gaze that landed on Nadya.

  The woman was trembling, crumpled into the second chair, hunched over, arms wrapped around her stomach.

  “They weren’t going to harm me.” She pressed a hand to her father’s arm, willing him to believe her. And then she went and knelt beside Nadya, brushing back a curl from her face. “Are you all right?” she asked in French. “The baby?”

  Nadya’s eyes, wide and terrified, lifted to her face. “I . . . I don’t know. I think so?”

  “The what?” Evgeni’s voice sounded wooden with shock.

  Lily spared only a quick glance toward the men. Evgeni had no color at all in his face, though whether it was from his recent illness, the exertion, or the news of a babe she didn’t know. He sank onto the floor and stared at Nadya. “You don’t have the flu.”

  Nadya’s hands were trembling as she lifted them to brush aside her fallen curls. “I told you I was not ill.”

  Zivon’s breath escaped him in a whoosh. With a glance to Lily that begged for understanding, he straightened and stood before the admiral. “I present myself for your consequences, sir. I accept the full responsibility of their actions on British soil.”

  Hall’s blink looked suspiciously like a roll of the eyes. “It doesn’t work that way, Marin. They’re too late anyway. The mutiny has already begun.”

  “What?” Evgeni’s face went paler still. At a word from Nadya, he said something in Russian, presumably a translation of the admiral’s statement.

  DID pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “De Wilde stopped me on our way out. The Germans are in revolt.”

  Nadya was shaking her head. “No,” she said in French. “It doesn’t matter. Even if the war ends, it doesn’t matter. The West won’t help the Whites. And even if they do, the Bolsheviks will win.”

  “Perh
aps.” Zivon looked toward Father Smirnov, then over to Nadya. “Perhaps they will. Perhaps this is what Russia wants and God will allow it. But even so, it is good for the war to end. For lives to be saved.”

  “As for the two of you.” Hall crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re going to turn over the album with the photographs you used to create those false ones. And then you’re going to leave within the next forty-eight hours. I’ll not tolerate any more threats against one of my men. And you can tell your superiors the same thing, if they question you. At the moment, the Crown has no quarrel with the Bolsheviks. Don’t give us a reason to.”

  Nadya’s shoulders rolled forward, and she didn’t look up at any of them. Evgeni slid his hand across the table, palm up. Waiting, clearly, for her to put her hand in his. “We accept, sir. With gratitude for your generosity.”

  Evgeni kept his hand outstretched across the table. Kept his gaze leveled on the face he knew so well, but which he’d never seen bearing this emotion. She looked defeated. And defeated was the last thing in the world he wanted his warrior queen to be. “Nadezhda.”

  She shifted, but she didn’t lift her gaze.

  He did. Toward his brother, asking a silent question with a swing of his head toward the women. He didn’t want anyone to overreact if he dared move over to her, but he had to be near her now. Had to touch her. Had to see her eyes.

  Zivon nodded. He must be judging him, them—he must be—but he made no comment. Just exchanged a few gestures with the navy men still in the room, giving him space to round the table. Drop to his knees before her.

  He touched a weak hand to her chin. “Look at me, my love.” He’d let his words drift back into Russian. At least then Zivon would be the only one to understand them. “Please.”

  Slowly she lifted her lids, and he saw what he thought he never would.

  Tears.

  His fingers moved to cup her cheek. “Is it true?” In all their talk of women not being trapped in the home, of the state being the proper institution for a child to be raised by, he’d never anticipated this. This quickening inside him at the thought of a child—their child—growing in the womb of the woman he loved.

  But what about her? Did she want a baby? With him? Now? She must, at least in part, if her first instinct had been to protect it. Right?

  “Dorogoy.” She leaned into his hand, breath heaving. “I faced down the enemy on the battlefield without flinching. But this . . . this terrifies me.”

  “I know. But you’re not alone. I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere. We can go home, tell our superiors how the flu interfered with the mission, but all else is well here. Yes?”

  She huffed out a breath and looked ready to roll her eyes. But she was a Russian soldier. She knew when to accept defeat. Or, at the very least, when to cut one’s losses and run, leaving only burned ground behind them for the enemy. She nodded.

  “And then . . .” He settled his other hand on one of her wrists, still wrapped around her middle. “Then we do as we planned. We make a life for ourselves.”

  “But I don’t want the life we planned.” She squeezed her eyes shut but only for a second. When she opened them again, her gaze held his. Too warm to be speaking a farewell. He hoped. “I want . . . I want to love our child. I don’t know how to be a mother, but I have to try. I want to try.”

  “Then marry me, Nadya.” He caressed her wrist with his thumb. “It will not be a prison—I promise you. If you but let me, I will be your wings.”

  A million thoughts warred across her face like a battlefield, and he couldn’t be sure which would win. Hope . . . or fear? But at last her eyes slid shut, she drew in a breath, and she leaned toward him. “I trust you, Zhenya. I . . . I will marry you. If you’ll have me.”

  If he weren’t still so weak, he may have leapt up and danced. Instead, he grinned. “I will have you, milaya moya.”

  “Well. We can take care of that before you leave England, if you like.”

  At the unfamiliar voice, Evgeni startled. He hadn’t even noticed the man hovering in the doorway, but he was without doubt a Russian. The long beard gave him away as surely as the smoothly spoken words. Evgeni looked to his brother, who was chuckling.

  Zivon waved toward the older man. “Allow me to introduce Father Evgeny Smirnov.”

  Evgeni breathed a laugh. He’d known his brother would find any Orthodox church to be found. “A good name.”

  “I was thinking the same of yours.” The priest grinned and lifted his brows. “So? A wedding before you go?”

  Evgeni looked to Nadya. This certainly wasn’t what they’d planned. Not in general, not when they came to England. Not when they’d plotted how to render Zivon neutral. But it also wasn’t what he’d expected if the mission went wrong. He’d thought there would be death, or arrest. Fleeing in the dead of night, perhaps. Defeat.

  This was no defeat, even if it wasn’t the victory he’d expected. It was better. Thanks, he knew, to his brother’s bargaining for them.

  That was Zivon. Always needing to be the one moving the game pieces. Always anticipating the patterns and reacting to them.

  Always taking care of him.

  Nadya finally moved her arm. Put her fingers in his. And nodded.

  A click. A whir. And his brother’s laugh.

  “What?” Lily grinned. “I wasn’t about to let that moment go uncaptured.”

  29

  WEDNESDAY, 6 NOVEMBER 1918

  Do you have it yet, milaya?”

  Lily pushed away from her retouching desk, smiling over at the door. Zivon leaned into the doorframe, eyes bright behind his glasses. “You mean since you were last sent down to ask ten whole minutes ago?”

  His smile sent a lovely wave of warmth flowing through her. She’d thought it would ease by now, but it seemed the opposite had happened. Every time she saw him—especially when it was unexpected—she was hit anew with how much she loved him. “The admiral is impatient. And I do not mind being his errand boy in this case, as well he knows.”

  No one would ever hear her complain about it. She stood, casting a look over her shoulder, where Mama still held the loupe to the photograph Lily had passed to her five minutes before. “You’ll have to ask her. What do you think, Mama? Is it ready?”

  She looked up with a sigh—and glinting eyes. “I don’t know, Lily Love. The composition is terrible. No effort was made at all to balance foreground and background, and—”

  Lily’s laughter cut her off. “You’ll have to blame the German photographer for that. All I did was change uniforms, faces, and the ships in the background.”

  “Ah yes. That is all.” Zivon had apparently moved to her side, given that his voice now came from beside her ear. And his hand slipped into its usual place on her waist.

  Mama grinned at them, then at the photo, which she held up. “I see no evidence at all of your hand. It is, as usual, flawless.”

  It ought to be, given the number of hours she’d poured into that one. She still had the crick in her neck to prove it, too, and lifted a hand to rub at it.

  Zivon’s fingers brushed hers away, and his thumb dug into the knot in her shoulder. He always knew just where it hid. “Shall we take it up, then?”

  “Of course.” But she didn’t move. In part because it would mean dislodging Zivon’s hand . . . but mostly because she knew what this photograph meant. If it worked as the admiral and Zivon thought, then it could well be the last one he ever called on her to create.

  If it worked, the German army would think the English were mutinying too.

  If it worked, those flames of rebellion on the Continent that had been smoldering and flaring up since August would erupt into a full-out blaze.

  If it worked, the war would be over before another week could pass.

  She wanted that. Of course she did. It was what she and everyone else here, everyone else everywhere, had been striving for these four-and-a-half interminable years. But it would mean a change to everything she’d come
to know.

  No more reporting here every day. No more Room 40 to report to. All the codebreakers would go back to their lives, their real careers. Professors and scholars, linguists and music critics, bankers and students.

  Mama came close, handed the picture to Zivon, and gripped Lily’s hand. “You have done good work here, Lily Love. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Mama.” Another something to be grateful for, that her mother had been working alongside her. That Zivon, his name clear, had stayed at his desk upstairs, where everyone knew they could turn to “Old Ziv” for any necessary help with languages. That the admiral had finally come to agree with his advice on how the British forces should, in fact, react to the mutiny.

  She was ready for the war to be over. She just wasn’t entirely sure what life would look like when it was. They wouldn’t need her here, and they wouldn’t need her at the hospital much longer, now that male medical personnel were returning to take over. There was no Ivy to plan and laugh with. There were just her forgotten dreams, her camera, her parents . . . and a man who had to be wondering as much as she was what the future would hold.

  They’d spoken of everything else—of churches and children and whether they thought it would be a niece or a nephew to be born in Russia in the spring. Of Paris and Moscow and neighborhoods in London where they might be able to find a house for a reasonable price. But he hadn’t asked yet the one question she was waiting for. He hadn’t presented her with a ring, though he had given her a strap for her camera, so she could sling it around her neck, which she’d proclaimed far better than jewelry.

  He hadn’t said a word about what he meant to do professionally when the war ended. He would have a plan—Zivon always had a plan. But he’d also be listening for the Lord to direct his path. Would they stay here? Or would he instead feel the call to accept one of those teaching positions in America that were still open to him?

  Wherever the Lord called, she’d be there. By his side.

  She twisted her head so she could smile up at him. “Let’s go.”

  He nodded, though his eyes were on the photograph rather than her. “This really is remarkable, milaya. The admiral will be pleased.”