Marin’s returning smile seemed to reach only half brightness, if that. It had need of a flash pistol—something to provide that extra charge of light when circumstances didn’t supply it naturally. “The photographs on the walls inside are perhaps yours?”
“They are.” Lily motioned toward the table where the pudding was being set out, though she led them there at a slow pace. From across the table at dinner, she hadn’t really been able to tell the color of his eyes behind his spectacles. But they were a deep brown, like the chocolate drops she hadn’t tasted in four years.
How very strange that chocolate-drop eyes and a curl to his hair that was defying its pomade—characteristics that should have made him appear boyish—somehow made him seem all the more somber.
“They are stunning. I particularly am fond of the one with sun glinting off an onion dome. It reminds me of home.”
And that, she had to think, was where the sorrow had its roots in him. “It’s the Royal Pavilion in Brighton—it does look rather Russian, doesn’t it? We went there on holiday just a few weeks before the war began.” She felt her smile go crooked. “Ivy’s favorite hat blew off into the sea one day, and Daddy plunged in after it, claiming no navy man would let a few waves steal from his little girl.” Her gaze flicked to her father, who was whispering something to Mama. “I haven’t seen him so lighthearted since.”
“Memories. They are like matryoshka dolls, yes?”
She looked at Mr. Marin again, brows knit. “What kind of dolls?”
He cupped his hands, then brought them closer together. “They . . . nest. Nesting dolls? You know them by this name, perhaps?”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” They’d been wildly popular before the war, when people could still afford to spend ridiculous amounts of money on toys. “Memories are like that, to be sure. As soon as you peek at one, another reveals itself, and then another.”
He nodded. And his eyes churned. And the rest of him stayed so very still, even as he walked beside her.
She had a feeling he was like a matryoshka doll too—a placid exterior that hid layers of secrets and mysteries. And she couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath this carefully crafted shell.
Perhaps she ought to suggest that the newcomer to their city be invited more often too, along with Clarke. He could surely use the company.
And Lily hadn’t yet gotten a snapshot of him on his own.
4
GOOD FRIDAY, 29 MARCH 1918
Zivon jerked awake, his heart hammering with such force that it felt as if his chest might crack from the pressure. The images still warred in his mind, not fading fast enough as he blinked into the darkness to clear them.
Matushka, broken in the streets of Petrograd. Alyona, crumpled and pale on his doorstep. Evgeni, bleeding and unconscious by the twisted rail that had sent them into chaos.
His eyes hadn’t seen them all, but that reality didn’t keep his mind from tossing its imaginings at him night after dreaded night. It didn’t keep him from picturing the Red soldiers advancing on everyone who mattered, weapons raised, hatred in their eyes.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
He sat up, tossing his sweat-soaked sheet aside, and tangled his fist in the bedding. That was a promise from God that he would cling to. Hurry, Lord. Show them the penalty for what they’ve done. Show them what they’ll reap when they deny your very existence.
His pulse was slowing now, finally. A bit. He dragged a breath of cool air into his lungs and swung his legs off the bed. Just enough light came through his window to tell him that dawn wasn’t far off, so he pushed to his feet and walked over to the wavy glass.
There, to the east, the sky was pearly grey instead of deepest blue-black. A new day. Another chance to find Zhenya.
It would begin at the embassy. Today. He only had to wait—he glanced at the pocket watch barely illuminated on the table under the window—ninety-two minutes.
Too much time to spend shuffling about his empty flat. He slipped out of his nightclothes and into his athletic ones. It wouldn’t be the first time in his weeks here he’d resorted to a predawn jog around his neighborhood to calm the frantic beatings of his mind, and he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last either.
Once the laces on his shoes were tied, he pocketed his keys and slipped as quietly as he could from the building. His mincing steps lasted only as long as he was inside. Once on the sidewalk, he set himself at a pace that soon had sweat running down his face. His legs pumped as they always had, his muscles warmed, and the damp morning air burned his lungs just a bit. Something that hadn’t changed, through it all.
Thank you, Lord God, for this. He sent the words heavenward, like he’d always done. Prayer had long been as intuitive as breathing. Before. Now . . . he still said the words, still remembered the motions as surely as his legs knew how to pound the pavement. But where had the certainty gone? The sure knowledge that God would hear, would answer?
Gone. Swallowed up by the Red tide. His faith as stained as the bloodied streets.
Be still, and know that I am God.
Breath heaved into his lungs, out again. “I am trying, Lord.”
He ran his usual circuit, though he didn’t much enjoy the views of street after street, building after building. He should find a park. Would, eventually. The sun was finally peeking over the buildings as he went back into his own. After a quick bath, he dressed for the day and, for the first time since arriving in London, reached for the passports he’d hidden away under a loose floorboard.
He opened first the one with his photograph, alongside the name Ivan Filiminov. He still didn’t know how Evgeni had procured the false papers so quickly, but he hadn’t had the luxury of questioning it at the time. It had meant salvation, so he had taken it, willing to call it a gift from God.
He slid the passport into his pocket. He only had it still because he’d done the same on the train. Unlike his brother, who had put his own papers into his bag for some reason. Why? Why had he not kept his passport on his person, as he usually did?
Zivon didn’t know. But he suspected it had something to do with the photograph jammed inside it.
Lowering himself to a seat on the edge of his bed, he studied the image yet again. He didn’t know the faces. No names were written on the back either, only the date—2 February 1918. All he could tell for certain was that there were two men, clearly German, given the uniforms. They were talking.
That was all. All he knew. But oh, the questions.
Not just who they were, but why did his brother have this picture? Where did he get it? When?
The water stop. Maybe. Perhaps. Zivon certainly hadn’t noticed it tucked in his passport when they’d boarded the train.
But if so . . . what did that mean? What had Zhenya been up to?
He closed his eyes, closed his brother’s passport. Was he an agent of some kind? It was possible. Evgeni had the charm of a good field agent—and its subsequent ability to sidestep rules. He was exactly the sort whom Intelligence would have recruited to work for them in the field. He’d never seen his brother’s name on any reports, but then, Zivon was Imperial Navy. Evgeni was army. That could account for it.
He spread his fingers over the cover, felt the embossing. Were he and his brother after the same information, not realizing the other was too? Trying to restore order? If so, they would laugh over it someday. When they were reunited. When the Bolsheviks had been shown justice. When Russia was theirs again.