“Inspiring them, darling. Inspiring them to be the best versions of themselves.”
“Shaming them, you mean.”
“Appealing to the inborn sense of duty that every good Englishman has anyway.” Blackwell gave Zivon’s shoulder a friendly thump. “I daresay the same is true in Russia, right, old boy? Though it may take painting a certain picture, the people are always ready to stand up and fight for king and country.”
The room didn’t go silent. But Zivon’s thoughts did, for a moment. His king, his czar, was currently under house arrest, on soldier’s rations. For every soldier left fighting for him, another had turned against him. And Russia itself . . .
He cleared his throat. “I am afraid that just now the Russian people cannot agree about what they ought to fight for. But I have always found it fascinating that, historically, there has been an understanding that Russia herself would do the fighting for us. We need only to lure the enemy into the interior and wait for winter.”
As he’d planned, the last observation served to soften the first, and the captain made an observation about Napoleon that soon redirected the conversation entirely. Good. That allowed him to take a step back, to smile through the belated introductions Mrs. Blackwell made to the other guests, and to revert to his favorite pastime—reading the room, finding the patterns to the people.
Heaven help him, though, he found himself mostly concerned with tracking Lily, who’d stood during her father’s joke about Napoleon, edged closer during the introductions, and now stood a step away, holding a paper-wrapped rectangle in her hands.
He turned to her, not needing to make any special effort to keep his smile bright this time. “Happy Easter to you, Miss Blackwell.”
Her returning smile was simple and complicated, confident and unsure. He wasn’t sure how she managed to contain such contradictions within those winter-sky eyes of hers, but they were there as she held out the parcel. “Happy Easter,” she said quietly. “I wanted to give you a small something. To welcome you to England.”
Was this common here? He didn’t know, but he took the proffered package with a slight bow. A warm smile. “How kind of you. Should I . . . ?”
“Oh, yes. Go right ahead.” She clasped each hand on the opposite elbow, the glimpse of shyness telling him that whatever lay beneath the paper was something whose value was personal rather than monetary.
He peeled away the wrapping, noting first the wooden frame, the cardboard backing. When he flipped it over, his breath caught in his throat. It was him, somehow. Laughing, looking bright . . . and at home. Moscow stretched behind him, its familiar skyline pristine and impossible. Only after a moment of staring did he realize the image of him was from yesterday afternoon. But how . . . ? He looked up, met her eyes, sure his marvel shone in his. “This is astounding. How did you do it? It looks flawless.”
The smile she gave him was bright. “I physically combined prints—one of you, carefully trimmed and positioned on a print of the city, then rephotographed. I had to touch up some edges manually at the retouching desk, of course, but most of the work was done with a scalpel.”
His gaze fell to the image again. He’d never had—nor wanted—a portrait of himself. But this was entirely different. This was a story she’d told for him. A reminder of a life once lived. “I do not have words enough in either English or Russian to thank you.” A flash of something light stole through him, as unexpected as yesterday’s laughter. “Perhaps French will do. Merci beaucoup, mon amie.”
He was rewarded with her laugh and with a waft of the same scent he’d first noted in the captain’s car. Lily of the valley. Not, apparently, the choice of her mother, but rather of her. So fitting for the sweet Lily.
“You’re very welcome, in any language. Literally, in fact. Welcome to England, Mr. Marin. I hope London will eventually bring you as much joy as Moscow did.”
His fingers tightened around the frame.
“You have no idea how perfect a gift that is, Miss Blackwell.” Clarke had come to investigate, his grin audible in his voice. “This will be the first thing he hangs on the walls of his flat.”
“You can’t be serious.” Mrs. Blackwell spun on him. “You have no other decorations?”
He lowered his head. “I am afraid I have not had time to furnish the space beyond that which was already there.” Nor had he had the funds, but that was hardly polite conversation.
“Well, that won’t do at all!” Mrs. Blackwell held out a hand toward her elder daughter, even while motioning to him with the other. “Come with us, Mr. Marin. You must choose a few more pieces.”
“Oh, I—”
“Don’t bother arguing, Marin.” Captain Blackwell clapped a friendly hand to Zivon’s shoulder. “There’s no putting her off when she’s determined to foist her work on someone—especially someone who championed her cause.” He said it with a wink toward his wife, who laughed with exuberance.
Lily took her mother’s hand, her smile every bit as bright. “I bet he’d like that study in blue you did a few years ago, Mama. The one of clouds and sea.”
“Perhaps so.” Mrs. Blackwell looked him over much like a tailor would, as if she could read his artistic preferences as easily as old Vasily did his shoulders’ width. Doubly amusing since, as far as he knew, he didn’t have much by way of artistic preferences. “And that beautiful photograph you took of the Eiffel Tower in Paris before the war.”
The elder lady tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and used it to steer him out of the room and toward the stairs. The Blackwell ladies continued to chat as they led him up the stairs, and up again, and up still more. The final flight was more utilitarian than luxurious, narrow enough that they had to go single file, but he got the impression it was a trek these two made quite often.
When finally they pushed through the door, Zivon drew in a breath. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but certainly not what met his eyes. The entire attic was stacked with canvases, frames, glass, and mats. He saw cases of what he assumed were paints, others of chemicals that he suspected were for developing photographs. Shelves had been built with openings of various sizes that held framed paintings and photos. Other canvases were unframed, the paintings on them unfinished. Stacks of paper seemed to indicate similar amounts of unframed photographs.
If left to himself, he probably would have just stood and stared at the stacks, waiting for order to emerge from the chaos. But his hostesses clearly didn’t view it as chaos. They turned directly toward two different shelves—Mrs. Blackwell pulling out a photograph, her daughter going to a painting.
His lips curved into a smile. So quick they were to sing each other’s praises.
“Here, Mr. Marin. Sit.” Lily motioned him to a single wooden chair, a rung missing from its back. “We’ll show you some options, and you can tell us yes or no or maybe.”
“And don’t feel bad about saying no to anything,” her mother chimed in, her smile saying she’d read his mind. Or perhaps the shift of his feet. “Art is subjective, and some pieces just don’t suit a particular style. You’ll want to be a bit choosy for your foundation pieces.”