It felt strange to aim not for Hall’s office but for the corridor that housed the cryptographers themselves. And she had no idea which room Major Camden called home, so she had to peek into several before she spotted his telltale olive green uniform.
A vaguely familiar secretary smiled up at her. “Hello, Miss Blackwell. May I help you?”
“I have a note for Major Camden from his fiancée.”
The major looked up with a frown, rising from his chair before the secretary could answer. “From Ara? Is everything all right?”
She held out the note as he approached to take it from her. “There’s a nasty fever going around the ward. She said she wouldn’t be able to make your lunch date.”
His frown didn’t lessen any. “So she intends not to eat?”
Lily shrugged. “Let us pray things relax a bit and she can steal a few minutes away. But it’s a bit frantic there right now. A man just died. She and the matron have everyone wearing masks.”
Camden’s face went darker still. “It’s that contagious?”
“I’m sure they’re just being cautious.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Lily?”
She spun, smiling despite the grim news when she saw Zivon emerging from the room across the hall, a piece of paper in his hands that he held out to Camden. The major took it without a word; he must have been waiting for it. “Good morning,” she said to Zivon.
“You are here early.”
She explained again, quickly, ending by saying, “But I had better get down to my desk. Mama will be coming by at one to get a list from me.”
As she’d hoped it would do, that brought Zivon’s brows up. “I will walk with you. And this is good news, yes? You and your mother are working together on something?”
“On a little garden party for this Saturday. You’ll come, of course, won’t you?”
He paused with his elbow extended for her. “Saturday?” His gaze searched hers. And a small, sad smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You remembered the date.”
She tucked her hand into its place and gave his arm a squeeze. “Of course I did. And you shan’t pass it alone.”
“You are too good to me.” They started down the corridor.
“Nonsense. Besides, it gives Mama and me something to work on together.”
“And this is a good thing indeed.” He covered her fingers with his opposite hand. “Of course I will come. To be honest, I will welcome the excuse to stay longer away from my flat.” Amusement saturated his words.
“I think I’m missing some information.”
He chuckled and pushed open the door at the end of the hallway. “I told you of the enthusiastic welcome I was given at the Orthodox church.”
“You did, yes.” He’d seemed genuinely humbled by it. And she’d felt a bit of satisfaction in realizing that her words to him in the park had been what spurred him to make that connection.
“I seem to have underestimated exactly how small and close a community the Russians in London are. All the mothers and grandmothers have descended upon me with borscht and blini—and endless talk of their eligible daughters and nieces and sisters.” He shook his head, but his eyes still sparkled.
Lily may have exaggerated her frown, but she didn’t force it. “Should I be jealous?”
“Would you be?” The sparkle only grew. “I have never had a woman jealous over me. This is an intriguing idea.”
She gave in to a laugh, and they started down the stairs. “Well, I don’t know how fond you are of borscht or blini. What if I lose your heart to these girls whose mothers can cook Russian foods?”
He grinned. “If I feel this is a danger, you have my word that I will deliver a few recipes to your cook. In the meantime, I would complain to my landlord about the matushkas always camped outside my door—if it weren’t his fault they were there to begin with. The Hamiltons seem to think it great fun that my community has just discovered me. They provide them all with tea and biscuits and sit about with them exchanging stories. Mrs. Hamilton has unearthed every book in her shop that even mentions Russia, and Mr. Hamilton has been reminiscing with them all about his time in that part of the world during the Crimean War.” He shook his head. “Poor Clarke had to run for cover yesterday evening when he walked home with me. The matushkas mistook him for another of us at first and all but had him engaged to Svetlana before he could open his mouth to prove himself an Englishman.”
Lily nearly choked on another laugh. “Ivy would declare war on this Svetlana.”
Zivon chuckled too. “I daresay Clarke would be fighting right by her side.”
And what would all these matushkas think of her, she wondered? What would his mother have thought of her, if she were still alive? She had a feeling none of them would be terribly pleased that he was courting an English girl. And she knew so little of their culture. She didn’t even know what blini was. Borscht had beets, didn’t it? They had those in their vegetable garden. Perhaps she should talk to Cook about getting her hands on some recipes.
“Lily?”
“Hmm?” Clearly she’d missed something. They’d somehow arrived at her darkroom already, and he was looking down at her with a combination of amusement and concern.
He turned to face her. Cupped her cheek in a warm palm. And leaned down to brush his lips against hers. “Thank you.”
All those questions melted away. “For what?”
“For finding me worthy of such loyalty. It was always Evgeni who made the girls frown like that over thought of others. I never imagined myself capable of inspiring someone to such feeling.”
She could relate. It had always been Ivy to inspire the lads too. “You’re more than worthy. You’re the most remarkable man I’ve ever known.”
He glanced at her door, and she could easily follow his thoughts this time. He was also a man with enemies. A man not quite trusted by their government. A man who wasn’t certain what his future held.
He sighed. “A third photograph has arrived. Hall did not show it to me, but he mentioned it. I know they have kept you out of this too—I am not asking you to say anything about it. But if you would pray that the truth comes to light, I would be grateful.”
“Of course I will.”
But as she bade him farewell and let herself into her darkroom, she couldn’t help the fear that seized her. Because she knew better than most that light didn’t always heal, didn’t always bring grace and forgiveness.
Light could destroy too, when applied in the wrong way. Turn on a light while the film was developing, and the whole batch could be ruined. The truth, when tossed into the world without explanation, viewed in the wrong way, could be just as harmful. It was as she’d reminded Hall when this all started.
The same facts could tell many stories. And the truth, when viewed from the wrong angle, didn’t necessarily set one free.
21
SATURDAY, 22 JUNE 1918
Finally. Finally the crowd of nosy Russian women dispersed, following a middle-aged woman who had just arrived as if she were a piper leading them all from the city they’d been infesting. Nadya had been sitting on this same bench outside a yarn shop most of the week, knitting needles flashing while she kept an eye on Zivon Marin’s building and the swarm of matchmakers whose individual demises she’d entertained herself by devising.