Like Zivon had said—they must be still and know that He was God. Which meant He was good. He was love. He was mercy. He was life.
He was light. Even amid the darkest times.
Lily couldn’t see it, not fully. But if she focused, little glimmers peeked through. Glimpses of His mercies. Mama, well again—and offering forgiveness. Zivon, at her side every moment he possibly could be, and Daddy allowing it. The admiral, understanding of her need to closet herself away. Ara and all her other friends, stopping by each and every day to make sure she was all right.
And Ivy herself. All the laughter and smiles and memories she’d given her. It didn’t seem fair that God had taken her, but Lily needed to thank Him for giving her Ivy to begin with. Not everyone had years of such joy to recall.
“Your father will need our help, darling.” Now sorrow saturated Mama’s tone, colored even darker with worry. “Do you remember that trip to Brighton before the war, when Ivy’s hat blew off and he charged into the water to rescue it?”
A memory now tangled beautifully with the night she met Zivon, when she’d told him about it. Another layer to the matryoshka doll. Lily nodded. “Of course. He said no navy man would let a few waves steal from his little girl.”
“That is how he’s always felt about you girls—that he ought to be able to move nature itself to protect you and see to your happiness.” Mama shook her head. “He thinks he’s failed. And it’s stolen the last bit of light from his eyes. Pray for him, Lily. Pray this doesn’t devour him.”
Lily’s heart clenched, not just at the thought of her father’s pain but at the realization that she hadn’t even noticed it. She’d been too stuck on her own.
No more. She nodded, more fiercely than necessary. The world may still look dark, but if photography had taught her anything, it was that there was always more light to be found. Sometimes you just needed to change your lens. And sometimes you needed a flash. Neither ever changed what was really there . . . but they showed it in a new way.
She’d always thought of that as art. But it wasn’t. That was life. And art was just the imitator.
24
FRIDAY, 19 JULY 1918
Evgeni crossed his ankles and tried not to laugh as Nadya made another fruitless attempt to shoo a few ambitious pigeons away from the crumbs that remained of her lunch. They’d decided to eat outside today, to escape the heat in their room. Even if it did mean keeping their conversation to French the whole time. He’d given her another quick English lesson too, before the pigeons fully distracted her.
“Mine.” She shoved the last bite of bread into her mouth and kicked at the birds. Not that they were within kicking range, of course, and they didn’t look intimidated. They kept on cooing and fluttering.
Evgeni gave in to the chuckle. “Perhaps they will go away now that the food is gone.”
“I doubt it,” she said around her mouthful, scowling at the birds. “Filthy flying rats.” She poked him in the side. “And I don’t know what you’re so happy about.”
He certainly couldn’t tell her that he found her frustration amusing. She’d gone three more times into Zivon’s flat but had found nothing, nothing of use to them. And after each of her dejected returns, he’d been exasperated too. Then Nadya left yesterday with most of their remaining money and had returned with a pistol. When he’d asked her where she’d gotten it, she’d merely smiled and assured him she’d been discreet.
He hadn’t felt reassured. He’d felt panicked. He knew firsthand what an armed, desperate Nadya could accomplish, and it inevitably ended in death for the enemy. Which was fine when the enemy was a band of Germans. Less than fine when it was his own brother.
But he’d awoken today with the certainty that he could make it right. It would just require doing the thing he most feared. Facing Zivon.
Funny—instead of the dread the idea had instilled in him for the last months, making the decision brought peace. He smiled. “It’s a lovely summer day, I’m spending it with the woman I love, and I think our next step will net us all we need it to do.” He shrugged. “Why not be happy?”
She grunted and reached for the water they’d brought out with them. “I lack the faith you seem to have. Nothing has gone our way since we stepped foot on this stinking island. And if this doesn’t work—if the press doesn’t print the story or the Admiralty doesn’t believe it or the photographs Paul gave us don’t convince them—”
“Then I ask Zivon directly for what we need.” He looked straight ahead as he said it, not wanting to see Nadya’s face. He wouldn’t put it past her to be angry instead of relieved at his decision. To say, “You could have come to this conclusion a month ago and saved us a lot of wasted time and effort.” She’d be right to say it.
But she didn’t. Instead, her small, deceptively delicate-looking fingers moved over his arm. “Do you really think he will? Come, Evgeni. This is why I haven’t pushed on that point. He will not help you. Not if it means helping us. And I think you are right that he will see through any lie you try to tell. He will not make this decision freely.” She pushed to her feet and stomped toward the birds.
They fluttered a mere few feet away. London’s pigeons were obviously no more intimidated by people than Petrograd’s were. She spun back to face him. “You must be prepared to force him. Or if that is something you cannot do, I will.”
Somehow, the way she said it sounded like an offer, not an accusation. She’d grown in the last few months. The Nadya he’d first left behind in Russia when he fled with Zivon would have spat it out like a challenge. A threat.
He held out a hand to her. And waited the long moment until she came forward and put her fingers in his. “I will try it my way first. I think . . . I think I can convince him.”
Because as he’d flipped through Zivon’s now-mutilated photo album this morning, when he’d looked at the blank space where the photo of the two of them together had been, it had struck him.
That had been the image in the place of honor. Not Zivon and Alyona’s engagement photo. Not their parents. Not the one of him being honored by the czar.
Them. Together.
That meant something, didn’t it? It meant that brotherhood was more important to Zivon than politics.
He didn’t point this out to Nadya. She would probably ask the question Evgeni didn’t yet know how to answer: Was it more important to him too?
She sat back down beside him. “There is one more thing you should know if you plan to face him. He already knew about the mutiny. About the informant who contacted us.”
So many questions stormed his mind he didn’t know which to give voice to first. How could Zivon have known about that? How would she have known that he did? Why hadn’t she trusted him with the information?
“What?”
She sighed. “He intercepted the telegram, it seems. I saw it in his house. The day I . . .”
His eyes squeezed shut. The day she killed Alyona. An answer to another question he’d just as soon never have asked. “What did he do with this information, do you think?”
“I don’t know. He must have had the papers with him; they were gone from his house afterward. My fear? He gave them to the Admiralty.”