Try as he might, he couldn’t lift his lance so that she could use it to escape the flames. His arm was too weak. Too heavy. But he must try harder. He couldn’t leave his princess in there to be consumed. “Nadya.” He whispered the name through a scorched throat. Reaching, always reaching for her. “Nadezhda.”
Her face wavered into view through the fire, and something cool touched his face. “I am here. Stay with me, lyubov moya. Here. Drink.”
Lyubov moya—my love. How long had he waited for her to say such words to him? He felt something hard press against his lips, and then water touched them. He opened his mouth, greedy for the cool liquid. But after a few swallows, it turned from dribble to torrent, and he coughed, pushed against it.
“Sorry.” A clank of glass on wood. Then she was back, his princess, dabbing at him with a washcloth. Even through the haze of smoke and fire, he could see the worry in her eyes.
Had she really called him her love? Or had it been only part of the folktale? He tried again to lift his arm, and this time he got it high enough to snag her hand. “Nadya. My princess.”
Her laughter soothed away some of the heat. Strange how that just made him more keenly aware of the aching in every limb, every muscle. “Now I know you are delirious. No one would ever call me a princess.”
The water he’d sipped reached his stomach—and set it to churning. He felt the heave working its way up from his core, and hard as he tried to subdue it, he couldn’t. He could only roll onto his side, toward the edge of the bed.
She had a basin there, waiting for him. And she held it as he retched, emptying his stomach of what felt like life itself. Not food—he hadn’t eaten, that he could recall. Just the water and bile.
Had he the energy, he would have been mortified. But he hadn’t. And as she eased him back to his sweat-soaked pillow, he had a vague recollection of having done this many times before. This time wouldn’t be any great shock to her. “Sorry.”
Her fingers caressed his forehead, cool and soft and welcome. “Don’t apologize. Just get well, Zhenya. Do you hear me? I won’t have you dying. I won’t.”
She’d used his nickname. He wanted to grin. To tease. To ask if she only needed him to help her fulfill their mission, or if it was something more. If perhaps she was finally ready to admit that she loved him.
Mission. What was it? Something . . . something urgent. Something . . . What day was it? Zivon. He needed to meet Zivon. Get the photo. The names.
He meant to ask. But the words wouldn’t come to his lips. Maybe because he was too tired, already drifting away.
When he blinked awake again, the light was different. Later that day? The next? The next week? He had no idea. But the fire had receded a bit, though the aches were as torturous as ever. The room was quiet, the rushing of flames gone from his ears. He moved his hands around, searching for a hand, a head, something. “Nadya?” He meant to speak it but wasn’t sure if it came out as anything more than a croak.
He waited a few long minutes, but he couldn’t sense her anywhere. No body sleeping next to his. No sounds of breathing or footsteps nearby.
Panic ate at him. Where was she? Not here or . . . or gone? “Nadya?” He managed to raise himself a few inches before he collapsed again with a groan. He couldn’t see every corner of the flat, but he could see enough to verify that she hadn’t fallen to a heap on the floor. He closed his eyes, telling himself she must be out looking for food. She had to eat, even if he hadn’t been able to in . . . however long this fever had been feasting on him. That must be it. It must be.
He would just wait for her. That was all. Wait until the door opened and then smile over at her and let her know he was on the mend. Surely he was on the mend. He had to be on the mend.
He intended only to blink. But when he lifted his lids once more, the light had shifted yet again, and precious sounds of life met his ears, bringing instant relief. Even if the particular sounds were Russian curses from the direction of the window.
His lips curved up. “What is the matter, my princess?”
“Evgeni!” She was there in the next second, gripping his hand in hers and lifting it to her lips. “It is nothing. Nothing at all. How are you feeling?”
“Awful.” He tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry. “But less awful than before.” Probably. He knew where he was, at least, which seemed a vast improvement over the few recollections he had from before.
She eased a cup to his lips and helped him drink. With the water came a bit of clarity, which had him narrowing his eyes at her. “You are pale.” And she’d been nursing him, and he’d obviously had this flu that had struck the city, that had left one of their upstairs neighbors dead. He gripped her hand. She couldn’t get sick. She couldn’t.
“I am well. Just tired.” She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead. “Don’t worry for me.”
He pulled away, as much as he could. “You ought to keep your distance. I don’t want you to catch this.”
But she laughed. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”
Yes, blast it all. He let his eyes slide closed. “You need to rest. How long has it been?”
“A few days, that’s all.” She climbed over him, into her usual spot on the bed between him and the wall. “I thought I was going to lose you.” Her hand settled on his bare chest, over his heart. “I don’t want to lose you.”
He covered her hand with his. “You won’t. I’ll beat this.” Wouldn’t he? He felt much better than when last he woke, which must be a good sign. He squeezed her fingers as the exhaustion crept over him again. “I love you.”
I love you too. He wasn’t sure if she said the words or if he only dreamed she did. Either way, he slept with the memory of them weaving into story after story in his dreams.
FRIDAY, 2 AUGUST 1918
Nadya waited until the rise and fall of his chest had gone steady, telling herself she would get up as soon as he was sleeping soundly. Telling herself she would reread the telegram. Go out into the city. Do what needed to be done.
Instead, she closed her eyes and nestled deeper into his side. She’d always thought love was a weakness. And maybe it was. But even so, it was true. She loved him. Beyond all reason, beyond all sense.
And it terrified her as much as the nausea that made the room spin. Terrified her because she’d thought for sure he was really and truly lost to her this time, and she didn’t know what she’d have done if it were true. Never had she wanted to be dependent on anyone else again. And yet here she was.
He murmured something in his sleep about his princess, and she surrendered a small smile. Perhaps she hadn’t meant to love him, but it was no great mystery why she did. There was no one else like her Zhenya. Handsome and strong, compassionate and respectful, quick-tempered and quick-witted.
She trailed weary fingers over his jaw, rough with nearly a week’s worth of beard. A week. He’d missed the rendezvous with his brother. Hadn’t even set one up. And though she should care, she hadn’t. All that had mattered was getting him well again.
But the telegram lying now on the table told her the time for such indulgence was over. Mutiny was imminent among the German ranks. If she didn’t leave within the next day or two, find the men, and put matching bullets in their heads, then all was lost. The rebellion would brew. Spread. The war would end. And the interfering imperialists could well come to the aid of the White Army.