He hadn’t said a word about what he meant to do professionally when the war ended. He would have a plan—Zivon always had a plan. But he’d also be listening for the Lord to direct his path. Would they stay here? Or would he instead feel the call to accept one of those teaching positions in America that were still open to him?
Wherever the Lord called, she’d be there. By his side.
She twisted her head so she could smile up at him. “Let’s go.”
He nodded, though his eyes were on the photograph rather than her. “This really is remarkable, milaya. The admiral will be pleased.”
She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they walked, smiling as Mama chattered behind them over how ready she was to be able to plant flowers in the garden again instead of vegetables. “I daresay I shall have it positively gorgeous again this spring. We’ll have to host another garden party, Lily Love. Or . . . some sort of reception, anyway.”
“Mama.” Lily laughed, even in the face of the unknowns that remained.
“Mother Effie is not subtle,” Zivon said in a stage whisper. If he was trying to keep from grinning, he was utterly failing.
But then, his willingness to join her family wasn’t exactly in question either.
They climbed the stairs, strode down the corridor toward the admiral’s office, and her mother greeted by name every secretary and cryptographer they passed. When Euphemia Blackwell decided to join something, she did it wholeheartedly.
A lesson Lily had taken to heart. She greeted her colleagues too—and apparently quite a few of them knew what she’d been about in the basement today, because they had a rather long procession by the time Zivon knocked on Hall’s door.
“Enter.”
He pushed open the door with a flourish and bowed. “Ladies first.”
Lily couldn’t laugh now. She could only smile a bit, and then a bit more when she saw Daddy folded into a chair before the desk, clearly waiting for them. “Well, Lily White? Have you managed it?”
“Mama says I have—and you daren’t argue with her.” Her grin soon faded as she held out the photograph for Hall’s perusal. “I hope it will do, sir. Though it’s not a photograph I ever thought to create.”
“Create being the key word, my dear. Not take. Never would you have occasion to take a photo of our boys in revolt.” He sat on the edge of his desk, lifted a magnifying glass, and studied the image.
Praise God for that truth. As much despair as she’d seen in the injured soldiers she’d nursed and as she heard in the voices of men home on leave, they’d never lost their determination to see it through. Just their belief that there was a purpose to it.
She glanced over her shoulder at her mother. That would just have to be their job when this was over—showing those lads through their art that there was still something to live for. Something to believe in. There was still a God in heaven, and He still loved His children . . . even when His children had failed to love one another.
Hall looked up, and the half smile on his face told her she’d done her job—this job—well. “Excellent work as always, Miss Blackwell. You have served king and country faithfully and fully.” He straightened and barked out, “Elton!”
“Yes, sir?” Margot’s husband stepped into the office. Lily hadn’t realized he was back in London, but she could never keep up with his comings and goings.
Hall held out the photo. “You’re going back to the Continent this evening, correct? See this gets into the hands of Agent Twenty-Two.”
Drake nodded and reached for it. “I’ll have it to him by morning, sir.”
“Good. And then report back here.” Hall tugged down his jacket, lifted his chin. “This war is about to end. And I daresay your wife would like you home for the celebration.”
MONDAY, 11 NOVEMBER 1918
The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Zivon drew in a long breath as he stepped out of the Old Building, knowing that was a refrain that he’d see plastered in every newspaper headline come tomorrow—some even this evening.
Finally, at long last, peace. The guns would be silent. The trenches left behind.
At least in Europe. According to both the official reports and Evgeni’s letters, the White and Red Armies were still clashing. His brother never said anything about his hopes—the hopes so opposed to Zivon’s—and just related the facts.
Russia remained in upheaval. The Bolsheviks’ power didn’t appear to be waning.
But his brother was safe. Married. With a child on the way. Perhaps they were still set on advancing in the party. Perhaps all mentions of faith still went unaddressed.
But he had hope. And that wasn’t something Zivon would ever take for granted again. Hope for himself, hope for his brother. Hope for his people. The Reds might win now, might stay in control. But Father Smirnov was right—it was in persecution that faith always bloomed. And if he knew anything about the Russian spirit, it was that it could survive the longest of winters. God would see them through it. And when spring came, whether it be in a few months or a few decades, the people would cry out for His touch.
Just as Zivon had done. He strode for the park, winter’s night closing in rapidly. It was cold—or so said the others at the OB, who grumbled as they tugged on gloves and hats.
Zivon thought it felt rather mild. A fine day for a stroll in the park, if the light would just grant him twenty more minutes. He lifted a hand to say farewell to a few colleagues. And then lifted it again as he entered the park and spotted Konstantin and Fyodor exiting. They shouted a greeting but didn’t slow. Fyodor would be hurrying home to his family, and he and Zivon had seen each other at Mass just yesterday.
Shadows were creeping in too quickly. He picked up his pace still more, not slowing until he rounded the bend on the path and saw her there, kneeling among the brown grass, her camera raised and her attention focused entirely upon a squirrel scavenging for a forgotten nut.
A pattern as familiar to him as breathing. He waited until he heard the click, the whir. Then he knelt down beside her and whispered in her ear, “What do you see?”
Lily smiled, turned, stole a quick kiss. “Life. Going ever onward.” She put her hand in the one he proffered and let him help her to her feet. “You’re late. I was beginning to think the admiral had decided to keep you all for an extra shift, just for old times’ sake.”
He chuckled and wove her fingers through his, though he didn’t immediately lead her toward Curzon Street. They had a few minutes of daylight left. He meant to make use of them. “On the contrary. He had several of us in a meeting to discuss the future. Our future—Room 40’s.”
She caught her breath. “Is there one? I thought . . .”
Zivon nodded, squeezed her fingers. “It will dissolve after this, yes. A secret to be kept and protected at all costs. But the work cannot stop, milaya, and the Admiralty knows this. They have decided . . .” He paused, looked about. Drew close enough that he could whisper into her ear. “They are starting a school. A cryptography school. I have been asked to join it as an instructor, along with several of the chaps. And Margot, after she finishes the schooling she desires.”
“That’s wonderful!” She slipped an arm around him. “Right? Isn’t it? Is this what you want?”