Evgeni. Lord God, where is Evgeni? Zivon forced the fist in his chest to release, his breath to ease out, back in. Every time he thought of his brother, urgency filled him. Had been filling him ever since he’d awoken in that French hospital, dazed and so very alone, Evgeni’s bag with him instead of his own, and a shadowy something gnawing at the edges of his mind. He’d remembered feeling irritation with his brother for being gone so long, gone during the entirety of the water stop. He remembered Evgeni waking the other passengers when he came back in. And then . . . nothing. Blackness. The twisted rails that had sent the train careening had stolen a few minutes from his memory too—or, rather, the concussion had. The French doctor had assured him this was normal.

The French doctor had also said that, no, the memories wouldn’t return. That it was God’s blessing, really, that the mind didn’t retain those moments of trauma.

God’s blessing. He’d once thought he knew the meaning of that. These days, his prayers seemed to be only hollow, echoing words. Cry as he might to the Father—morning, noon, and night—only unfamiliar silence greeted him in return. Well . . . unfamiliar silence and the continued echoing of a long-ago memorized Scripture.

Be still, and know that I am God.

Zivon turned the last corner, noting the puddle in the street up ahead. The bicyclist who would have to swerve to avoid it. The oncoming car that wouldn’t allow the cyclist to swerve into the road and so make the sidewalk the better option. The woman walking a few paces ahead of him who would be directly in the cyclist’s path. “Madam!”

It was probably the urgency in his voice, more than the nameless call, that got her attention. She paused, turned.

The bicycle’s bell jangled, and the rider called out an apology as he barely missed the woman. She clutched a hand to her chest, eyes wide. And then smiled at Zivon. “Thank you.”

He nodded but made no other attempt at conversation. The bank was there, on his right.

He’d have to find the proof, find the names, find something to convince his new superior that he should be believed—and then consulted on what the proper course of action would be.

Because the end to this war was paramount. Only then, when hostilities were over in Europe, could the British or French or American forces spare any help for the White Army. Only then did Russia have a chance of renewed order.

Only then could the Bolsheviks be destroyed.

He thrust a hand into his pocket, wrapped his fingers around Batya’s pocket watch so that the steady tick-a-tick could soothe him. Remind him of the eternal march onward, despite whatever disruptions came into the pattern. He let the ever-present Scripture flood his thoughts in time to the ticking.