Her smile no doubt looked sad. “We are. But you do not. If you trust me, then hear me in this. They have already stolen so much from you. Don’t let them steal your heart. They’ll ruin it.”

He frowned, but he didn’t argue. He wanted to, she could tell. But instead, he reached into his pocket, coming out with a small piece of paper. A photograph. He pressed it into her hands. “This is all I have left of my family. They were always my heart. Will you keep it for me?”

She glanced down, saw the image of two lads, the familiar Parisian landmark behind them. She slid it into her bag. “You know I will.”

16

TUESDAY, 28 MAY 1918

Nadya disappeared behind one of the shelves in the grocer’s, scowling at the largely empty space while Evgeni, blast him, smiled at the girl behind the counter, leaning into it as if he had all the time in the world. According to him, he could wheedle supplies from the shopkeeper’s daughter.

He probably could. The question was, how did he achieve this miracle? She’d come along to find out. Though when he gave the girl the grin Nadya clearly remembered from the first time they’d met, she began to regret her decision.

“Bonsoir, Claire.”

The girl grinned back, of course. And darted a glance around the store. According to Evgeni, her father didn’t much care for him.

Smart man. If ever a fellow was a danger to a daughter, it was Evgeni Marin. Nadya peeked between the shelves so she could see without being seen.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come to see me this evening, Zhenya.” The chit twirled a dark curl around her finger.

“And miss out on some of the only joy to find in a day?” He winked and made a show of peering over the counter to see what might be behind it. “The shelves are a bit bare. Have I waited too long?”

Her laugh was low and soft. “You know I put something back for you.” She said it with a smile . . . but unless Nadya had gotten worse at reading silly girls, she also said it lightly. As if it were a game, nothing more.

Nadya’s muscles relaxed a bit. She could handle a harmless flirtation if it meant food.

Claire pulled out a parcel from under the counter. “You know the deal, Zhenya.”

He laughed and made himself comfortable, apparently not prickling any over the nickname. Why should he? Most people used it—all but Nadya. Still, it sounded odd to hear it spill from a French girl’s lips.

“All right.” He tapped a finger to his chin in a caricature of thought. “Have I told you the story of the Crystal Mountain yet?”

“Last week.”

“Ah yes. What about Princess Never-a-Smile?”