Hall nodded. “You have quite a champion in that young lady. You’d have been properly impressed with the arguments she presented in your favor last night, I think. Her photography equipment is, as a matter of fact, being moved back to the OB as we speak.”

Pulse kicking up as if he were halfway through a sprint, Zivon straightened. “The captain has permitted this?”

His guest chuckled. “By the time she finished explaining how her work is hindered by not having access to her archives, he was offering to transport it all back himself—with the stipulation that she promise to avoid you, of course.”

His pulse skidded, thudded, slowed again. “Of course.”

Hall’s lips twitched. “Though that lasted only a few minutes. When she then launched into a detailed defense of you and why it was utterly illogical for you to come here with nefarious goals, one could practically see his resistance crumbling. Especially when Effie joined in. Partly to poke at her husband, I think—she’s still a bit angry over the deception—but whatever her motivations, they had the desired effect.”

Hope sprang so quickly it left him breathless. And, frankly, terrified that it would just be ripped away again. “Did it?”

“Mm.” Hall moved to the painting next. “Blackwell has granted that she may speak to you—in public, so long as others are around. He didn’t relent yet on the walks in the park, but I believe you will be getting another invitation to dinner sometime soon.”

All of which was of the utmost interest to him. But he still wasn’t certain why Hall had taken the time to deliver this news personally, during a downpour. “This is most welcome news indeed, sir. But I must ask—were you convinced by her arguments?”

For a long moment, Hall continued to study the landscape. Then he pivoted, gaze just as steady on Zivon. “My people have not been idle. Pearce did indeed follow that chap who’d been following you. Found his home, his workplace. There was nothing immediately suspicious, so he had his sisters set up a watch and dig deeper. They gave their report yesterday.”

Zivon clasped his hands behind his back to keep them still. The man had been there several more times, trailing him, hiding from him—or thinking he was. He’d seen Pearce again too, clearly keeping an eye on the other fellow, not on Zivon. “If I may guess—he has socialist ties?”

Hall jerked his head in a nod. “Attended a convention for the Allied socialists in the past and even bought a ticket for the upcoming one. He was overheard in a pub the other night complaining about a fellow called Kerensky, a Trudovik—you know him, perhaps?”

“Of him.” The ousted head of the defeated Trudovik party. As much an enemy of the Bolsheviks, in some ways, as Zivon was.