Predictably, the man smiled back and asked quite eagerly how he could help her.

Nadya gave an extra bat of her lashes. “I am looking for a friend of mine. He was to come here, I think. I hope. Evgeni Marin? Has he perhaps come in sometime in the last several months?”

The man frowned. “Evgeni Marin? No, I don’t believe so. But here is the ambassador now—he would know. Mr. Nabokov, do you have a moment?”

Nadya wasn’t sure if it was good luck or bad when the diplomat detoured to them. But she gave him the same smile she’d given the secretary and added an introduction. Given that no one knew who she was, she didn’t see the point in using a false name. When she stated her question again, Nabokov blinked in surprise.

“Evgeni Marin? No. It is my understanding, I am sorry to say, that he perished in France. But we know his brother.”

“Zivon?” She hoped her tone sounded right—a bit relieved at someone familiar, yet taken off guard by the news of death.

In truth, she was taken off guard. Even when she knew it was wrong, hearing that he’d died made her chest go tight.

Zivon must have thought he’d been killed in the train accident. He must have told them as much.

Regardless, using his name so informally seemed to have the desired effect. Nabokov gave her a sympathetic look and even patted her arm. “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news. You knew the Marins well? Neighbors, perhaps?”

She blinked furiously, as if fighting back tears. “More than that. I . . . I was to marry Evgeni. This is why I traveled here, to meet him. I don’t even know if he’d told his brother, but—forgive me.” She drew her handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

The men exchanged a glance. “We can put you in touch with Zivon Marin if you’d like.”

“Yes.” She sniffed. “Thank you. Do you have his address? I have a bag of Evgeni’s belongings he may want.”

“Ah.” Nabokov frowned. “We don’t, actually. He has always just stopped in to ask for updates. But my cousin said he was at Mass. I’m certain we can get it for you. If you could stop by again later?”

Though she wanted to seethe at yet another setback, Nadya gritted her teeth and nodded, hiding her frustration behind her handkerchief. “Yes, of course. I cannot thank you enough.”

Before they had time to notice that her eyes were in fact quite dry, Nadya scurried back out. They’d assume she was just distressed and craving privacy, which suited her fine. Once back on the sidewalk and well out of sight, she balled up the handkerchief, squeezed a bit of her frustration into the wad of cotton, and swore under her breath. Another delay.