Because as he’d flipped through Zivon’s now-mutilated photo album this morning, when he’d looked at the blank space where the photo of the two of them together had been, it had struck him.

That had been the image in the place of honor. Not Zivon and Alyona’s engagement photo. Not their parents. Not the one of him being honored by the czar.

Them. Together.

That meant something, didn’t it? It meant that brotherhood was more important to Zivon than politics.

He didn’t point this out to Nadya. She would probably ask the question Evgeni didn’t yet know how to answer: Was it more important to him too?

She sat back down beside him. “There is one more thing you should know if you plan to face him. He already knew about the mutiny. About the informant who contacted us.”

So many questions stormed his mind he didn’t know which to give voice to first. How could Zivon have known about that? How would she have known that he did? Why hadn’t she trusted him with the information?

“What?”

She sighed. “He intercepted the telegram, it seems. I saw it in his house. The day I . . .”

His eyes squeezed shut. The day she killed Alyona. An answer to another question he’d just as soon never have asked. “What did he do with this information, do you think?”

“I don’t know. He must have had the papers with him; they were gone from his house afterward. My fear? He gave them to the Admiralty.”

“So if he also gave them the names . . .”

“We don’t need to assume that. He wouldn’t have any reason to think you were involved with the same thing. There is still hope, if we can convince the British to disbelieve him entirely.”

Though it took some effort, he smiled. “Look at you. Being optimistic.”

She breathed a laugh, but it faded to heavy solemnity. “Even I can hope sometimes. But if that hope proves vain . . . You must know, Evgeni. I will do whatever it takes. Whatever must be done to get these names, to stop this mutiny. I will do whatever must be done to earn the right to return to Russia with our heads held high. We will be honored by the party. We will advance. We will have a chance at a good life.”

Her hand was squeezing his in a way she’d never done before. A way that made his heart race. “Together?”

The beat of silence felt like fear. But then she squeezed all the harder. “Together.”

He lifted their joined hands, kissed the back of hers. His brother wouldn’t understand, but it would all work out. This was Evgeni’s chance to do something big, something that would be for the Bolsheviks what Zivon’s skills had been for the imperialists. A chance to make a name for himself. And a future with the woman he loved.