It seemed that the flu going around the city and being discussed in all the papers had found its way to their corner of London.

THURSDAY, 25 JULY 1918

Over the last three weeks, Zivon had grown sadly accustomed to the new, somber Clarke. He still jogged with him in the mornings, and they still walked to and from the OB together most days. But any offers Zivon made for other outings were always met with quiet refusal. “Not today,” he’d always say. “You’ll want to spend the evening with Miss Blackwell.” Even when Zivon tried to tell him Lily was busy, he’d find another excuse. He was too tired or had brought work home from the office or was in the middle of a good book.

He looked over at Clarke now from only the corner of his eye and prayed. Prayed that God would show him how to be a friend to this man. He’d known him only four months, but that had been time enough that this ache in Clarke’s heart pierced Zivon’s too.

“I was thinking,” he said as the parade grounds came within sight, “that I may attend a lecture this evening at Kings College, given by one of the members of my church. Lily already has plans with a friend. Would you perhaps want to join me? It ought to be a good one. He will be discussing The Brothers Karamazov. Have you read it?”

Clarke shook his head. “Thanks all the same. I don’t imagine it would be terribly interesting since I haven’t.”

“You may be surprised. It was hearing a talk given on War and Peace that made me decide to read Tolstoy as a young man.”

The turn of his friend’s lips looked token at best. “I find it hard to believe you weren’t reading Tolstoy already at twelve.”

“Well, I did not say how young a man. But I was thirteen, I will have you know.”

The subdued chuckle wasn’t much bigger than the echo of a smile had been. “Did your brother share your literary bent, or did you have friends in St. Petersburg that joined you in your lecture-going?”

Did. Zivon slid a hand into his pocket, where Batya’s pocket watch resided. Would he ever get used to using past tense for the people who should still be at his side? “Evgeni . . . indulged me. But he and our father were more men of action than words. I took after my mother.”

Clarke made some reply, but Zivon’s attention shifted from the easy conversation. Something wasn’t right. He slowed, listened.

Voices. Too many voices, all coming from ahead, near the OB. The pedestrians walking toward them, away from the building, kept looking over their shoulders. Ahead of them, a man carrying a large camera broke into a jog.