“But sadly, I don’t believe this alone will convince the brass.” Hall sighed, bracing himself against the table. “Not with the embarrassment that the article has given them, and given that you’re biased in his favor, Lily. They’ll want the original photos these were made from.”

“Zivon’s album.” How, though, were they to get that?

“This article agrees with those findings.” Setting down his pen, Father Smirnov held out his handwritten page. “It mentions a Marin who is part of the Bolshevik party. But the translation they provided changed one key word—the rank of this brother. Zivon was a kapitan. This is about a lieutenant. Zivon Marin is not a Bolshevik—Evgeni Marin was.”

“Not was.” At the new voice, they all turned to face the door. Zivon stood there, his hat in his hands and his face emptier and darker than she’d ever seen it. “Is. It seems my brother is alive, Admiral. And that he is responsible for all of this.”

Chaos erupted as questions were asked and answered, information volunteered, theories hypothesized. Lily kept her gaze, however, on Zivon. He didn’t budge from his place just inside the door, didn’t relax, didn’t for a moment enter in to become a part of this group determined to help him.

Didn’t show anyone for a moment how shattered his heart must be.

But she saw it. She saw it in every move he didn’t make, every smile that didn’t touch his lips. Every tone that stayed steady instead of rising or falling with emotion. “Zivon.” His name was a breath, surely not even heard above Daddy and Hall’s animated talk.

But Zivon heard. He looked her way, eyes shuttered.

She rounded the table to stand before him. “He wouldn’t have shown up now for no reason. What does he want?”

If possible, his eyes went even blanker. “The photograph. The one I gave to you. I do not know why, but it must somehow be linked to the German officers.”

Her hand slid into her pocket. Her camera was there, as always. But alongside it rested the snapshot. She’d taken to carrying it too, so that she’d always have a piece of Zivon’s heart with her.

Yet, for all the times she’d carried it with her, she hadn’t looked at it much. The lad in the photo wasn’t quite the Zivon she knew and loved. Surely she would have noticed something odd about it, though, wouldn’t she have?

But it was just two boys standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. The only thing on the back was a few age-browned words that must be the date. Nothing else. Nothing.

She flipped it back over. And the light from her lamp caught something strange on the front. Black against black, but glinting. “Hold on.” She held it under the lamp and tilted it this way and that.