Words. Tiny, barely legible against the shadows in the image, certainly not without a light directly above them.

“Names.” Even that didn’t bring Zivon’s voice out of its monotone. “But the names we already have.”

“We do. But clearly they don’t.”

“And they will kill to get them.” Zivon’s hand covered the photo, pressed it to the table. “Leave it here, milaya. Do not carry it anymore. Do not—do not even act as though you know me. Do not try to defend me. Just . . . make me a copy of this, perhaps. Without the words. Blot them out, or put false ones on. I will give it to Evgeni in a week, when he has said we will meet.”

He stepped away, bowing to the room at large, which quieted Hall and Daddy in time for him to address them. “That will give me time to make arrangements. I thank you all for what you are trying to do, but I will not be responsible for anyone else suffering because of me. I will leave England.”

“No!” It burst from her lips. “You can’t just leave. You can’t let them win!”

“They will not win. Not at what matters most to them. These German officers will remain safe, and their rebellion will move forward. But I . . .” He shook his head. “I will reap the consequences for what my family has done. And I will apologize, Admiral, for not thinking clearly when he turned up at my flat today. I should have followed him. But I . . .”

“Don’t fret about that, Marin. We’ll find him. We’ll stop him. And we’ll clear your name. I’m not about to let England lose you.”

The admiral’s determination ought to have encouraged her. But if she’d become convinced of anything, it was that Zivon Marin was the admiral’s match in nearly every way.

And Zivon Marin had absolutely no hope in his eyes. Whatever his brother had threatened, he was clearly convinced that leaving was the only recourse.

She couldn’t think he was right. And yet, if so . . . did she dare to go with him?

26

TUESDAY, 30 JULY 1918

The fire raged around him, above him, below him, within him. Evgeni watched the flames dance, watching for the snake that would turn into a princess. Sometimes he could glimpse her—the girl through the flames. Her hair was a brilliant gold, her eyes a startling brown. Her brows pulled always together into a frown as she reached for him.

Try as he might, he couldn’t lift his lance so that she could use it to escape the flames. His arm was too weak. Too heavy. But he must try harder. He couldn’t leave his princess in there to be consumed. “Nadya.” He whispered the name through a scorched throat. Reaching, always reaching for her. “Nadezhda.”