When he blinked awake again, the light was different. Later that day? The next? The next week? He had no idea. But the fire had receded a bit, though the aches were as torturous as ever. The room was quiet, the rushing of flames gone from his ears. He moved his hands around, searching for a hand, a head, something. “Nadya?” He meant to speak it but wasn’t sure if it came out as anything more than a croak.

He waited a few long minutes, but he couldn’t sense her anywhere. No body sleeping next to his. No sounds of breathing or footsteps nearby.

Panic ate at him. Where was she? Not here or . . . or gone? “Nadya?” He managed to raise himself a few inches before he collapsed again with a groan. He couldn’t see every corner of the flat, but he could see enough to verify that she hadn’t fallen to a heap on the floor. He closed his eyes, telling himself she must be out looking for food. She had to eat, even if he hadn’t been able to in . . . however long this fever had been feasting on him. That must be it. It must be.

He would just wait for her. That was all. Wait until the door opened and then smile over at her and let her know he was on the mend. Surely he was on the mend. He had to be on the mend.

He intended only to blink. But when he lifted his lids once more, the light had shifted yet again, and precious sounds of life met his ears, bringing instant relief. Even if the particular sounds were Russian curses from the direction of the window.

His lips curved up. “What is the matter, my princess?”

“Evgeni!” She was there in the next second, gripping his hand in hers and lifting it to her lips. “It is nothing. Nothing at all. How are you feeling?”

“Awful.” He tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry. “But less awful than before.” Probably. He knew where he was, at least, which seemed a vast improvement over the few recollections he had from before.

She eased a cup to his lips and helped him drink. With the water came a bit of clarity, which had him narrowing his eyes at her. “You are pale.” And she’d been nursing him, and he’d obviously had this flu that had struck the city, that had left one of their upstairs neighbors dead. He gripped her hand. She couldn’t get sick. She couldn’t.

“I am well. Just tired.” She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead. “Don’t worry for me.”

He pulled away, as much as he could. “You ought to keep your distance. I don’t want you to catch this.”

But she laughed. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”