Leaving her would be like death itself, though. England he would miss now and then. The world of OB40 he would think of fondly all his days. His church he would grieve the loss of. But Lily . . . Lily had become air to him. He didn’t know how to see the world anymore without her camera lens pointing the way toward beauty. He didn’t know how he would smile without the love in her eyes to ignite it. He didn’t know how his heart would keep beating without knowing she was near.

But it would have to be enough to know that hers still beat. That by leaving, he had saved her.

He’d booked passage on a steamer to America that was scheduled to leave next week. He’d telegrammed a handful of universities and had quickly received three offers of a teaching position. They were all shorthanded. His skills would be welcome. He didn’t know yet which he would choose. He’d make his decision on the crossing.

Or maybe a U-boat would sink his ship and save him the trouble.

Forgive my morbid thoughts, Father God. He’d spent countless hours on his knees in prayer. For himself. For Lily. For England and Russia and Germany.

For Evgeni. Especially for Evgeni, and doubly so when the expected note didn’t arrive and his brother didn’t appear in his flat again. Worry had begun to gnaw at him, as it had done that week of the shelling in France. Something had happened to Zhenya. And, furious as he was with him, the thought had accomplished the impossible.

Don’t let him die, Lord. The same begging filled his mind now as it had been doing for the past three days. He doesn’t know you. Don’t take him. Not while his heart is hard to your grace. Have mercy on him, Lord. If you must take one of us, take me.

Mercy above justice. He understood it now.

He rounded the final curve of the mile circuit, and the sunshine glistened in a way he hadn’t expected, off human hair of spun gold. Curls. A woman, sitting on a bench. Young, twenty or twenty-one. With distinctly Russian features.

He slowed, stopped.

She stood, looking exhausted, with pale cheeks and circles under her eyes.

His hand curled around his ring. She too was his enemy. But no hatred filled him at the sight of her. This woman his brother loved. This Bolshevik. She was just a girl, too young for the horrors she had probably seen. A girl who also needed mercy.

“Nadya, I believe?” Remembering that she apparently spoke no English, he opted for Russian. “Where is Evgeni?”

“Where’s the photo?” Her voice had a rasp to it.