Zhenya waved that off. “Was. I am on the mend.”

“He has no fever.” Lily wrapped her arms around one of his, as if to make it clear he wouldn’t walk away without her again. “I think he only needs to regain his strength.”

“Which he’ll do in France. In Russia.” Nadya pressed a kiss to his brother’s brow and then stood again, her eyes cold and hard when she turned them on him and Lily. “We are leaving today. With the photograph. Hand it over now, English girl. You have dawdled enough.”

In English, so quietly he barely heard her, Lily murmured, “How far behind you are the rest of them?”

“Only a few minutes, I should think.”

Evgeni narrowed his eyes at them. If he’d been able to hear, then he would understand.

Zivon stepped forward, putting himself between Lily and the pistol. Hands out again, so Nadya could see he had no weapon of his own. “Please, lower the weapon. We are family. I have negotiated for your freedom, but you will compromise it if you use that.”

“Our freedom?” Nadya barked a laugh. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You who would grow rich while others starve. Freedom comes only when the people steal the power from their oppressors and force them to do the right thing.”

Zivon’s chest ached. How many times had he heard that sentiment being shouted in Russia over the last year? A cry from a desperate people who had been pushed past their breaking point. He commiserated. He cried for them, with them.

But they were wrong. “No. Freedom comes only when the people realize that it cannot be stolen and forced. Freedom that is denied to anyone who disagrees is no freedom at all.”

Lily had reached into her pocket, and she held out a photograph that he would have sworn was the same one from the passport, had he not seen that one tacked to her wall an hour ago. She must have made herself a duplicate too.

Of course she had.

“Here,” she said. “Take the photo. Give us the album.”

“And put down the weapon,” Zivon added. “No one needs to get hurt.”

“Nadya. My princess.” Evgeni reached out for her free hand. “We can all win. Put down the gun and get the album for him. Please. We can let them live their lives. We can live ours. Let’s just go.” To Zivon, he offered a small smile. “Sorry so many photographs have been ruined. I wouldn’t let anyone touch the one of Batya and Matushka, though.”

The original telegram decrypt, then, could well be there. They didn’t need it anymore. But somehow it was a comfort to realize that his parents had, in a way, protected him. His secrets.