A chuckle welled up in his throat. Unexpected, and all the sweeter for it. “I would not say that. But I do jog, yes. And I was out this morning. It could have been me you saw.”

Clarke laughed too and clapped a hand to Zivon’s shoulder. “That wasn’t a jog, Marin, at least not by my definition. Have you been a runner long?”

Though Zivon lifted his shoulders in a shrug, he wasn’t quite sure why. He knew the answer and had no problem giving it . . . except, perhaps, because it meant revealing a piece of himself, and he’d been in a mindset this morning to protect rather than reveal. He shook that off. “Ever since I was a boy, yes. My brother, he was the true sportsman, like our father. A fist-fighter.”

Clarke let out a little breath that bespoke surprise. “You mean, a boxer?”

Zivon tilted his head from side to side. “Similar, but in Russia we do not use gloves. Just fists.”

“Well. I’m much keener on running, personally. Or at least I used to be, before that nasty bout of pneumonia landed me behind a desk.”

Though he had no particular trouble keeping up with the English words this morning, Zivon couldn’t help but note tone more than syllables, the accompanying gestures more than sounds. Running was not just something this man preferred over fighting. Zivon smiled. “You are a runner too?”

Clarke’s blue gaze went a bit distant. “I’d hoped to make the Olympics in 1912. Nearly did. Lost the qualifier by this much.” He stretched out his hands and sighed out a laugh. He shrugged—though not the same sort of shrug Zivon had just given. This one said, Some things we can never change.

“I am impressed. I never competed.”

“Those days are certainly over for me.” Clarke thumped a fist to his chest. “I haven’t the fortitude anymore, since I fell ill. Though I have been trying to get back to it a bit.”

They reached the first landing, and Zivon cast a look over at his companion. Clarke was probably younger than he was by a few years. Not by much, but he’d guess him to be closer to Evgeni’s age than his own, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven. And though their stories weren’t exactly the same, they had enough in common that last night had been quite pleasant, even without the added bonus of two lovely young ladies to admire and hosts who were experts at setting them at ease.

He was also grateful for an opportunity to get to know his new superior a bit better. He didn’t think one shared dinner would make Hall trust him, take his advice. But it couldn’t hurt.