Parishioners, obviously, as they turned up the stairs and soon vanished into the building. A moment later, more people joined them. Evgeni sat up straighter, casting his glance down the street first one way, then the other. Watching for that familiar stride—the one Zivon would never call graceful, but which was. It came of all the running he did, or at least that was Evgeni’s theory. When one loped mile after mile like an animal of the steppe, one’s walk was even, smooth, and strong.

What hat had he been wearing on the train? Would he still have it, or would he have gotten another here in Paris? What of his coat? It had been his heavy one—too heavy for a Paris springtime, but it had still been cold in Russia when they left. Would he have exchanged that too?

Evgeni leaned forward, resting his forearms on his legs to provide a bit of reprieve to his ribs. It didn’t matter whether he’d recognize his brother’s clothes. He’d recognize his brother. Anywhere, in any crowd, from any distance.

And his brother was not among the hundreds of people who filed into the church. Evgeni let out a huff of defeat as a woman trotted briskly up the steps with a toddler in her arms, clearly thinking she was late—as she probably was.

But Zivon was never late. Never. Not to anything, but especially not to a church service. All of Matushka’s teachings over the years about showing the Lord the reverence and respect He was due guaranteed that.

Well. To the bookshop, then. It ought to be open still, since the owner was Jewish. He wouldn’t close for the Christian holiday, though it was a Friday, so Evgeni had better get back on his feet to be sure he made it there before sundown.

He pushed himself up, his mind racing ahead. He would find Zivon. See what of Evgeni’s possessions he had—hopefully the entirety of the bag he’d been clutching when the train derailed. And then he’d have to find anything that was missing. Preferably before Nadya arrived.

Mentally cursing the weeks he’d lost to the injuries, Evgeni took a deep breath. A strange noise made his every muscle freeze, tense. He was only vaguely aware of the shadow that passed him overhead. He hadn’t time to think about what it might be—too large for a bird, moving far too quickly to be an airplane—before it blasted into the church across the street.

Instinct had him diving for cover under the bench, though it did little to shield him from the dust and debris. The ground shook under him, and a blast of something swept over him, making his injured bones feel like they might rip apart. But worse—far worse—was the sound. An earsplitting pounding of noise and then a moment of utter silence that stretched into eternity.