“It is simple. At least in theory, as long as the girl likes you too and her parents approve. Surely you had a sweetheart at some point in Russia.”

Shooting his friend a quick glance, Zivon shrugged. “That was different.”

“Aha!” Laughing as if he’d just won a victory, Clarke leapt a step ahead and then half turned to face him, pointing his finger. “I knew it. Why else would you hesitate? You’ve still got a girl in Russia. What’s her name? Is she pretty? I bet you’re saving up to send for her.”

Zivon’s fingers tightened around the watch, until he could feel not only the ticks but also the continual movement of the gears. “No, Alyona is not waiting for me.” He should say why—and would have, had it not been a day to focus on joy instead of sorrow. But that could wait for another day, another conversation. “And it was quite different with her. We had known each other forever.” Since she was born, anyway, and he was seven. His thoughts hiccupped a bit. Lily Blackwell was the same age Alyona had been. He hadn’t paused to realize it before.

“Ah. That does rather eliminate the necessity for the getting-to-know-you stage. What happened? Opposite sides of the Revolution?”

“Her family had no reason to take sides. They simply kept their heads down, as I imagine they will continue to do.” He was the one who’d had a target on his back. Because of his job, because of the favor of the czar . . . and because he’d foolishly tried to speak reason to people who had no desire to hear it. Who’d claimed he was the unreasonable one.

Maybe they were right. Maybe it had been madness to think he could prevail against such a maelstrom.

Clarke seemed to accept his evasion of an answer. “I suppose sometimes it just doesn’t work out. Sorry, old boy. But then, that leaves you free to pursue a lady here, doesn’t it?”

“Someday.” He gave the watch a final squeeze and then let it go, slipped his hand out of his pocket. Someday, when he was certain the Bolsheviks had given up on tracking him down. Someday, when he didn’t fear being the cause of anyone else’s death. Someday, when he’d done all he could to restore order in Russia and had resigned himself to some sort of quiet life here in London.

Someday, when he had something other than uncertainty and secrecy to offer a woman.

“No time like the present, I say. We never know how much time we have left. We oughtn’t to waste it.” For the first time in their short acquaintance, Clarke’s tone was devoid of optimism. Now he was the one looking straight ahead, the one whose fingers curled into his palm.

Zivon nodded. “You have lost friends in the war.”