He turned to her, not needing to make any special effort to keep his smile bright this time. “Happy Easter to you, Miss Blackwell.”

Her returning smile was simple and complicated, confident and unsure. He wasn’t sure how she managed to contain such contradictions within those winter-sky eyes of hers, but they were there as she held out the parcel. “Happy Easter,” she said quietly. “I wanted to give you a small something. To welcome you to England.”

Was this common here? He didn’t know, but he took the proffered package with a slight bow. A warm smile. “How kind of you. Should I . . . ?”

“Oh, yes. Go right ahead.” She clasped each hand on the opposite elbow, the glimpse of shyness telling him that whatever lay beneath the paper was something whose value was personal rather than monetary.

He peeled away the wrapping, noting first the wooden frame, the cardboard backing. When he flipped it over, his breath caught in his throat. It was him, somehow. Laughing, looking bright . . . and at home. Moscow stretched behind him, its familiar skyline pristine and impossible. Only after a moment of staring did he realize the image of him was from yesterday afternoon. But how . . . ? He looked up, met her eyes, sure his marvel shone in his. “This is astounding. How did you do it? It looks flawless.”

The smile she gave him was bright. “I physically combined prints—one of you, carefully trimmed and positioned on a print of the city, then rephotographed. I had to touch up some edges manually at the retouching desk, of course, but most of the work was done with a scalpel.”

His gaze fell to the image again. He’d never had—nor wanted—a portrait of himself. But this was entirely different. This was a story she’d told for him. A reminder of a life once lived. “I do not have words enough in either English or Russian to thank you.” A flash of something light stole through him, as unexpected as yesterday’s laughter. “Perhaps French will do. Merci beaucoup, mon amie.”

He was rewarded with her laugh and with a waft of the same scent he’d first noted in the captain’s car. Lily of the valley. Not, apparently, the choice of her mother, but rather of her. So fitting for the sweet Lily.

“You’re very welcome, in any language. Literally, in fact. Welcome to England, Mr. Marin. I hope London will eventually bring you as much joy as Moscow did.”

His fingers tightened around the frame.

“You have no idea how perfect a gift that is, Miss Blackwell.” Clarke had come to investigate, his grin audible in his voice. “This will be the first thing he hangs on the walls of his flat.”

“You can’t be serious.” Mrs. Blackwell spun on him. “You have no other decorations?”