He lowered his head. “I am afraid I have not had time to furnish the space beyond that which was already there.” Nor had he had the funds, but that was hardly polite conversation.

“Well, that won’t do at all!” Mrs. Blackwell held out a hand toward her elder daughter, even while motioning to him with the other. “Come with us, Mr. Marin. You must choose a few more pieces.”

“Oh, I—”

“Don’t bother arguing, Marin.” Captain Blackwell clapped a friendly hand to Zivon’s shoulder. “There’s no putting her off when she’s determined to foist her work on someone—especially someone who championed her cause.” He said it with a wink toward his wife, who laughed with exuberance.

Lily took her mother’s hand, her smile every bit as bright. “I bet he’d like that study in blue you did a few years ago, Mama. The one of clouds and sea.”

“Perhaps so.” Mrs. Blackwell looked him over much like a tailor would, as if she could read his artistic preferences as easily as old Vasily did his shoulders’ width. Doubly amusing since, as far as he knew, he didn’t have much by way of artistic preferences. “And that beautiful photograph you took of the Eiffel Tower in Paris before the war.”

The elder lady tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and used it to steer him out of the room and toward the stairs. The Blackwell ladies continued to chat as they led him up the stairs, and up again, and up still more. The final flight was more utilitarian than luxurious, narrow enough that they had to go single file, but he got the impression it was a trek these two made quite often.

When finally they pushed through the door, Zivon drew in a breath. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but certainly not what met his eyes. The entire attic was stacked with canvases, frames, glass, and mats. He saw cases of what he assumed were paints, others of chemicals that he suspected were for developing photographs. Shelves had been built with openings of various sizes that held framed paintings and photos. Other canvases were unframed, the paintings on them unfinished. Stacks of paper seemed to indicate similar amounts of unframed photographs.

If left to himself, he probably would have just stood and stared at the stacks, waiting for order to emerge from the chaos. But his hostesses clearly didn’t view it as chaos. They turned directly toward two different shelves—Mrs. Blackwell pulling out a photograph, her daughter going to a painting.

His lips curved into a smile. So quick they were to sing each other’s praises.

“Here, Mr. Marin. Sit.” Lily motioned him to a single wooden chair, a rung missing from its back. “We’ll show you some options, and you can tell us yes or no or maybe.”