He turned onto the familiar path that wove along the Serpentine. He’d gone four times already to the embassy, as Filiminov, to check in. While there, he’d paid close attention to the layout of the offices, where each secretary and assistant went, what they were carrying. He’d tried each time to make friends, gain trust.

But never had he felt secure enough to either sneak toward their telegraph machine or ask a favor of anyone else.

Coward. That’s what Evgeni would have called him. And maybe he was right. Maybe he should take the risk. Ignore all the signals that told him it would be a mistake. Maybe—

Be still, and know that I am God.

Zivon sighed and slipped his hands into his pockets. Maybe that thought wasn’t from God at all. Maybe it was his own cowardly subconscious trying to get him to do nothing instead of something.

But he hadn’t been doing nothing. He’d been sending out a few benign messages to his former colleagues, hoping that someone somewhere was still at work. If so, they would intercept the telegrams. They’d decode them. They’d reply. And then he could ask them if they could obtain a new copy of that lost message.

But he’d had no response. Of course. He’d known it was a long shot. Still, it was possible that one or two had sworn allegiance to the Bolsheviks just to survive. That they were secretly working for the White Army. It was possible.

Just not reality.

A mist too fine to be called rain had been drifting over the city for the last hour; the chaps in the office assured one another that it meant a quiet evening on the aerial front. He would take solace in that, but still he wished for a slice of sunshine to color his upcoming promenade with Lily. Or, failing that, a lovely snow would be good.

His lips curved at what his companions would think of snow in April. It would surely be better than this, though. He never quite knew what to do with these silly mists. They were too light to require an umbrella, yet a fedora and overcoat didn’t keep his face from receiving the wet breeze.

Up ahead, he spotted what his eyes had been seeking—that streak of red-gold that meant Lily. She wore a hat too, one whose brim wasn’t wide enough to help protect her either, but it didn’t quite eclipse her hair.

He’d taken to watching for that hair, even when he shouldn’t be. It’s why he had spotted her no fewer than four times at or near the OB. Curious, that. What was she doing? Meeting her father? Running errands? He didn’t know. And since she’d clearly been trying not to be seen by them last week, he hadn’t brought it up.

But he’d been paying attention.