“Oh, I didn’t doubt you were sketching him. I was pointing out that there’s meaning to be found in the fact that you’re sketching him. Just look at this.” She pointed at the page where Zivon stood in rough outlines, three-quarters of his figure filling the white space.

“What about it?” Surely nothing had worked its way into the picture that she hadn’t known she was putting in. And surely—surely—it wasn’t some key to understanding her own feelings for the man.

Ivy bumped Lily’s shoulder now. “He intrigues you. How many photographs have you taken of him?”

“A . . . few.” Her brows drew together. She took a few every time they were together. Not exactly abnormal for her. Except, now that she thought about it, she hadn’t taken quite so many of Clarke and Ivy together, though they did make the sweetest picture as they walked in the park. But, while charming, Ivy and Clarke weren’t . . . well, as Ivy put it, intriguing.

Ivy lifted her brows. “So if I were to go into your workroom and look through your box of photos, I would see . . . ?”

Lily lifted her chin. “As I said. A few.” Dozen.

Her sister laughed. “And you’re sketching him. You never sketch people.”

“That is not true!” In proof, she flipped back through the pages. Past Zivon, past the birds in the park, past Mama’s lazy pug who never stirred from his rug when he could help it, past the last iteration of the perfect wedding dress. Eventually she landed on one of their four-year-old cousin. “There. See?”

“Mm-hmm. I certainly do.” With a look of supreme indulgence, Ivy made a show of turning to the wedding gown again. “All right, I’ll relent for now. But I maintain that your heart knows something your mind hasn’t caught on to yet. And your camera tells the tale.”

Oh heavens. She certainly hoped not. Lily sighed and tapped a finger to the page. “Gowns.”

She needed a while to think of something less terrifying than the prospect of having fallen for a man who could well be an enemy.

11

SATURDAY, 20 APRIL 1918

Evgeni knocked on yet another door, fixed his lips in yet another smile. He’d lost track at this point of how many French farmhouses he’d visited over the last few weeks, in search of the belongings that had “mysteriously” vanished from the wreck site before officials could take them anywhere to be claimed by survivors.

Blighted scavengers. Not that he didn’t understand. In German-occupied France, one had to take whatever one could find, borrow, or steal. But he wasn’t searching for Zivon’s ruby ring. Just their personal items.

The door swung open, and a frazzled-looking woman who didn’t look more than twenty-five filled the space. Well, along with the toddler on her hip and an older boy half hidden behind her skirts.