“Bonjour.” His French, at least, had improved with these visits. Matushka would be proud. He directed his attention fully onto the toddler, a little girl, probably three or four. “You must be the lady of the house.”

The girl giggled and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. The woman released a breath that sounded a little bit amused, anyway. “Can I help you, monsieur?”

“I hope so.” He had his hat clasped in his hands and made it a point not to crowd her. Much like he’d made it a point to wear the shabbier of his shirts. “Two months ago, I was involved in a train accident about a mile from here. It has taken me many weeks to recover and now . . . well, to be perfectly honest, I’m hoping someone in the area came across a few of my personal items. I had no money.” Not true, but he knew better than to hope any of that would be returned. “But I was hoping to reclaim my photographs. They are all I have left of my family. Have you, by chance, picked up anything blowing about the countryside?”

“Photographs, you say?” She eased back a step, though it looked more like uncertainty than an invitation. “I may have found a few, though I don’t recall when it was. We . . . we make a habit of picking up any papers we find blowing about.”

“As any good steward of the land would do.” He inclined his head, having discovered many knocks ago that he gained far more knowledge through this humble show than by simply stating he was looking for his belongings and asking if anyone had stolen them.

No one wanted to admit to being a scavenger. But they all were. They couldn’t afford not to be.

The woman pursed her lips, looked over her shoulder at the boy, and then gripped the door. “Would you wait here for one moment? I will bring out what I found.”

“Of course. Merci beaucoup.” He backed up and turned half away, so that she wouldn’t feel he thought her rude when she shut the door on him.

His fingers toyed with the frayed edge of his cap. He knew better than to get his hopes up. He’d been shown dozens of photographs over the last fortnight. No one cared enough about such frivolity to hide them from him. But none had been his. He’d seen not so much as a thread of anything in his bag. The clothes he expected had been worn already, the money used or stowed away, the food long ago put into empty bellies.

But all that could be replaced. The photograph the Prussian had taken could not.