She muttered something too low or too quick for him to catch and leaned into the doorway. “I found a bag. This was in it. There were clothes, nice ones. Shoes. Money.” She shrugged. “All that is left are the photos. I am sorry.”

He shook his head. “These are hard times. I do not blame you. Only . . .” He looked up at her again, brows knit. She didn’t have to volunteer that information. But if she was feeling generous, he would push just a bit. “This is actually my brother’s. And I am grateful to you for it. But I wonder—I have been unable to find my passport, and I cannot easily travel without it, to find him again. Did you see this? Or a friend of yours, perhaps? It was in a bag like the one this was in.”

The shake of the woman’s head was quick enough that it announced her certainty, without being so quick that it hinted at deception. “I am sorry. There were a few passports collected from the site, I know, but none for a man your age. And—Russian?”

He nodded. His French might be greatly improved, but he’d never been able to speak it without an accent.

She folded her arms over her stomach. “That is the sort of thing that would have been whispered about, though not exactly valued. Not to insult you, but no one around here would be interested in running away to Russia just now. And I saw no other bag like the one this was in.”

His fingers tightened around the leather binding of the album. He would be happy to return. As soon as he could. “I assure you, I am not insulted.” He gave her another smile, though this one was sure to look sorrowful around the edges. “Well, this is more than I had really hoped to find. I thank you, madame, for taking such good care of it. Would that I had something to offer you as a token of my gratitude.”

For the first time, her lips quirked up. “That money helped feed my children through the last of winter. That is token enough.”

He inclined his head, thanked her again, and then moved off, putting his cap back on his head. Someday, no one would have to steal just to feed their children. Not in Russia, at least. They would all be equal, everyone given a fair portion—as soon as they’d wrestled the last of the wealth from the tyrants who had been hoarding it. That was why they’d had to get out of this war. Too many people had already died for it. Too many resources spent. And why? So that Czar Nicholas could keep on squabbling with his cousins. So all the princes and lords could gain new holdings, expand their empires, grow their power.