Iris stopped in the middle of the path and held her hand up against the sun, which had broken between a pair of clouds to illuminate the world. Through her fingers, she spied some tiny movement to her left and turned her head. Along the edge of the meadow, on the other side of the wooden fence, a gray horse galloped hard, urged on by a taut man in tweeds and tall shining boots and no hat. The sun flashed on his silver hair. Iris made herself small in the grass. She watched the horse pound toward the fence, which must have been four feet high at least, and soar over it in a neat, perfect arc. They galloped on toward the cliffs. A foreboding took hold of Iris—the sea—something terrible! She held her breath and marveled at the beauty of the animal, his giant stride, the expert stillness of the man riding him. Her lungs almost burst with fear—with awe—no, don’t!—turn, for God’s sake!—

The horse bent around the curve in the cliff path, the way you might swing your body around a pole. The pair of them—silver horse, silver man—tore away into the sunshine.

Iris wanted to call after him. She wanted to shout My husband is a traitor, your trusted Fischer is a traitor, Burgess too, maybe Davenport, who knows.

But she didn’t. Her husband might betray secrets, but loyalty was the stuff of Iris’s bones.

Ruth

JULY 1952

Moscow

When I open my eyes, the curtains stand open to a bright northern summer morning, and the chaise longue is so immaculate, you’d never guess a two-hundred-pound man slept upon its cushions. The other thing immaculate is Fox himself. He’s bathed and shaved and stands now in his American sport coat and slacks as bright as a new damn penny. Even his breath is sweet, though his voice is a little too stiff, in my opinion.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart. Car arrives in half an hour.”

“Go to hell,” I mutter and spring out of bed.

Thirty-three minutes later, he ushers me into the back seat of the same car that drove us here from the airport the previous evening. I can’t say I shine, as instructed, but at least the hurry and bother have distracted me from my anxiety. I cross one leg over the other and watch the hotel spurt away. Fox, ever thorough, riled up the sheets and punched the pillows before we left, to make it look like a newlywed couple had spent the night in them, but a knot tightens around my stomach anyway. I hate the idea of some chambermaid reporting back on our sheets and the cleanliness of the bathroom. I hate the way you can never be alone.

I hate that this reunion with my sister is as unnatural as my union with Fox, and it means about as much.