“Well, they have you for a mother, the lucky tramps.” Ruth shades her eyes and nods to the cottage. “And that terrific Beauchamp of yours. Arriving any minute to start up a round of cricket or something, I’ll bet. They’ll be fine. The question is you. Will you be fine, Iris Macallister?”

Iris studies the sketchbook in her lap. The sailboat is not quite right. It’s supposed to be a surprise for Philip, and also a little joke between them—how he loves that schooner more than he loves her. But Iris isn’t a born sailor. She hates the sea. How can you draw a sailboat if you don’t have some intuitive grasp of the physics of sailing? Anyway, sailboats remind her of that disastrous expedition to the Isle of Wight. Sasha, drunk and angry. She had almost forgotten how terrible he used to be, because he became a different man in Moscow. He became this sober, loving husband and father, and all along Iris had betrayed him—coldly, without mercy—photographing his papers and harvesting his memory and taking his children out for walks in the park, during which she would drop her bundles of photographs and coded reports into a hollow tree, say, or that ice cream vendor in Gorky Park. Then, after Burgess tipped her off—never realizing he was tipping her off, poor old thing—the most coldhearted manipulation of all.

Even now, when she thinks of that terrifying year—boxed in, trapped, exposure possible any minute—that final cache of vital information lying hidden in the apartment, month after month—unable to communicate to Fox and Philip except by their old, prearranged signals—her audacious plan, Sasha’s unknowing cooperation—Gregory growing at last in her womb, thank God, praying she wouldn’t miscarry, praying they wouldn’t catch her first—guilt, worry, desperation—she has to shake herself to understand she’s still alive. The children are alive. She has won her terrible gamble. She has this beautiful new baby, and she has Philip, and Ruth.

And Sasha has nothing.

“We have to assume he’s alive,” Iris says. “One of the labor camps, maybe.”

Ruth drops to the grass next to her and pulls the sketchbook away. “Don’t you feel guilty for a minute. Not a single goddamn second. He brought it on himself, and even if he did the right thing in the end—well, he’s only bought salvation for his own soul, maybe. It’s not nearly enough to make up for what he’s done to you. And the kids.”

“I know all that. You don’t need to worry about me. It’s just sorrow, that’s all.”

“You have room in your heart for that?”

“He’s their father.”