Val turned to kiss him. It was still new and extraordinary for her to be with someone who was interested in her past, who realized it affected who she was in the present. Tony wouldn’t have given a damn. Part of her still felt unworthy of Bill’s love, but she was determined to enjoy it all the same.

She ran her hands over his chest and shoulders, then down his torso. She loved his shape, with the long thighs, the lean waist, the shoulders that her head rested so comfortably against. As they removed each other’s clothes and began to make love, Bess raised her head to watch for a bit, then lay down and went back to sleep on her mat in the corner.

* * *

Later, when they were getting ready for bed, Val ventured a question that had been on her mind since she spoke to Father Methodius.

“I was thinking of writing to that curator in Petrodvorets to tell him what I’ve discovered, but I won’t if you have any objection. I don’t want to jeopardize your parents’ safety.” She turned to watch his expression, wary that it might revive the old argument—still the only one they’d had.

Bill looked her in the eye. “Sweetheart, you do what you want. I’m sorry I made such an issue of things when we were in Leningrad. I was just worried about Mom and Dad. You understood that, didn’t you?”

“Eventually.” She smiled.

“But why do you care what that curator thinks? If you want to make your dad’s story public, we could tell my colleague in New York and let him publish it. Or you could write about it yourself.” He kissed her shoulder. “It could be the first of many publications in your career as a world-class historian.”

Val laughed. “You’re jumping the gun somewhat; I’m only a few months into my degree. But about Stepan—I really warmed to him. I felt as if I knew him. All the other Russians we met seemed authoritarian and cold, but he was familiar, like someone I could be friends with. I suppose his opinion mattered to me.”

“You write to him if you want, darling. It’s entirely your decision.”

He switched off the bedside light and pulled the covers up to her chin, making sure she was snug. Spring was on the way, but it still got chilly in the darkest hours of the night.

Chapter 64

Leningrad, November 1976

STEPAN BROUGHT THE LETTER HOME FROM WORK AND handed it to Maria where she sat at her sewing machine by the window. Mikhail’s teenage daughter had bought some purple velvet in a market and brought it to her babushka, asking her to make a fashionable maxi skirt. The style was similar to skirts she and her sisters wore in the old days, although much more fitting.