“Silent and immortal,” Yelena said. “I like that.”
“So do I,” said Nina and reached out to tug Yelena’s mouth to hers again. Not surprising her this time, moving slow to give her a chance to tug away—please don’t tug away—and she didn’t. Her hands cupped Nina’s face, her lips hungry and shy. Nina felt the swoop in her stomach that she always felt when she began spiraling nose-first into a stall. The weightless delirium of falling.
“I haven’t—” Yelena said uncertainly, lips still brushing Nina’s, her fingers wound tight through Nina’s hair. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the best flier I’ve ever seen,” Nina said. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in the air as you.”
“Girls don’t—aren’t supposed to—”
“I don’t care about aren’t supposed to,” Nina said roughly, sliding off the wing to pull her pilot down to the ground. The shadow under the Rusalka’s wing was dark as a lake, the crushed grass sweet and soft. Fumbling around overalls—was anything less designed for lovemaking than overalls? Nina had enough coherence left to wonder. Everything felt unfamiliar, intoxicating. Yelena had such smooth skin, an endlessly curving spine like a string of pearls, what seemed like a kilometer of ivory-pale waist. It should have been awkward, a dance they didn’t know, but it wasn’t at all. They were a perfect pair in the sky, moving like one—they could move like one down here on the ground, with the protective shadow of the camouflaged U-2 hiding them from sight, and the distant noise of ground fire and antiaircraft guns hiding any stifled, curlew-soft sounds of pleasure. My pilot, Nina thought, her hand stroking over Yelena’s hip. Mine.
“Dawn,” Yelena whispered eventually. “We should get back.”
“Don’t want to.” Nina yawned against Yelena’s arm.
“We have to, rabbit.” Kissing Nina’s temple. “Tonight we fly.”
Nina opened her eyes to the pinkness at the east. She already wanted stars again, wanted darkness, wanted night. Wanted the night to wrap up the three of them, herself and Yelena and the Rusalka, and send them to do what they’d been born to do. Nina sat up, feeling her lips curl in a smile. “I can’t wait.”
Chapter 19
Jordan
Thanksgiving 1946
Boston
Jordan sat in the red glow of the safelight, flipping the Leica’s shutter back and forth. Even the darkroom smelled of burned turkey. I’m not crying, she told herself. But her breath hitched from time to time, and even the familiar embrace of the darkroom was no comfort. Perhaps upstairs Anneliese was sobbing and Jordan’s father was consoling her and Ruth was wondering why her very first Thanksgiving was not happening, after all. And at some point Dan McBride would come down here and say—
Jordan flinched. The crumpled look on Anneliese’s face, the destroyed hunch in her shoulders as she fled the dining room . . .
I was right. So why do I feel I got it all wrong? Jordan’s thoughts flickered back to the photographs, the Iron Cross, Anneliese’s dead father and his tattoo and the incriminating date, then she caught herself looking back at the image of Anneliese fleeing the dining room, studying it clinically, for signs of lying. Of putting on an act. A bone-deep wince followed: Haven’t you done enough?
Round and round. Photographs and so-called proof and a ruined holiday. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was no longer sure of the case she’d put together. No longer sure of anything at all.
Finally it came—the sound of the darkroom door opening. A light switch flicked, the red glow of the safelight drowned in the harsh glare of white overhead bulbs, and then there was her dad, coming down the steps. Jordan made herself face him, putting the Leica aside. She met his gaze, knowing her face was already twisting up, but she couldn’t stop it. He didn’t look angry. She might have braced herself against anger. He looked exhausted, sad, disappointed. A look that made her shrivel inside, because she’d rather die than disappoint her father.
“Anna’s finally sleeping,” he began. “I’ve scraped together some dinner for Ruth. Do you want any?”
“No.” Jordan’s stomach was roiling so hard, she didn’t think she’d ever eat again.
“I don’t know what to say.” He sounded so weary, so defeated. “I don’t know how to—fix this. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more about Anna, that she’d changed her name. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault. She’s the one who lied, Dad,” Jordan managed to say. “To you, and to me. Even if everything she said was true about