She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small gold coin with a pistol slug smashed into the middle. “My father’s. He was shot while fighting in the Balkans. This kopek saved his life. I’ve kept it sewn in my clothes all this time.” Taking his hand, she placed it in his palm and wrapped his fingers around it. “He carried it everywhere he went as a talisman. May it bring you safely home as well.”
Wynn leaned forward to kiss her, then stopped and pulled back. “Goodbye, Svetlana.”
Heart heavy for more reasons than he cared to count, Wynn strode down the gangway. Away from her, away from the memories of home, and toward the bleakness stretching before him.
“Wynn! Wait.” Svetlana hurried toward him and kissed his cheek. “May God bless you.”
Then she was gone. A black smudge standing at the rail of the ship as it grew smaller and smaller on the choppy waves of the Channel. All that remained was the warmth of her lips on his cheek, the weight of the coin in his hand, and an unbearable loneliness.
* * *
The townhouse was a shell of a ghost that haunted Wynn with memories at every turn. Svetlana’s skirt rustling down the stairs. A wedding feast scattered across the dining table. His mother and father dancing in the sitting room when they would come to Paris in the autumn. Hugh sitting with a stack of books next to the fire. Bittersweet images seared into Wynn’s brain. His brother should be here; they should be toasting together the end of the war and taking on the world as only brothers can. Anything Wynn did now would only be half a success.
A month ago he put his bride on a ship and sent her off to the wilds of Scotland while he stayed behind to wrestle with his grief. He’d thrown himself with abandon into the saving work of surgery. As if by piecing together broken and splintered bodies he could piece himself back together.
He grabbed the last of his papers from the study and shoved them into his suitcase. That was the last of it. He could leave these claustrophobic walls and not come back until the ghosts were gone. If they ever were. As he stepped outside, a chill frosted his face. The war had ended by Christmas, but its devastation lingered like gangrene in the open wounds of the city. Hospitals overflowed with patients, the walking wounded shuffled along the streets, and citizens struggled to rebuild their lives. Hardly anyone noticed it was Christmas Eve.
Fitting the key into the door, Wynn locked it. The streetlights flickered on behind him. His heart rate spiked. No. It was all right now. German night devils didn’t fly anymore. The City of Light could shine once more. He leaned down to grab his suitcase and saw it. Scratched into the door was a star with red streaking down it. Not blood, he would know that in an instant, but red paint. Fresh. He whipped around and scanned up and down the street. Two men dressed all in black with hats pulled low over their faces watched him from a darkened doorway.
Keeping his eyes on them, Wynn started down the steps. The mystery men ground out their cigarettes and followed. Wynn forced his pace to remain even but gripped his suitcase tighter. It was heavy enough to use in a pinch. Mayhap it was time to start carrying a blade more damaging than a scalpel. He crossed the street. The footsteps followed. There was only one explanation to why he was being tailed.
Sheremetev. The debt was paid—nearly twice the amount actually owed. All that was left to be angry about was Svetlana. Was this the man’s recourse when denied what he thought was his? Brute intimidation?
The Russian had chosen the wrong man if he thought that would work.
Wynn hurried across a busy intersection and looked back, readying himself for confrontation. Nothing but ordinary people going about their business. Senses on full alert, he hailed a passing taxi and climbed inside.
“Hospital du Sacré-Coeur,
The auto lurched into gear, throwing Wynn back against the seat as they dodged around a horse-drawn carriage. There on the street corner were the two men watching him from under the shadows of their hats as he passed. By the time he arrived at hospital, his blood pressure was sky high. It took several minutes before the familiar scent of antiseptic and bleached linen took hold and provided its comforting effect. As difficult as the task had been, he was relieved he’d sent Svetlana away when he did. Now he had only himself to worry about.
“Something wrong?”
Wynn jerked from his reverie. “No.”
Gerard frowned at the clipboard in Wynn’s hand. “Then why are you reading that upside down?”