The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [121]
Stevie understood, but it was different with Henning. They had grown close as friends . . . she was suspicious and he was mysterious . . . it would never work.
‘He’s—’ Stevie struggled to describe Henning. She watched as the cat stretched—more panther now than domestic feline, extending his claws—then leapt to the floor. ‘Well, he’s a bit like Peter really.’
‘A hairless cat?’ Didi and Peter were both looking at her with a degree of scepticism.
‘A gentleman,’ Stevie laughed. ‘Unusual looking, very independent, agile, quite unpredictable, but very kind.’
Didi held an ice-blue shard of tile up to the light. ‘Kindness is a quality most often underrated. I think it is also one of the most important in anyone close to you. Is he in risk as well?’
‘He says he catalogues rare books for museums and libraries, hunts down lost literary treasures and curiosities all over the world.’ Stevie swirled the last of her coffee around the bowl. ‘He ends up in the most unlikely places—Istanbul, Kamchatka, Hyderabad . . .’
Stevie watched the caramel liquid spin. What did she know about Henning?
‘Sounds rather romantic.’
‘Yes,’ Stevie said slowly. ‘But I rather suspect he has something else in his past. He knows too many unlikely people for an academic, and he slips in and out of places like a ghost.’
‘Perhaps he’s a spy.’ Didi’s eyes shone. She had seen her fair share of covert operations in the war. She had been a code breaker and translator for the Allies when she was only nineteen.
Stevie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s too—human. But there’s something there.’
Didi stared at her granddaughter a moment. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘I think there might be.’
Stevie hopped off the stove and went to sit opposite her grandmother. She picked out a teal shard and turned it in her fingers. She knew she couldn’t stay long but Didi and Peter were hard to leave.
‘What would you do, Didi, if you knew something terrible was going to happen?’ Stevie asked quietly. ‘If a girl might be murdered, and you thought you might be able to help, but you were forbidden to even try?’
Didi said nothing, her gaze on the shards, her fingers busy. Then she looked up, her eyes grave. ‘Helping would put you in danger?’
Stevie nodded.
‘In the war, our commanding officer used to say: your first duty is to survive; your second is to do your duty.’
‘David Rice doesn’t see it as my duty to help,’ Stevie said. ‘I do.’
‘Dear David worries about you, always has. He blames himself because he told your parents Algeria was safe. And it was. Until they were killed. He never got over that.’
Didi’s explanation made sense—poor David. Stevie knew from personal experience how heavily the guilt must weigh on him. Protecting Stevie was probably the only way he could find of atoning for his mistake.
‘Stevie, this poor girl won’t be the last one you can help—if you don’t get yourself killed.’ Didi’s blue eyes were dark with worry. ‘Do what you can without unnecessary risk, but don’t be foolish.’
Didi reached over the broken tiles and took her granddaughter’s hand in hers.
An hour later, Stevie was back on the mountain, making her way back to the Suvretta. The visit to Didi had sorted the broken shards in her mind. They fell like this: Stevie was in danger whether she pursued Anya or not; therefore her duty was to save Anya because there was a chance she could and no one else would; she would defy David and hunt the girl.
Halfway down the other side of the mountain, Stevie felt the vibration of her telephone in her pocket. She was expecting Josie’s call.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting you on the ski slopes, Stevie—’ Josie’s sarcasm bit through the phone.
How did she know? Well, that was the thing about Josie . . .
‘Good morning, Josie. How are you?’
‘The questions should really be about you. Rice is in an uproar and no one dares go near him. I’m guessing it has to do with you and this whole Russian debacle. He would never get this upset about anyone else.’
‘Really?’ Stevie flushed.
‘Stevie, I know you’re half