Chapter One
University of Vienna—Faculty of Dental Medicine
By Order of the Rector
The first-named, by virtue of his achievement, is appointed apprentice to Professor Ephraim Morgenschein.
Faivish read the list twice, though once was enough. Every other name wore its polite little Herr, neat as epaulets. His name stood bare—just Faivish Blattner, sitting above three aristocrats like an ink blot no one wanted on the parchment.
The corridor behind him swelled with boots and voices, laughter echoing sharp as the stone beneath his feet.
A shove caught his shoulder, jolting him forward.
“You think you belong there?” Karl-Heinz von Altenburg’s voice was smooth as cream, smug as ever. “That place is mine. The only reason your name sits at the top is because Morgenschein is a Jew like you. Morning shine—what sort of name is that? The sun shines, not mornings.”
The cluster behind him laughed, brittle as glass.
Faivish’s fists curled. Every instinct urged him to answer. But he lifted his chin instead, walked on. Give them nothing. Let them choke on silence.
At the far end of the corridor, Alfie Collins leaned against the wall, arms folded.
“Well?” Alfie asked.
Faivish allowed himself a small smile. “Yes. First. I’ll be Professor Morgenschein’s apprentice.”
“I knew it.” Alfie clapped his shoulder. “Knew you’d be the best.”
Faivish nodded, though the omission on the parchment burned hotter than the praise. Being first always came with a price—and enemies.
Alfie had been his roommate since their first term, studying alchemy and chemistry while dreaming of his own apothecary.
Faivish’s dream was different, but this paper tucked in his pocket carried him closer—not only to becoming a dentist worthy of the professor he admired, but to working under the same roof as the professor’s daughter. Maisie Morgenschein.
The girl he’d been watching like a star he couldn’t reach.
“So you’ll be in the practice?” Alfie asked as they stepped into the cold air. Their breath visible in the corridor.
“Yes,” Faivish said. One syllable, but it held everything.
Alfie grinned, too knowingly. “She’ll be there, then. Not just across a hall—you’ll actually have to speak to her.”
“I know.” Maisie.
He’d glimpsed her at the university, escorting her father, just enough to lose his breath each time. But the memory that haunted him wasn’t her face—it was her voice. That day at the practice when he’d borrowed Morgenschein’s kiln, he’d heard her humming Tumbalalaika from the back rooms.
The Yiddish melody had slipped under his skin, impossible to forget, just like her.
Topping his class had been his ambition for four years. But working beside her? That felt like standing on top of the world.
*
The handheld mirror on the brass tray caught the light and flared like a small sun.
Maisie rubbed at it until her own face swam in the steel—ghostly, stretched.
She smoothed her apron after, forcing her restless hands to be still.
Her mother had stood here once, polishing these same tools before Father’s most important patients.
That was seven years ago. Illness had carried her off, leaving Maisie with a three-year-old sister and the certainty that she could never again be only a girl. Not after that.
The muffled rumble of wheels outside drifted in through the shutters. The air carried the clean, sharp bite of clove oil from the practice below.
Then came footsteps. Heavier than Father’s. Slower, deliberate. And a voice—a ripple of English vowels through the doorway.
The Marquess of Stonebridge.
One of Father’s most loyal patients. An exiled English nobleman whose reserve melted only when he spoke of his boy back in England. Maisie was used to his polite nods when she appeared with towels or filled the basin. But today his voice carried a different weight.
“…my wife has taken a turn for the worse,” he said. “When she’s gone, our little John will be all I have left. And if something happens to me, my sister is nearly an invalid. She cannot raise a boy and protect the marquisate till John’s of age.”
Father’s reply was gentle, but the edge in it was firm. “Bring him here. Vienna has every advantage—art, culture, medicine at the forefront of Europe.”
“Medicine, yes, but it is as riddled with politics as the stage,” the Marquess returned with a wry twist of the mouth. “Still… without you, Morgenschein, I might not have a single tooth left.”
Maisie stepped forward, balancing a folded towel and a pitcher. The Marquess’s eyes flicked to her—measuring, considering. Then he lowered himself into the chair.
“If society allowed it,” he said suddenly, “I’d trust a capable woman like your daughter to watch over John.”
The words hit strangely. Impossible, of course. Her place was here, not in some English estate. Yet the thought lodged, faint as a blur.
He settled back. “So, with this new technique, you can restore a smile?”
Father’s pride warmed his tone. “Yes. The latest method. Not yet released for general use.” But Maisie saw it then—the faint tremor in his hand as he gestured toward the tray.
Before she could think about it, a knock sounded.
“That will be my new apprentice,” Father said, and pride softened his whole face. “First in his class every year since he enrolled—Faivish Blattner.”
Maisie turned. And nearly lost her grip on the pitcher.
The student was not what she had pictured.
His dark hair looked wind-tossed, a sun-touched strand falling over his brow.
His eyes—brown, clear, alive with intelligence.
His coat could not disguise the breadth of his shoulders or the easy strength in his stride.
She had imagined nimble, scholarly hands.
Instead, they were broad, veins visible beneath smooth, tanned skin.
He bowed to the Marquess, then looked at Father with a smile. Warm. Unassuming. Admiring in a way that sent a strange flutter through her chest.
Rolling up his sleeves, he made his way to the basin. Water splashed, mingling with the bite of clove oil. His movements were deliberate, almost meditative, as though the work began before he even touched the tools.
He let his gaze drift over the tray. Did he nod to her?
The mirror caught the light again in his hand. He tested the mallet and weighed it. Even the air around him seemed charged with purpose.
Father began to explain, gesturing, and again—the tremor.
Maisie’s breath caught. She had noticed it before, that tiny quiver. But never like this. The ache of it pressed into her chest. For a heartbeat, she forgot anyone else was in the room—until Faivish’s gaze met hers.
He spoke gently. “If I may, Professor.” He lifted the plaster model for the Marquess to see. “Porcelain fused over gold caps, cemented in place. We can halt decay without extraction. Your teeth, restored—and lasting a lifetime.”
“You made these for me?”
“Yes,” Faivish said.
“Under my supervision,” Father added quickly. Pride sharpened his voice. “With the newest techniques at the university.”
Maisie found herself watching Faivish’s hands again. Deft. Steady. Gentle.
The hour slid past in the soft hum of steel and water, the rise and fall of low voices. Even the Marquess’s stiff frame eased under Faivish’s careful touch. Grateful—that was the word. He looked almost grateful.
Maisie worked quietly, clearing the tray, replacing towels. And when she stepped back into the hall for fresh supplies, she caught herself humming—Tumbalalaika. A tune her mother had once filled this house with.
When she returned, Faivish’s eyes lifted. A faint smile touched them. “I know that song,” he murmured, just for her. “But never quite like that.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. She set down the towels, busying her hands. Their rhythm fell in step again—she anticipated his reach, he nodded in wordless thanks—the scrape of metal, the clink of porcelain, the quiet cadence of doctor and nurse.
She told herself it was only efficiency.
But when his fingers brushed hers, steadying the plaster model as she set it down after the last crown was fixed, she felt it.
That spark and danger. And beneath the scent of clove oil and the rustling of cloth, the risk echoed like a shadow: sometimes, the impossible was exactly what the heart began to want.