Chapter Eleven
Five years had passed.
Felix Leafley—though in his heart he was still Faivish Blattner—could never decide if those years had crawled like winter molasses or thundered past like a midsummer storm.
All he knew was that it had been five years without her.
Five years since hurried farewells under Vienna’s heavy skies, since whispered promises made with grief clinging to every word.
Even here, in London’s noise and bustle, Maisie’s absence lived in him like iron chained to his ribs.
He kept his vow—to her, to himself, to every patient—that he would be the best in his craft.
But what was skill worth without her? To go on forever without her love felt like a cruelty he could hardly name.
“I’ve barely enough gold for a week’s work,” Felix muttered, pushing open the familiar door of his supplier’s shop—his friends.
35 Regent Street
Klonimus it had only taught him how to carry it. Each day without Maisie felt stolen, as if fate itself were mocking him.
Raphi leaned forward, tapping the half-finished candlestick in Felix’s hand. “So—are we finishing this? Or are you polishing wire to some great philosophical end?”
Felix huffed a laugh and set the pliers down. The lamplight trembled across the workbench, shadowing their hands. Upstairs, the smell of brisket thickened, rich and insistent.
“You should go,” Felix said, his tone lighter than he felt. “Be with your Laila and little Joseph. It’ll be his bedtime soon.”
Raphi’s grin was easy and affectionate. “Joseph? As if he sleeps before nine. I’ll stay as long as you need and then I’ll go and read him his favorite story, David and Goliath.
There’s more gold to press.” He picked up the hammer again, his movements sure and unhurried.
“Besides, Mama will save us both plates. She always does.”
Felix looked up. The corner of his mouth lifted, small but real. “Brooding as always,” he said.
And Raphi only smiled wider, as if he knew exactly which ghost still sat at Felix’s shoulder, and was determined not to leave him to it.
Raphi raised an eyebrow in mock challenge and brought the hammer down with practiced precision, flattening the next piece of gold wire into a bright, shimmering ribbon. The soft thud, steady and hypnotic, reverberated through the room before he handed the piece to Felix.
Felix fed it into the press, carefully rolling it back and forth.
The resulting sheet grew thinner with each pass, until it was delicate enough to catch even the faintest glimmer of light.
He cut the sheet into even squares, then rolled one between his fingers.
The gold foil crinkled delicately while he shaped the ball between his fingertips.
He pressed the mallet harder than he meant to. Gold was forgiving. People were not. Vienna had taught him that—taught him what it meant to watch someone pay for your mistakes.
“I’ll never understand how this becomes so compact with just a mallet,” Raphi remarked, handing over the next flattened piece.
“That’s what makes gold special and superior to all other metals.
” Felix didn’t look up, his fingers deft as he formed another ball for the wooden case he had carefully sectioned into compartments.
It was nearly half-full now, the precise organization of variously sized gold balls a small triumph in itself.
He found satisfaction in the systematic nature of the work.
“I clean the cavity,” he explained, his tone natural, “until only the hard enamel creates an edge. Then I push the gold balls in and compress them with pressure. That’s why I have a tiny mallet. ”
“And it doesn’t hurt the patients?” Raphi’s gaze narrowed with genuine curiosity.
Felix paused, glancing at him. “You’ve never had a cavity, have you?”
“No. Have you?”
Felix gave a shrug. “No—not yet.”
“Then how do you know it doesn’t hurt?” Raphi pressed on, his tone teasing but underpinned with true interest.
“Because I know it would hurt far more if the cavities reached deeper than the hard enamel,” Felix replied pointedly, flattening another foil. His next words came slower, quieter. “Once it gets to the pulp, the pain can be excruciating.”
Another ball rolled into place within the case. Good. A week’s worth of material—for patients who depended on him to preserve their teeth against a lifetime of discomfort, or worse. Felix exhaled, the stakes always heavy on his shoulders, a weight he chose willingly.