Chapter Fourteen
Late morning sunlight poured through the tall windows, spilling across the polished wood floor and catching on the brass fittings of the chair.
Felix adjusted the mouth mirror one last time, tilting it until the light slid exactly where he wanted it.
Shadows could hide infection. Shadows could ruin trust.
He stepped back, letting his gaze take in the room as a patient might: the linen drape smoothed crisp and neat, a roll at the headrest laced with lavender and chamomile.
Not ornament—defense. Frightened children breathed easier when the air carried something soft.
On the tray beside it waited clove oil in a stoppered vial, a scent sharp as memory, and his favorite burnisher gleamed like a promise.
The gold pellets lay in their case, each one shaped by his own hand the night before.
Tiny spheres of permanence. Gold yielded where it must and held where it mattered. If only hearts could do the same.
The hallway gave a faint groan, and he looked up.
“Still fighting with the light, Felix?” Alfie’s voice came before he did, warm and teasing, like friendship carried on creaking boards.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, a satchel slung across his shoulder, his grin boyish despite the faint scar on his cheek. “I brought more calendula salve.”
Felix let the corner of his mouth lift. “You know I keep it ready.”
“And yet you’d have set the room three times over if I’d let you,” Alfie said, stepping in, his apothecary’s bag thumping against the table. “I swear, you’ve been polishing since breakfast.”
“Precision matters,” Felix replied, but the cloth was already in his hand, sweeping over the tray again though it needed no more.
Alfie folded his arms, watching him with the patience of someone long used to this ritual. “It’s not every day the Crown Jewelers send word. You could almost fool me into thinking you’re nervous.”
Felix dipped his chin, though he didn’t quite deny it. “Rachel Pearler wrote herself. Said the boy was delicate. Said his guardian might be his aunt. That was all.”
Alfie’s brow rose. “Rachel Pearler doesn’t write letters for trifles. Her firm cuts the stones that princes wear on their fingers. If she says ‘delicate,’ she means the ton is already sniffing around.”
Felix’s gaze fell back to the tools, to the glinting gold. “Delicate is a polite word. Children like that aren’t left alone—they’re turned into currency. She didn’t say who’s circling.”
Alfie’s grin slipped. His voice dropped low. “List?”
The name burned in the air like a hot iron.
Felix’s jaw worked until it hurt. “Who else? He’s sniffing at Parliament again.
Whispering that foreign heirs don’t belong, that Jewish guardians can’t be trusted.
A boy like this—alone—” His fingers closed hard around the case of gold pellets, as though he might crush the threat with his hand. “He’d be easy prey.”
Alfie’s silence was answer enough.
Alfie let the words hang a moment, then he let out a breath that could scatter the heaviness with it.
“You’ll do well. You always do. That’s why people trust you.
Still—it also means the boy’s terrified, and no one else has the patience to see him through.
” He set a small box on the desk. “New salts. Lemon, faint enough not to fight the lavender.”
“Thank you,” Felix murmured, taking the box and setting it neatly aside. “If the air smells safe, maybe he won’t dread the clove so much.”
Alfie watched him for a beat, lips twitching. “You’re preparing like he’s the Prince Regent himself.”
Felix shook his head. “He’s only thirteen. And he’s lost both parents. That’s enough reason to give him every dignity I can.”
Alfie’s grin softened into something quieter. “You’ve too much kindness in you. I hope the world gives you a fraction of it back. You patch people up with gold as if you can mend the whole world.”
Felix turned a small pellet in his fingers, letting it catch the light before placing it back in the row. “Gold doesn’t ask questions. It just fills the cracks and holds them together. If only more men were made of it.”
Alfie chuckled. “Always the philosopher.”
The clock ticked, its steady beat tightening the room. Felix glanced at it. “They’ll be here soon.”
Alfie swung his satchel back over his shoulder, pausing at the door. “Don’t forget to charge them properly. Just because half of Mayfair’s servants get free fillings from you doesn’t mean the practice can live on goodwill.”
“I don’t charge for easing pain.”
“You should.”
Felix’s eyes lifted, calm but firm. “I charge the ones who can afford not to feel it.”
Alfie shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Noble man. I’ll be at the dispensary if you need me. And don’t let the boy bite you.”
Felix almost smiled. “He won’t.”
When the door clicked shut, the room seemed to exhale. Felix adjusted the neck roll one final time, his hand lingering there before he drew it back. Soon a boy would sit in that chair—heart heavy, mouth aching—and for a little while, Felix could make one small corner of his life better.
He didn’t know what face would meet him when the door opened, but he already knew it wouldn’t matter. Not to the boy. Not to the work. And not to the ghost of a woman who had once steadied the lamp for him, her hand warm on his shoulder. A touch he still carried, five years on.
That was enough.
*
Just as the carriage jolted over the stones of Harley Street, Maisie glanced at the boy opposite her. John sat very straight for his age, though the swing of his small boots against the floor betrayed him. Deena’s soft humming drifted up, threading through the clatter of hooves.
John tipped his head, studying her with mild suspicion. “What is that tune you’re always humming?”
Deena only shrugged, her gaze fixed on the window. “Just a song Father used to sing to me at bedtime.”
Maisie looked up from the gloves in her lap. Her voice softened before she could stop it. “Not only bedtime, Deena. He sang it with Mother for you, too, when you were too little to remember.”
The carriage seemed to quiet around them, as though even the horses slowed to listen.
Maisie’s throat tightened—she hadn’t meant to let it slip, hadn’t meant to open that door.
The memory of those voices—her parents, twined together—rose inside her, both balm and blade.
She forced her gaze back to her gloves, steadying her hands for Deena’s sake.
Deena’s reflection blurred in the glass. Her lips pressed together, as though holding the tune inside. Maisie longed to reach over, smooth her sister’s hair the way their mother once had. Instead, she allowed the silence to linger, anchoring them to shared memories of the dear past.
When the wheels slowed to a halt, Maisie lifted her chin.
She smoothed the blue wool of her pelisse across her lap, armor for the day ahead.
Deena’s humming had returned, quieter now, the old Viennese lullaby rising and falling without words.
Maisie closed her eyes briefly, letting the sound settle around them like candlelight.
The ache in her heart sharpened, but she didn’t want to worry her sister and gave a warm smile.
Children carried the past forward—not as chains, but as echoes. That was why she must keep them safe.
John shifted, peering out at the house before them. His careful posture melted a little, replaced by the plain worry of a boy about to sit in a dentist’s chair.
“Will it hurt terribly?” His voice was small, but steady.
Maisie leaned forward, her tone calm, warm. “Dentists trusted by the Crown Jeweler are the best in London. Whatever you feel, it will pass quickly. If we leave it, though, the pain will grow worse—especially once you’re at Eton and won’t have me to give you cloves.”
He considered this like an adult weighing testimony, his brow furrowed. After a moment, he gave a small, solemn nod. “If you think so.”
“I know so.” Maisie reached across, touching his wrist lightly. “Our father was a dentist. He treated your father for many years. You’ll be well looked after., Rachel promised this one’s the best.”
The boy blinked, surprise softening the edge of his fear. “I didn’t know my father was your father’s patient, I thought he was only his friend.”
Maisie held his gaze, her hand warm over his.
“Now you do.” She gave a wistful smile. “You weren’t there.
You were always in England.” Maisie took a careful breath, hoping she hadn’t unsettled him.
She’d seen many children freeze in fear at the sight of the chair.
“And your father was always grateful for the gold that kept his teeth from hurting.”
“It will look like I ate a girl’s necklace.” He grimaced. “It will show when I laugh. What will the other boys at Eton say?”
“That you’re precious. Not everyone can afford proper gold fillings. It shows you come from refined stock and shouldn’t be trifled with.”
“I shall command respect then?”
“As marquess, you’ll know just what to say—if you listen to your heart.
” She reached out, steadying the fall of his cravat with a sisterly care that faltered at the edges of something deeper.
She was not his mother; she could never be.
And yet here she was, filling a silence that should have been hers to speak into.
“You are braver than you think, John. Whatever they see in your mouth, let it stand as proof of courage—of facing what’s imperfect, and making it your strength. ”
“How am I doing it?”
“You’re taking something that causes you pain and making it strong again.” Maisie gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
“You make it sound like the dentist will build a dam in his mouth,” Deena said.
I hope not.
“How do you know this dentist is as good as your father was?” the boy asked again. “Are you not coming inside to meet him?”
Maisie glanced out the window at the elegant row of buildings. The door had a fanlight; the brick facade was stately and symmetrical, with wrought iron railings and high windows. Just as Rachel had described—a hub of refined expertise. I need to find my Faivish. He’s somewhere in the world…
“You don’t need me. The doctors here have a Royal Warrant.
There’s no one better in England.” Maisie glanced again at the polished brass plate by the door—her pulse stuttered.
Something about the serif of the lettering, the precise spacing, the faint lavender wafting from within…
A memory stirred. A trick of hope, perhaps.
She looked away quickly lest her vulnerable heart let the tears come again in front of the children. Not this time.
John seemed more settled. When Deena slipped from the coach to guide him inside, he turned back. “So you’re truly not coming with us?” he asked, his small hand on the doorframe.
Maisie shook her head with a regretful but firm smile. “Not today. I have another matter—one that cannot wait. You’ll be in the best hands with Deena. She can speak on my behalf.”
At the step, Deena turned, her bonnet shadowing little of her face.
For a fleeting moment, Maisie caught her breath.
Deena looked so composed, so English, her gown fitted to perfection and her bearing already that of a young lady.
It was hard to reconcile this careful companion with the child who once ran wild through the Vienna streets with baskets of apples and berries, hair streaming loose.
A pang of loss tugged at her, bittersweet and sudden.
“I hope you find him,” Deena said softly, her voice steady with more understanding than her years should hold.
Maisie’s hand tightened imperceptibly on her skirts. Her lips lifted in a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you, Deena,” she said quietly.
The moment stretched between them until Deena gave a nod and extended her hand to the boy. She led him away while Maisie leaned back against the seat, her fingers tracing the window frame.
Outside, London moved as it always did—but Maisie didn’t seem to play any part of it. Not without him.
Without Faivish, time ticked forward, but life itself remained still.
She waited until they had gone inside, then tapped the roof for the driver. As the carriage pulled away, the tune Deena had hummed—Tumbalalaika—rose again, softly, from Maisie’s lips.
A single note, then another—no words, only the song. Like a fragment of a life that had once been hers.
The pain in her soul flared sharp and hot, but she let it burn through, steadying her chin as she breathed into the rhythm of the wheels: “Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika.”
Vienna lay far behind her, but Faivish’s smile still glowed in memory—bright, clever, unforgettable.
She did not look back. She did not falter.
She sang not to soothe, but to steel herself. A vow carried on melody.
And she would keep singing until she found the man who could mend what had broken in her—just as he had once mended others.