Chapter Nineteen
The house was quiet save for the soft tick of the clock on the mantel.
Maisie sat alone at her escritoire, the candle guttering low, wax sliding in uneven ridges.
The shadows didn’t just lean in—they crowded close, nosy things, as if they meant to read along.
Her quill scratched, stuttered, a blot of ink blooming where her hand shook.
Not from weariness. From the weight of words she would never send.
She wrote as though he might still hear her—no, not hear, but feel—the drag of ink, the spill of thought, as if paper could be a bridge. But she did not know where he was. Did not even know if he breathed, or if her letter, should it be found, might betray him.
And still, she wrote. Because silence frightened her more than danger. Because if she stopped, the words would rot inside her, and she would rot with them.
My dearest Faivish,
There are nights I close my eyes and whisper your name into the stillness, as though the darkness itself might carry my words across the miles to you. In my heart, I am already your wife. And yet—I tremble to write such a thing, for I fear I am unworthy of the honor of loving you.
You left to prove your heart was true, and I let you go. Even on the night when we sealed our promises—when I gave you all that I was and all I could ever be—I faltered. I ran. Not from you, never from you, but from a world that would not let me keep what was mine.
What if you believe I did not keep faith? What if you think I broke the vow written in my very soul? How could I, when you carry my heart still? It beats only for it remembers your hands, your voice, your touch.
I do not know if these words will ever find you. But if they should, know this: whether you are near or lost to me forever, I am yours. Entirely. Eternally.
—Maisie
She folded the letter slowly, smoothing the paper with her fingertips, careful as though the ink might smudge or the words dissolve. Her hands lingered on the crease before tucking it into the small carved box at the back of her escritoire. She didn’t need to open it to know it was already full.
There were so many already.
Letters. Pleas. Confessions. Pages that would never travel farther than her trembling fingers. She didn’t know where he was. Didn’t know if her words might place him in danger—or if they would ever be read at all.
So, she kept writing.
And hiding and hoping. Because the only thing more unbearable than silence was the thought of forgetting how to speak to him.
Later, when morning had pressed its grey light against the windows and the rustle of freshly ironed newsprint stirred the still air of the Spencer breakfast room, Maisie sat at the table with a stiff neck and a heart no less splintered than the night before.
She held the paper upright, not to read it, but to hide behind it.
The faint scent of ink clung to her fingertips, mingled with ink and regret.
When she’d told the butler once that the papers didn’t need to be ironed, he’d only replied, “Don’t let your fingers get ink-stained, madam.”
She hadn’t bothered arguing again. Not after the second time.
It wasn’t the crumpled paper that made her hands go still. It was the headline.
Baron von List proposes halt to Jewish emancipation; generously offers guardianship to orphaned aristocrats.
Her stomach tightened. Not just from the words—but from how calmly they sat beneath the masthead, like it was simply a policy shift, a clever bit of social engineering.
The article discussed List’s generosity: Guardianship.
Schooling. Proper thought. As if this man wasn’t slowly coaxing Europe toward a future far more dangerous than anyone cared to admit.
Her gaze snagged on that word—proper.
A chill spread through her chest, slow and invasive. It wasn’t enough to argue in Parliament anymore. Now he would shape children. Mold their minds before they were old enough to question. Until contempt for people like her was not a belief but a reflex.
She could almost hear Rachel’s voice, low and urgent: He dresses it up in polish and reason. That’s how he gets in.
The door flew open. Quick footsteps. A voice already mid-sentence.
“I’m famished!”
John barreled in and collapsed into a chair with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.
Maisie didn’t look up right away. She lowered the paper slowly, one brow rising. “Good morning to you, too.”
He paused, sheepish, toast already halfway to his mouth. “Good morning,” he mumbled around a grin, grabbing for the butter and wielding the knife like a child soldiering through a battlefield.
“You missed dinner,” she said, folding the paper with care and setting it aside. “There was soup waiting for you after the treatment yesterday.”
“Wasn’t supposed to eat for a few hours.” He shrugged, then added around a bite, “I fell asleep.”
She chuckled, the sound catching a little in her throat. But before she could say more, Deena swept in—composed as ever, though the glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement.
“He has to go back again, you know,” she said, leaning in to kiss Maisie’s cheek.
Maisie tipped her head into the touch. Deena’s hand found hers and gave it a quiet, grounding squeeze. It was a ritual they never spoke of but always kept.
“Why?” Maisie asked, glancing between the two of them, curiosity pricking at her.
Deena only arched both brows and reached for the teapot. A non-answer.
Maisie crossed the room and bent toward John. He didn’t protest—just opened his mouth with the air of someone used to being examined, or perhaps too tired to resist.
She leaned in. “Hmm.” Then stepped back. “Very good. He’s going to make gold cast inlays for the larger cavities.”
John squinted up at her. “Why do you know so much about teeth?”
Before she could answer, Deena beat her to it. “Our father was a dentist,” she said, casually, pouring her tea. “She worked in the practice. I played outside.”
“You grew up with a dentist? That’s vile!” John wrinkled his nose.
“The most renowned in Vienna,” Maisie added with pride. But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She pressed her lips together, an old habit.
John didn’t notice. “Did this one do good work on me then?”
“Very good,” Maisie said, though her eyes flicked quickly to Deena and back again. “Did you stay with him the entire time?”
Deena set her teacup down with a small clink. “Yes. Just as you instructed.”
“And does it feel very smooth?” she asked John, her voice easy, casual almost—but the way she watched him was not.
“What?” he said, nearly sputtering his milk.
Maisie didn’t press further. She only watched. Closely. No flinching between bites. No grimace when he swallowed hot toast, chased by cold milk. The discomfort he used to show at meals was—gone. As if it had never been. Very good work indeed.
“Deena,” Maisie said suddenly, her tone sharper now, “did anything strike you as unusual while you were there?”
“No,” Deena replied, sipping her tea. “The tiny hammer was annoying, but I hummed a song to tune it out.”
“A song?” John said. “It was like bees buzzing in my ears!”
“So when did he say you must return?” Maisie asked.
John seemed to feel for his teeth with his tongue as he spoke, his words muffled as if still chewing. “In a day. To insert another piece of gold. He explained it—something about wax and casting—Deena’s humming distracted me.”
“Yes, yes, a gold cast inlay?” Maisie asked, the question escaping more sharply than intended. Her hand tightened on the table. The other hovered mid-air, fingers trembling just enough to catch Deena’s eye.
That technique. Rare. Precise. Passed down by only one man.
Her father.
And Faivish had learned it from him.
But so had others. Too many others.
This probably doesn’t mean anything.
Maisie’s hand slipped from the chair. Her fingers curled into her skirt.
“What song did you hum?” she asked.
“Tumbalalaika,” Deena answered.
The breath caught in Maisie’s throat. Faivish had known that song. Had loved it. Had once paused mid-sentence, just to listen.
“And he didn’t react?” she pressed. Faivish would have known it.
“No.” A pause. “Not truly.”
Maisie traced the rim of her teacup. Around and around. The paper beside her plate blurred. Tension crept behind her eyes, pressure building where the light touched too bright.
That technique—it had a fingerprint. A signature. Invisible to most. Clear as a name, to her.
Her father would have smiled.
But her stomach twisted. She knew better than to hope to find Faivish in London. She had combed registries. Asked every contact. Not one clue. Faivish might be in Vienna. But there was no sign of him in London. He was lost somewhere between here and India.
She swallowed hard, forcing down the lump that had risen in her throat.
Wouldn’t he have found her? Wouldn’t he have searched?
But after the riot, she hadn’t dared to leave word with anyone—not when every knock could’ve meant danger. She had fled with only what she could carry. No goodbyes. No explanations. No safety in trust.
After five years, could there still be hope?
She wasn’t even herself anymore. Not really. Certainly not Maisie Morgenschein. Just Lady Eleanor Spencer now. Wrapped in titles. Hidden behind the safety of a name no one would think to ask for.
He couldn’t find her. Even if he’d come close. But there had been no letters. No messages. No one asking. Not even a whisper. Cruel symmetry. She hadn’t been there when he returned. And now she was here, and he was nowhere.
Her lungs fought to draw air. Each breath felt like it took more effort than it should. She pressed her hand lightly to her bodice, fingertips seeking something—anything—that might steady her.
But there was nothing. Not even an anchor or a touchstone. Just silk, bone stays, and emptiness.
What if he went back? What if he waited… and I didn’t?
Across the table, Deena and John let the staff clear their plates. The clink of porcelain—so faint, so ordinary—yet scraped along her nerves.
Maisie lifted her gaze.
“I’m going to visit Rachel today,” she said evenly, as if she hadn’t just come undone inside her own skin.
*
Harley Street, around the same time…
The room was still dark when Felix woke with a jolt.
His breath snagged in his throat, chest rising too fast, heart kicking like it was mid-chase.
For a long moment, he lay still, eyes pinned to the ceiling beams, sweat cooling in the hollow of his back.
Rain tapped at the windows. Inside him, heat still pulsed, low and stubborn.
It was her. Not a dream. Not fantasy. Maisie. The curve of her mouth under his. The hollow of her throat, warm against his lips. The way she laughed—so close to yielding. His body ached with it, sharp and specific, remembering the weight of her. Her breath. Her hands.
A sound escaped him—low, raw. He rolled over, pulled the pillow over his head. Pointless. Her imprint stayed.
He wanted her.
Not shadows and fragments.
Maisie.
The press of her hips against his. The shudder of her limbs around him. The cry that broke from her when everything inside them tightened, then came undone.
Felix exhaled through his teeth and pressed both fists into the mattress, even more than his hips.
Maisie.
He could still feel her hands at the nape of his neck, the slow curl of her fingers in his hair. Her shift, slipping under his palms like water. He remembered her sounds, her breath, the rhythm she fell into. His body did not forget.
From the corner of the room, the puppy stirred.
“Sorry I woke you, little one,” Felix said softly.
She stretched, small and unbothered, paws spreading wide as she yawned. The noise was so small, so trusting, it pricked something deep in his chest.
He bit his lip, hard enough to sting. The next image came anyway.
Her breast in his mouth—warm, giving. The tight pull of her nipple under his tongue.
He swallowed. The tension stayed. His skin hot, drawn tight. His body refused calm. Pressing into the mattress only deepened the ache.
Her scent drifted through his memory—lavender, and something deeper, earthy, unmistakably hers.
He had caught it yesterday. A flicker in the air as someone passed.
Felix sat up, shoved the pillow aside. The sheets clung to him, damp and twisted. He raked a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. The tension gripped him low and sharp, impossible to shake.
He had left her. For honor and a chance of a better future. The irony wasn’t lost on him. And every day since had opened another hollow inside his chest.
The puppy turned in Chromius’ old basket near the hearth, tail tucked beneath her chin.
Felix rose. Slowly. He braced his weight on his knees, then stood. Dressed. The wool of his breeches scraped over damp skin.
He couldn’t stay here.
Maisie.
She had once been home. She still was.
And somewhere—just beyond reach—she breathed.
He dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the damp strands.
“Little one,” he murmured, reaching down to stroke the puppy’s back. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
His voice was steady now. Or close enough.
Nothing could change the past. All he could do was remember.
And remembering? That was both his greatest torment and the only solace left.
I have to find her.