Chapter Twenty-Two
After the last song, the musicians slipped away for tea—their bows tucked, eyes bright with relief. Maisie exhaled, relief blooming through the tight coil in her stomach. She’d asked them about Faivish. They hadn’t known. And so, she lingered at Rachel’s elegant home with a heavy heart.
The drawing room had emptied into stillness. Deena and John drifted off, drawn toward the smaller parlor where rugelach and warm milk waited like a salve. The hushed quiet that settled between Rachel and Maisie became cavernous.
Rachel sat forward, her shoulders soft. A breath of breeze drifted through the open window, sending the sheer curtains floating, landing lightly across the room.
“And you’ve gone through everything in the archives?” she asked at last, voice gentle.
Maisie drew in a slow breath, crossing her arms over her midriff as though she could catch herself from falling apart. The question pricked, as if Rachel didn’t trust she’d done enough. She had burned through ledger after ledger, hoping for a flicker of proof, but only found dead ends.
“The old broadsheets?”
“Yes,” Maisie said, voice thin, tighter than she meant. “In French. In Prussian.”
Rachel hesitated. “What about those single-print leaflets?”
“Yes. Everything.” Her own voice betrayed her—strained, raw. She’d scoured every record of births, deaths, marriages, and notices. Every name but his name had answered her in silence.
“I’ve left no stone unturned. He’s nowhere.”
Rachel turned her gaze away and smoothed the fabric of her gown. Silk shifting under fingertips. After a moment, she offered a whisper: “Maybe… he doesn’t want to be found.”
The words landed like icicles against Maisie’s ribcage. Her breath froze. She’d refused even to let herself think it. “Why ever not?” she managed, throat tight.
Rachel didn’t answer with words. Instead, her brow arched—the same cool gesture her mother-in-law made when disagreement glided too close to argument.
Heat rose across Maisie’s face, anger coiling under dread. The thought that he might have turned away from her—rather than the other way around—felt intolerable.
She forced out a hollow laugh. “Maybe he’s content—in India?”
The words tasted sharp in her mouth.
Rachel’s features eased. “My brother-in-law, Benjamin Klonimus, was in India once. He said the Jewish communities there are small, but alive. Thriving, even.”
Maisie leaned forward, voice lower still. “Would Faivish search for me, do you think?”
Rachel shut her eyes for a breath. “Perhaps,” she said, and Maisie could hear restraint in her tone. “But…”
That trailing off—meaning pulsed there. Final.
Maisie’s chest felt too tight to breathe.
Before she could say more, Deena entered the frame, pale morning backing her up. “Maisie, it’s time to go.”
Her skirts felt heavy as she rose. She smoothed the folds—an automatic gesture, a shield over the tremor that ran through her.
They moved into the hall. Rachel followed her with watchful quiet.
“Has the dentist helped the marquess?” she asked.
Maisie stopped. The question felt simple. But her mind was tangled in one man she’d never found. “He has,” she said eventually. Her voice found itself. “Very much. He’s… skilled. Perhaps more than expected.”
Rachel’s expression softened further. “They say that of Harley Street doctors. Gentlefolk queue for them—some of the highest in the land.”
Maisie’s breath clipped. Queue of patients. The idea snagged memories—her father’s waiting area filled with women every Tuesday and Thursday when Faivish was there. For a heartbeat, something wild dared to hope.
But fear followed: if the dentist learned from Faivish… then he might carry his name. And if he carried it, others would know.
Her fingers clenched around Deena’s hand behind her skirts. She managed to smile, smooth and small.
Deena tugged at her. “You promised the bookshop next.”
They moved on. Their path led them from the Pearlers’ house, down the street, toward Pall Mall. But the name haunted her step.
Harley Street dentist. Skilled. Known. Not yet familiar, though Deena said not familiar at all.
The carriage rocked with a lazy rhythm, wheels murmuring over the uneven cobbles. Maisie adjusted her gloves, tugging at the fingers to keep her hands steady. John slouched beside her—all elbows, knees, and shoes still too large for him.
“You’ll eat fewer sweets now, I hope,” Maisie said, her tone light but pointed.
“But I thought you liked it when I smiled.” He grinned wide—a flash of new gold gleaming at the back of his mouth.
Maisie’s lips twitched, but she kept her voice even. “At Eton, you’ll be on your own. I’m trusting you.”
“No more chocolates?” John asked.
“No.” She paused. “But I’ll send letters. I’ll bring you home for the holidays. I’ll always be just a note away.”
Deena leaned forward, her arm resting against Maisie’s. “We’ll be there when you need us.”
John straightened a little. “I suppose that’s better than chocolates.”
Maisie nodded. A warm ache unfurled behind her smile. “Good.”
The carriage began to slow.
“Did you get John’s uniforms?” Maisie asked.
“They’ll be ready this afternoon,” Deena replied.
“I’ll fetch them. I want to stop by the archives again.”
John looked up. “You’re not coming to the dentist?”
“You’ll be fine with Deena. Dr. Leafley is said to be… extraordinarily skilled. I’ll meet him after.”
The words landed awkwardly. They echoed too many times—skilled, always skilled. The same word patients once used for her father and Faivish, spoken with reverence and something close to wonder.
As they stepped down, Maisie caught Deena’s arm. “One moment.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve seen the dentist?”
“Certainly.”
Maisie’s throat tightened. “Is he old?”
Deena wrinkled her nose. “Not as old as Father. Not young either. Somewhere in between.”
Maisie’s thoughts turned back to the boy with steady hands and eyes too serious for his age. Faivish had been young. Too young for all he knew. But five years could soften or sharpen. They left marks on the body, on the soul.
“And?” she asked.
Deena tilted her head. “Handsome, if you like that sort of thing. Broad across the shoulders. Too big.”
Maisie’s breath caught. Too big.
Her heart leapt—then fell. Faivish had been sharp-edged, his strength compact and precise, like a drawn blade. Not broad. And he had been unmistakably theirs.
If this man shared their faith, someone would’ve said something. A name. A trace. A whisper in the congregation.
Deena and John went in, and the door to 87 Harley Street clicked shut behind them.
Maisie lingered on the step, torn. Every instinct told her to demand an introduction, to walk in and see this man with her own eyes.
But another, darker voice warned her of Hofst?tter, of List—men who had power to erase.
If her father had gone into hiding, if Faivish had been forced to change his name as she had to survive, then her knocking at the wrong door could undo everything.
Drawing too much attention was to risk more than just disappointment.
It was to gamble with his safety. No, she needed more certainty before she could speak his name to strangers.
She pressed her palm to the carriage door. One look could undo her. One look could reveal him—or destroy the fragile hope she still clutched.
Maisie climbed inside. The door shut. The wheels turned. She closed her eyes.
Not young. Not a Jewish name. Too big.
But still, her pulse would not settle. But something in her refused to believe it. Not yet. She would fetch the uniforms. Visit the archives. Keep searching.
Faivish is out there. I know it.
*
The ornate lettering above the newspaper archive door caught the morning light like a memory catching fire.
Felix barely glanced at it. With Alfie trailing behind and little Lilly tucked under one arm, he stepped into the quiet, familiar hush of the building.
The scent greeted him before anything else—dusty paper, old ink, and something brittle as parchment left too long in the sun.
It wrapped around him like an old thought half-remembered.
He almost sneezed, caught it just in time, unwilling to break the fragile stillness.
The room breathed in soft rhythms—murmured voices, the scratch of pens, chairs creaking with thoughtful weight. A symphony of routine, playing just beneath notice.
“Honestly, she’ll never learn,” Alfie muttered. His voice carried low but unmistakable. “You’re babying Lilly to no end. She thinks your arm is a featherbed.”
Felix looked down at the golden puff nestled beneath his coat. Lilly blinked up at him, her tiny paws drawn to her chest, breathing slowly with trust. “She is home,” he said quietly. “She’ll learn. Just… not today.”
Alfie scoffed under his breath. “She’d learn faster if you let her walk more than five feet. You’ll be scraping off boot mess before long.”
Felix didn’t answer. He was already at the main desk, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter. “The criminal reports from Middlesex. Last month,” he said, nodding to the clerk. He’d already scoured the shipping manifests, dock logs, and registries. Each lead vanished into smoke.
The clerk nodded distractedly and disappeared through a side door.
Felix let his gaze drift.
And then—something. Or someone.
A shape first. The edge of a profile. A line of nose, a sweep of cheekbone. Hair pinned beneath a broad, modern hat. Not the kind Maisie ever wore. Too bold, too of-the-moment. And yet—
Something about the tilt of her head. The grace in the way she leaned in to speak. The poise that threaded through her shoulders like confidence set to music. It didn’t match what he knew… but it pulled at what he remembered.
His chest tightened. It couldn’t be her.
Or could it?
She turned slightly, murmuring something to the clerk. He couldn’t hear. Her back was to him now, posture elegant, the curve of her spine like a brushstroke. Nothing about her said Maisie. But everything in his blood did.
The rush was immediate. Heat, hope, ache—a chorus too loud to silence.
“Felix.” Alfie’s voice broke through, dry and pointed. “You’re staring like you’ve seen a mirage. Want me to take Lilly outside while you try to remember how to breathe?”
“No,” Felix said quickly, blinking hard as if to shake loose the spell. “This won’t take long.”
But by the time he looked again, she was gone. Only the swish of a hem remained, vanishing behind the door at the rear of the archive.
He moved instinctively, Lilly held tight against his chest, pushing through the hush of paper and whispers.
A cart blocked his way. He swerved, catching the edge of a stacked tower of books that tumbled down in a chaotic spill.
The crash rang out—sharp, discordant. Lilly let out a startled yip. Felix cursed under his breath.
Heads turned. Silence deepened, judgment thick in the air.
And still—she was nowhere.
He turned sharply, eyes landing on the nearest clerk. “The woman who just went into the back room. Please—I need to speak with her.”
The clerk barely blinked. “That section is restricted.”
“It’s important.” Felix leaned forward, voice taut with urgency. “Just a moment.”
The clerk gave a tight-lipped smile, the sort that didn’t reach the eyes. “Only distinguished patrons are permitted access.”
It wasn’t the words, but the weight behind them—coated in disdain, sharpened by scrutiny.
Felix held the clerk’s gaze, his jaw tightening. He knew this look. Knew the slow, silent dissection: dark hair, sharper cheekbones, the faint lilt of an accent too foreign for comfort. Not quite belonging. Never quite invited in.
Before he could speak, Alfie appeared beside him, easy as breath.
“The gent’s with me,” he said, slipping a coin across the desk without breaking stride. “Loyal patron, through and through.”
The coin clicked softly, landing with the weight of practiced diplomacy. Alfie’s smile made it a jest, a game, nothing serious—just enough to smooth over the friction.
Felix said nothing, swallowing the heat that rose in his throat. He hated needing the gesture. Hated what it meant. But the rope was lowered, the gate unlatched.
The clerk hesitated, then leaned in, voice dropping. “That was Lady Spencer. Sister to the late Marquess of Stonefield.”
Felix stilled.
Lady Spencer.
The name glittered like cut crystal—delicate, cold, and painfully unfamiliar. It didn’t fit.
And yet.
He almost asked nothing more, but the clerk went on, lowering his voice further. “Odd request, though. She asked for the Wiener Zeitung for 1812. Who wants to read old news from Vienna? Said she wanted 1813 and 1814, too.”
The words struck him like a fist. Vienna. The year everything had unraveled. His father’s practice raided, Maisie vanished. His breath caught, though he forced his face still.
He gave a faint nod as the clerk stepped away.
Maisie might have changed her name, but sister to a marquess? That wasn’t just a disguise. That was a reinvention. Impossible.
Alfie watched him, one brow lifted. “Not quite the reunion you were hoping for, eh?”
Felix didn’t answer. His thoughts looped, one over the next, spiraling like smoke in the still air. His heart hadn’t caught up. Not yet.
But had he imagined it? The resemblance and the flicker of something familiar?
Had longing conjured a mirage indeed? Or had fate delivered one more almost? It didn’t matter. Whether it was Maisie or not, the moment had hooked itself into him like a barb. And it wouldn’t let go of him.