Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Felix tugged his coat closer and tipped his head toward the sky. The clouds had thickened fast, swallowing the last scraps of light, and now the air carried that heavy scent—wet stone, soot, something faintly green beneath it, like grass pressed into mud.
He’d told himself he would wait ten minutes. Fifteen at the most, while Raphi delivered the parcel. But the minutes had stretched. Too many.
Too long.
Lilly would need to be let out soon. Last time he’d lingered, she’d left a puddle right in the middle of his bedroom rug. The apology had come with wide eyes and a head nudged against his boot—more than enough to win him over. Still, he owed her better.
“I’ll tell him I’m going,” Felix muttered, stepping toward the door. Best to let Raphi know not to hurry.
He rapped three times, brisk against polished wood. Almost at once, the butler appeared—a tall man, silver hair gleaming, his expression softened by years of careful courtesy.
“Dr. Leafley,” he said with recognition. “Good evening. Has anyone called you?”
Felix inclined his head. “Good evening, James. I’ve not come on a call. I was waiting for Raphael Klonimus.”
James stepped back with a quiet sweep of his arm. “Then you needn’t stand in the rain. Come in, sir.”
Felix crossed the threshold, the tiled floor catching droplets from his coat. His boots left dark tracks on the black-and-white marble.
“I didn’t realize you’d been waiting outside,” James said.
“I’m not anymore,” Felix replied dryly, his gaze falling to the damp trail at his feet. “I only meant to tell him I was leaving. My puppy’s likely pacing by now.”
James’s mouth tugged wryly. “So you’ve a dog now? Feeling lonely, Doctor?”
Felix let out a small smile, nothing more. “Would you mind telling him I’ve gone? Just wish him good night for me.”
James gave a butler’s nod—half an answer, half an evasion. Then: “You’re soaked, sir. Allow me to fetch a carriage. You’ll reach your puppy faster that way.”
Felix inclined his head. “Thank you.”
He waited, water pooling beneath his soles. The Pearlers’ home stood around him—quietly grand, every detail deliberate. He’d known of them for years, by reputation and by brief professional encounters. Wealth had not hardened them. They were spoken of kindly, even by those with little.
Maisie would have liked them and trusted them.
If life had bent another way, he might have brought her here—stepped into a dining room like this with her hand looped in his arm. The thought landed sharp, too sharp, and he brushed it aside like rain off his sleeve. Yet some of it clung, soaked through.
He was steadying himself when Raphi came striding down the corridor.
“Forgive me,” Raphi said, clapping his shoulder. “That took longer than I meant. They’ve guests. I left as soon as I could.”
Felix gave a dry half-smile. “I told you—it wasn’t for me to intrude.”
Raphi tilted his head, eyes alight with curiosity. “An odd lady, their guest. Lady Eleanor Spencer. Sister of the old Marquess of Stonefield. The one who vanished on the Continent.”
Felix blinked—the boy. The marquess is only a child. But confidentiality bound him. “I’ve heard the name,” he said evenly.
“She looks younger than her reputation suggests,” Raphi went on. “Much younger. Something about her struck me as… unusual.”
Before Felix could answer, James returned, holding a black umbrella with measured dignity. “The Pearlers’ phaeton and driver can see you home, Doctor. The landau is engaged with other guests.”
Raphi accepted the umbrella with a nod of thanks, the offer closing the moment.
But Felix was still caught by Raphi’s words. “What do you mean—odd?”
Raphi shrugged into his coat. “She didn’t seem like an aristocratic spinster. She could be one of us.”
Felix turned sharply. “One of us? What are you saying?”
“She’s young. Pretty. But… warm. Too young for the history they’ve given her. There’s a vulnerability in her face, a softness. She reminded me of Rachel. Or even Laila.”
Felix almost laughed, though it came rough in his throat. “You think an aristocrat could resemble your wife or your sister-in-law?”
Raphi gave him a level look. “You know what I mean. She didn’t seem… removed. She felt like someone who could belong at a table with us. Like family.”
Felix shook his head as the butler held the door for them. He stepped into the damp air, letting the rain spatter against his face before slipping under the umbrella.
Like family? No. That couldn’t be. Aristocratic women were shaped by distance—by closed doors, by cool glances across polished drawing rooms. Not by Shabbat tables. Not by song and easy laughter.
And yet exceptions existed. He’d known them. And that’s what unsettled him.
Warmth in her gaze. From Oxfordshire. Lady Spencer.
The one from the bookshop?
Rain blurred his lashes. He blinked hard.
Impossible.
And yet—the ache in his chest stirred. The same ache that never truly left. The one that whispered: what if?
He said nothing more. But the questions clung to him, heavier than the rain sliding down his coat.
*
Maisie’s temples throbbed, each beat sharp, hammering against her skull.
The drawing room pressed in on her—too warm, too full.
Laughter drifted down the corridor, ribbons of sound that tangled and thickened until they cloyed in the air.
Silver gleamed, skirts rustled over polished floors, and the scent of roast duck wound itself with peonies.
An elegant tableau. It should have soothed.
Instead, it smothered.
She slipped closer to the French doors, her fingers biting into the delicate clasp of her reticule. Beyond the glass, the garden glowed, gilded by lantern light. Beauty. Safety. She should have drawn comfort from it. She should have smiled.
But her chest refused. Her lungs caught on the air.
A breath snagged, slight, invisible to anyone else—but her body knew. A warning, sharp and sure, before her mind would admit it.
Where was Deena?
The voices around her blurred, every word oddly rehearsed, brittle as porcelain. As if she’d wandered into a play where the script itself hummed with menace.
Her eyes darted to the front door. The one that led to the street.
Out. She had to get out.
“Deena?” Her voice carried a low, too-taut tone. “Are you ready to depart?”
Her shoulders ached with tension. She turned back, caught her reflection in a polished wall sconce. Her cheeks were drained of color, her lashes trembling like she was waiting—
Waiting for something.
Or someone.
Foolishness.
She was safe here. Rachel’s house. The Pearlers’ warmth. Safety. Yet still, her breath came shallow, her chest tightening with every tick of the clock.
And then—a sound. Deena’s giggle, bright and careless, spilled down the hall. Relief and irritation tangled in Maisie’s throat.
Deena came toward her, radiant in blue satin, arms full of cards and wrapped sweets. “Oh, hullo,” she called, cheerfully. “You wouldn’t believe the pantry in this place—it’s twice the size of ours.”
Maisie didn’t return the smile. She reached for her sister’s hand, her grip firm. “Let’s go.”
Deena blinked, startled. “What? Now?”
Rachel appeared from the corner, a wineglass in hand, her expression warm but puzzled. “Oh no, my dear, are you quite certain you won’t stay for supper?”
Maisie shook her head. “No. I—” Her fan slipped in her damp palm, fingers slick. A chill traced her spine, cold against the heat at her temples. “I need air.”
Rachel moved closer, concern softening her brow. “You look flushed. Shall I fetch you a cordial? Or some tea?”
“No,” Maisie whispered. “Thank you, but no. Only… my nerves.”
She tried to smile. It wavered and fell short.
Rachel’s nod was gentle, her hand making a small parting gesture. “Then at least let me send a footman and an umbrella to see you to the carriage. It’s raining again.”
But Maisie barely heard. She’d already turned.
The foyer stretched before her—polished parquet beneath the chandelier, crown molding carved in elegant swirls. She noticed everything and nothing at once: the faint clatter of cutlery somewhere distant, a clock marking time overhead, the shift of stillness near the double doors.
Three men stood there.
She recognized the Pearlers’ butler at once, tall, his sideburns neat, one gloved hand resting lightly against the frame.
The others—
Maisie’s fingers slipped. Her reticule struck the floor with a sharp, echoing crack.
The sound swallowed every other.
One of the men turned.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
His coat was dark, rain-slicked, the collar turned up. His boots left wet prints on the marble. And beneath the brim of his hat—shadow caught the line of his cheek, the cut of his mouth.
The world tilted. She couldn’t breathe.
He straightened. His eyes found hers.
Those eyes.
Storm-dark. Beloved. Too known to mistake.
Her lips parted, no sound escaping. He didn’t look away. Held her gaze for a breath. Then another.
Maisie moved forward, slow, unsteady, her pulse pounding.
And then—he spoke.
Her name. Soft. As though it had been locked in his chest for months. “Maisie.”
Her knees threatened to give way.
From somewhere behind came Deena’s voice, light, inconsequential, a thread of ordinary sound. Around them, the house stirred—glass, footsteps, conversation—but all of it blurred.
There was only this moment.
Her breath caught, but not from nerves.
It was him.
Alive.
Here.
Her lips trembled.
My Faivish.