Chapter Thirty-Five
The great oak doors of Westminster Hall swung wide.
Maisie descended the steps with John’s hand clutched tightly in hers, the sunlight striking the courtyard into brilliance.
Beyond the wrought-iron gates, the crowd surged forward—voices hissing, calling, judging.
At the foot of the stairs, a line of riders waited in black coats and hats, horses pawing at the stones, reins taut.
Among them—Faivish.
His eyes found hers through the throng. Hat in hand, rain still on the brim, his gaze burning and unshaken. For a moment, Maisie could not breathe. He was not hiding in the shadows this time. He was here, standing in the open, surrounded by brothers who had chosen to stand with him.
Baron von List’s voice slashed through the noise. “Look at them! All dressed alike—rats in the same coat, indistinguishable, scurrying from their holes. You cannot tell one from another!”
The crowd rippled with cruel laughter.
Then, with deliberate calm, Dr. Nick Folsham stepped forward out of the line.
He drew off his gloves and held them loosely at his side.
“Tell me, Baron, is this what you feel each time you consult my work? When you accept my treatments for your health and your pride? Do I look like a rat to you then?”
A stir went through the gallery. List faltered, but only for a breath.
And then another voice rang out, rich and measured.
“Nor to me.” Prince Stan stepped forward from his place among the riders, his cravat immaculate, his bearing regal as he placed a hand to his breast. “As royal delegate and ambassador to Transylvania, I will inform my fellow diplomats that Baron von List cannot distinguish loyalty from treachery, nor justice from spite.”
The courtyard hushed, thunderstruck.
Maisie’s heart pounded. She turned—and Faivish was there, closing the distance. His hands reached for hers and it seemed that he had never belonged anywhere else. The world and its stares fell away.
She pressed close, her veil slipping as she whispered fiercely, “Lady Eleanor is no more. I step into the light now—as your wife.”
His breath caught, his forehead lowering to hers. “We stand in the light. All of us. Together.”
And she kissed him—before the eyes of London, before the Lords, before the crowd that would judge her. A kiss not of secrecy, but of claim.
Then—
A crack split the air.
Gunfire.
Faivish shoved Maisie hard to the side, dragging John against him as he turned to shield the boy.
Stone shattered in a burst of dust.
Maisie screamed.
Faivish crumpled against her. Blood bloomed dark across his breeches.
*
The doors slammed, the reins snapped, and the carriage jerked forward so hard Felix’s vision went white. Pain knifed up his thigh. He would’ve slid if Maisie hadn’t hauled him upright, arms around his chest.
Her hands were wet. Not rain, but his blood.
John pitched into the opposite seat, satchel crushed to him like a shield. His cap crooked, one ear sticking out, but his eyes—too wide, sharp, fixed on the red soaking Felix’s leg.
The wheels clattered hard. The window shivered open and let in horse sweat, fog, a ghost of gunpowder.
Felix tried to sit straighter. Fool. His teeth snapped shut on a hiss. Head slammed back against the cushion.
“Stay still,” Maisie breathed. Her palm pressed hard against his thigh. He felt the tremor in it.
The silence lasted too long. Then John’s voice, high, stretched too tight: “I saw it. List. Someone grabbed him—the pistol too. What happens now?”
Maisie didn’t look up. Her eyes stayed on the spreading red. “Not much,” she said, rough. “Men like him slip through. Always.”
Felix barked a laugh that broke halfway, ended on a groan. “Bad ones always do,” he muttered.
Vienna flickered in his head—the parade ground, white Lipizzaners stepping perfect circles. Nobles applauding. Jews in the shadows. Always shadows.
“Not if I ever sit in Parliament,” John said suddenly. His chin jutted, too old for his face. “I won’t allow it.”
Felix turned his head, caught Maisie trying to smile at him, failing. Her hand shook. Her face didn’t.
Another jolt. Pain shot higher, stealing his breath. “Missed the bone,” he rasped. “No bullet inside. Better not be or else Andre will have to cut it out.”
Maisie snapped at him. “You’re in good hands.”
“That doesn’t mean comfort. Infections kill. This will hurt worse before it eases.”
“They are riding ahead to the practice.” Her voice steadied him more than her hand.
Marvelous. A surgery specially prepared for him.
Maisie heaved.
No, no! Rope in a storm. He could take pain. He could even take dying. What he couldn’t take was her fear and tears.
John lurched forward, grabbed his sleeve with both hands. “You can’t die. You hear? You can’t. I finally—” His mouth worked, then words spilled, too fast, tripping. “I finally want parents. Not tutors. Not governesses. Not lies. Just you two and Deena. Please.”
Felix’s chest burned hotter than his thigh. He raised a shaking hand, laid it on the boy’s shoulder. Weak grip, still enough.
“I’ll hold on,” he whispered. His eyes found Maisie. “For you. For her. For us.” Not all infections killed, he had at least a twenty percent chance to avoid infection altogether with Alfie’s burning salves. Argh!
The carriage ride dragged and he felt a shiver down his back. Pulse dropping. Her lips touched his temple. Her cheek pressed to John’s hair. In that moment, it was only them.
The carriage hit a stone. Pain split him in half. He groaned, but forced his mouth to twitch—half smile, half snarl. Anything, so the boy wouldn’t see only fear.
“You’ll live,” Maisie said fiercely. A command, not a plea. “You have to heal.”
“Bossy,” he rasped. A surgery and stitches at least before he could think of healing.
“Too stubborn to disappear,” she shot back, voice breaking. “That’s why you’ll heal.”
John shifted on the seat, clutching the satchel like it could shield him. His voice came out low, uneven. “At school… I just tell them my parents would come visit. Easier that way. Not sure when but that they will. Makes them stop asking.”
He ducked his head, scuffing the toe of his boot against the carriage floor. “But now—” His throat worked. “Now I don’t have to pretend and yet I fear—” He heaved.
Felix’s chest tightened, worse than the wound. He couldn’t find words. Couldn’t shape them past the ache. All he managed was to lift his hand—shaking, clumsy—and rest it on the boy’s shoulder.
The boy leaned into it without hesitation, shoulders stiff at first, then softening.
Felix forced his voice through the pain, barely a whisper. “You’ve got us. Both of us. That won’t change.”
John sniffed, straightened. “Good. Because Maisie would kill you if you had died taking a bullet for me. That’s even worse than cavities!”
Felix gave a breathless laugh. Weak, but real. “True.”
Maisie let out a broken laugh that twisted into a sob. She folded them both in her arms, shaking.
The carriage rattled on. Streets blurred past—fog, shopfronts, the warm tang of bread somewhere close. But inside there was only blood and pain and the two faces pressed to him. Nails hammered deep. Trust and love. Holding.