Prologue
Harley Street, London, 1817
Miracles at HarleyStreet came in many forms: spectacles from Nick, the oculist, for the far-sighted to read again, ointments from Alfie, the apothecary, to soothe irritated skin, splints from Andre, the orthopedist, for those whose legs needed to be supported, bandages from Nurse Wendy who cured with her kindness as much as her hands, and gold fillings from the dentist on the second floor.
And so it was again when Felix Leafley allowed himself a rare, clean satisfaction upon finishing the treatment of the girl in his chair: a gold foil filling set exactly right, a young patient spared a future of needless toothaches because his training and patience had met and bested the problem.
He lifted the oral mirror and watched the surface catch light and reflect brightness where there’d been darkness before. Another quiet rescue. He was the one dentist in London who packed gold so fine it behaved like tooth, the one whose Royal Warrant brought the ton to his door. He was the only one who reduced a painful cavity to a mere speck of gold gleaming on a tooth.
But being the only one meant being alone.
And he couldn’t change that because the name on his door was not the name his love knew. As long as Baron von List built secret registries—names, addresses, trades—and used licenses and patrols to harry Jewish businesses and silence anyone pressing for equality, Felixkept to an English alias no clerk would flag. He would not risk his patients who needed him. Nor would he ever risk the practice or the people who kept it standing: Nurse Wendy, Alfie, Nick, Andre—family at 87 Harley Street.
I must keep silent.
Because names leave trails, trails lead to doors. Baron von List opens those doors—and people vanish.
But he had not given up. He would not. He would never stop trying to findher.
“Is it all done, then?” The young countess’s voice, careful and bright, cut into his thoughts when his young patient, Emily, hopped off the chair.
Felix turned to mother and daughter. The girl had her bright curls tied with a ribbon so he could work; her fingers gripped the pelisse folded in her lap as if it could steady her better than any hand. He kept his tone even, the one that lowered shoulders and unfurled breaths.
“Open once more for your mother, Miss Emily.”
She did, brave in the way children are when bravery is shown to them. Felix held the mirror so her mother could see his work. The small mirror caught a neat golden gleam; no ridge, no gap.
“Bite,” he said, and she obeyed. As she clenched her teeth to show her mother her smile, there was no sign of his work. The countess tilted, searching.
“It’s tiny now,” she said with palpable relief, and he knew it was meant as a compliment. His work must be invisible; so must his name.
Emily tipped up her chin, shamelessly proud. The new gold winked only when she opened wide. Her mother let out the breath she’d seemed to have been holding during the treatment.
“Oh, Dr. Leafley, you’ve worked a miracle for Emily.” The distance of rank slipped; only a relieved mother remained. “Others would have waited until it grew worse or—well.” Her lips pinched against the thought she would not name.
“We did not wait.” He stripped off his gloves and set them square on the brass tray. “You brought her early. We needed only the smallest fillings.”
“In a few years she’ll make her debut,” the countess said, eyes warm with gratitude and calculation both. “Her smile must be impeccable. Thanks to you, it will be.” Her gaze drifted to his hands. “Where did you learn such precise work? It shines—so small, so smooth.”
“In Vienna, your grace.” He let a contained smile touch his mouth. “Many years ago.”
In another life entirely.
“You’re much too young to speak so.” Her voice softened. “Thank you, Dr. Leafley.”
Emily made a proper curtsey, grave as a duchess. “Thank you, sir.”
“Bravely done,” he told her, and meant it. “If it troubles her in the future, send word. I will call.”
“We shall.” The countess adjusted her daughter’s shawl with hands that trembled now, the need for stillness had passed. Fine muslin whispered; the door murmured shut behind them.
Felix stood a moment with his palm flat to the brass tray, feeling the last warmth the metal had stolen from his hands. These tiny gold fillings would hold if they were minded.
Nurse Wendy slipped into his treatment room with hot water; steam loosened the sharp scent of clove oil. Her apron sat crisp at her waist; her gaze combined affection and practicality in equal measure.
“She did very well,” Wendy said.
“Indeed.” He lifted the tray so she could pour.
