When he lingered in the hallway, waiting for a pause between patients, the professor brushed past him with a ledger in hand. Faivish opened his mouth, only to find himself dismissed with a curt, “Check the appointment book—Mrs. Adler insists her crown be moved up a day.”
Later, when Faivish carried in the sterilized instruments, he tried again. “Professor—”
But Morgenschein didn’t look up from the tray. “Pass me the forceps, will you? No, the larger pair. Thank you.” His tone was even, polite, yet it built a wall Faivish couldn’t scale.
By midday, Faivish caught his mentor at the basin, sleeves rolled as he washed his hands. The light from the window fell across the man’s face, etching hollows beneath his eyes. Faivish said quietly, “There’s something important I’d like to ask—”
Morgenschein reached for the towel, rubbing briskly, his gaze fixed on the brass mirror on the counter. “You’ve a steady hand with gold foil, Faivish. Better than mine.” A compliment, but also a diversion. The words landed with more finality than praise.
Again and again, the professor turned aside. A ledger to be signed, a patient to be soothed, a tray to be polished. Each time Faivish swallowed back the words burning his tongue. Each time, Morgenschein’s mouth pressed into that same thin, pained line—as though he carried a truth too heavy to share, one that made every request tospeak dissolve on Faivish’s lips.
By the time the last patient left, Faivish’s throat was dry from silence, his resolve frayed by the loss of so many missed chances.
“You’ve done well with the Marquess,” Morgenschein said at last, polishing a brass tray as though it needed one more gleam. “Better than I expected.”
Faivish’s chest leapt—was this his moment? “Thank you, Professor. It means so much to—”
Morgenschein cut across him, voice low. “It’s more than praise. It’s an opportunity. The Marquess has written to a colleague in Calcutta. There’s an apprenticeship there. A rare one. They’ll take you.”
The words struck like a dropped mallet.
“Calcutta?” Faivish repeated, almost disbelieving. “In India?”
“Yes.” Morgenschein’s gaze slipped past him. “A city growing faster than you can imagine. Medicine is hungry for skilled hands. It’s a chance of a lifetime, Faivish. The sort of post that would open doors that will always remain locked to you here.”
He meant Vienna. He meant Hofstätter.
Not an opportunity—an escape.
Faivish set down the mirror he’d been drying. His knuckles whitened on the brass. “Professor, I have no wish to go to India. My place is here. With you.”
“And with Maisie?” Morgenschein asked quietly, the question dropping like a stone.
Faivish did not flinch. “If you would allow it—yes. I came to you for dentistry. But I found more than that. I would be honored to stay, to work with you, for as long as you’ll have me.”
For an instant, light broke across the older man’s eyes. Then it dimmed, leaving only weariness etched in its place.
“You’ve learned all I can teach you,” he said slowly. “But I cannot shield you forever. Hofstätter has tolerated you because you are undermy name. The moment I am gone…” His voice thinned. “I wish I were strong enough. I wish it were enough.”
“You are,” Faivish said, the words rough with feeling. “You are everything—to me, to your patients—”
“Not in a world where malice holds influence,” Morgenschein interrupted, his tone carrying a finality that made Faivish’s stomach clench. “I am old. The Rector is relentless. He wants my methods under his name, and you will be in his sights the moment he can make it so.”
Faivish’s chest tightened. He had not expected this—not Calcutta dangled like salvation, not Hofstätter’s shadow stretching over everything. Yes, he knew the Indian dentists’ molten-gold crowns were famed, and yes, part of him ached to see it. But not at this cost. Not at the cost of being with Maisie.
“My place is here,” he said again, softer, because the truth burned steadily. “India may be an opportunity. But this is the life I want. Here. With you. With her.”
The professor’s sigh carried both pain and pride. He set the brass tray aside, his hands trembling faintly. “Leave it, Faivish. Go and rest.”
But Faivish hesitated. “The ledger says the Marquess is coming. Shall I prepare—?”
“No,” Morgenschein interrupted gently. “Not for treatment. You did well with that.”
“Then why—?”
“I need to speak with him,” the professor said, his voice suddenly older than Faivish had ever heard it.
A knot twisted tight in Faivish’s chest. Something was being kept from him. Something that made the thought of asking for Maisie’s hand feel as though it were slipping, just out of reach.
