Then Deena, who had been hovering by the door, suddenly blurted: “I want to learn. To be a nurse. Like you all do.”
Every head turned.
Her cheeks flushed crimson, but she pressed on. “I used only to want to survive. But now… I want to help. To be part of this. If you’ll let me.”
Felix felt a pull in his chest. The girl who once shrank from every footstep in the hall now stood taller, her voice clear.
Maisie crossed to her sister, taking her hands. “Deena, this isn’t just work. It’s long hours, sorrow, and sometimes failure. It’s dangerous.”
Deena lifted her chin, eyes shining. “So we were hiding and lying about who we were. At least this way, I’ll be of some use. And Father would be proud of me.”
Alfie stepped forward, his voice soft but sure. “I’ll train you with the others like we did with Wendy. From bandages to tinctures to keeping a cool head when a room fills with panic. You’ll never be alone.”
Felix’s voice cut through the hush, low but steady. “Then it’s settled. Deena will join us at Harley Street. A Morgenschein here always. This place will never be just walls and charts—it will always be family.”
He caught Maisie’s eyes then. She was pale with exhaustion, but her gaze burned bright. Even now—especially now—she carried herself with a strength that humbled him.
She came toward him and took his hand in both of hers. “Balance,” she whispered. “I once read war is only postponed. But love… love is what endures.”
His throat tightened. He pulled her closer, lips brushing her temple, not caring who saw. John straightened beside them, his voice quiet but sure. “Then we’re a family. At last.”
Felix felt the boy’s words sink into his bones. Family. A word he had not dared claim in years. Maisie’s arm went around John and Deena, and Felix shifted closer, folding all into his side.
Lilly nosed her way between their feet, let out a single triumphant bark, and sat on Felix’s boot as if to anchor them there.
It was messy. Loud. Improper. And it was everything Felix had ever wanted.
For the first time in years, Felix didn’t feel like the boy shut out of Vienna’s halls, nor the exile ducking into shadows. He was Faivish. He was Felix. He was Maisie’s. And John’s. And finally—finally—free.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Pearlers’ morningroom opened onto Green Park like a theater box. The pale light of the sun struck the damp lawn; the trees along the path steamed a little where last night’s mist lifted. Inside, Rachel had set a breakfast worthy of a coronation—silver urns breathing tea and coffee, a chocolate pot near the hearth; platters of cold cuts and sliced fruit; a dish of devilled eggs kept cool by a tray with ice; fried trout under clarified butter; apple tartes in a wide crystal plate; baskets of buns and a large celebration challah with at least eight braided strands, their sugared tops shining; jars of marmalade and quince jelly; a compote of stewed gooseberries bright as jewels.
Felix took the chair nearest the windows—back to the light, leg propped on a low stool in deference to Andre’s orders—and tried not to smile at how every plate that passed near him acquired a Bath bun by some act of providence. Lilly had already wriggled under the table; Raphi’s little boy, Joseph, dropped to all fours after her with a whisper of “Sh—I’m a tiger,” and disappeared between chair legs and tablecloth like a small, determined comet.
“You are not a tiger,” Raphi said mildly, without looking down. “You are a Klonimus. We do not hunt puppies at breakfast.”
Joseph reappeared under Felix’s stool, cheeks flushed, one sock half-down. Lilly licked his wrist and darted away, a gold blur. Joseph giggled, then sat cross-legged beside the stool, satisfied with proximityif not conquest.
Felix let the sound of it soak in. The room held nearly everyone who had stood with him on Harley Street and on the steps of Westminster—Fave and Rachel Pearler hosting as if they did not, between them, run half the city; the Klonimus brothers in a neat dark line; Andre and Nick already arguing in low voices about a new ligature; Alfie topping off cups with the confidence of a man who believed tea could solve nearly anything; Wendy passing a plate with a quiet “Eat, or I shall make you carry this home later.”
Maisie slipped into the chair beside him, fresh muslin, hair pinned in a softer way that made him think of late evenings rather than committee hearings. She set her napkin, looked toward the window, and he caught it again—that quick, astonished look she’d worn the first moment after the hearing, as if the world were slightly larger now and somehow hers.
She met his eyes. No mask. No borrowed name. He felt the ground come steady under him.
“Try the tarts,” she said, as if offering a truce to the day.
“I’ll obey my bride,” he murmured.
“And I’ll follow you around the world should you ever need to travel again,” she said, and the corner of her mouth tilted.
On the far side of the table, Rachel lifted the chocolate pot. “Before we say the blessings over the wine—Raphi?”
Raphi rose. He did not clear his throat or make a production of it; he simply held his glass, waited for the room to still, and spoke in the same voice he used at his bench when a stone finally caught the light.
“We’ve eaten together often,” he said, “through years none of us expected, in places none of us meant to go. Today we are here together for a different reason.” He glanced at Felix, then at Maisie. “We are together and united because the world tried to make shadows of you, and you stood in the sun instead.”
A murmur went round the room—agreement, not applause.
