“My dear.”
The sound of her father’s voice sliced the moment. She startled, turning toward him. He held out his empty teacup, his eyes gentler than his tone.
“Would you?”
The porcelain was harmless enough, but Maisie’s breath snagged when she saw the way Father’s gaze shifted. First to Faivish. Then back to her. A flicker of something unreadable passed across his face. Not anger, not yet. But knowing. Or suspecting.
She felt the blood rush to her cheeks.He knows. He must know.
Her fingers closed around the cup, her knuckles white against the handle. Words pressed at the back of her throat—I must tell him. I have to tell him about us so he hears it from me.
But not now. Time never seemed right.
Not with the patient still in the room. Not with Faivish standing close enough that she could feel the ponderousness of his silence.
So she lowered her head, took the cup, and busied herself with the simplicity of pouring tea—while the truth she longed to speak lodged like a stone inside.
Returning to her task, she poured the steaming brew into the waiting porcelain. The air between the three of them felt almost too tight, as if every word, every glance, carried a second meaning. The tension didn’t ease, though she felt Faivish’s presence behind her—close enough that the warmth of him brushed her back—as he moved to take the emptied tray.
Father smiled fondly at him, a rare light in his proud eyes. “The most talented student I’ve had in thirty years, and using porcelain for dental crowns instead of just teacups,” he declared, a touch of reverence slipping into his tone.
Soon, Maisie thought,Faivish would be even busier at the practice when he could restore a tooth with white porcelain instead of gold. Patients were fond of the idea that their oral repairs would beundetectable. It would be a medical marvel—her Faivish performing miracles in plain sight, as if it were nothing at all. If only the university allowed Jewish students the same access to advanced techniques as their peers, instead of keeping such methods reserved for nobility—a truth everyone pretended not to notice, yet no one dared name aloud.
Maisie glanced at her father, reading the genuine pride etched into his expression. Then, almost against her will, she looked at Faivish again. His face betrayed no reaction to the compliment other than the polite inclination of his head. But in that brief flick of his gaze toward her, she felt it—the quiet vow, the unspoken “I’m doing this for us.”
Her heartbeat quickened.
The door clicked shut behind the departing patient, sealing them in an almost palpable silence. Maisie smoothed the creases of her apron as if the gesture could settle the rising unease within her. “The waiting room is crowded,” she said, looking at her father as she poured his tea. “I don’t know if they’re here for their teeth—”
“They’re definitely here for him,” Father jested, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And they’re right to be.” He chuckled, warm and fleeting—but the sound faltered, as if laughter cost him something. He reached for the cup she offered, and his hand, frail and speckled with age, trembled visibly.
Maisie’s breath hitched as the teacup clattered against its saucer, a thin stream of tea sloshing over the rim.
“Father,” she murmured, her voice low but steady, setting the pot down. She reached to steady his hand, but he waved her off with a tight smile.
“I’m alright, my dear. Nothing to fuss over.”
But the lie settled heavily in her chest. The tremors had worsened. Now, even the smallest movements seemed to require an effort he could barely summon.
If Father could no longer practice… what would become of them all? Deena still needed watching over, and their lives ran on such a delicate thread. And Faivish—if he were to step into Father’s place, not merely as his pupil but as… she hardly dared think it, yet it was always on her mind—her future husband?
Yes, she wanted that more than she could say. But never at this cost.
And underneath it all was the question she didn’t dare voice: did Father’s late-night talk with the Marquess have anything to do with this? Or the whispers about poor Eleanor Spencer, whoever she was? She couldn’t shake the thought that something—someone—was steering all their futures, and not in her favor.
Behind her, Faivish stepped closer, the sound of his boots soft against the floorboards. His gaze shifted from her father’s trembling hands to her face, and something unspoken passed between them. The usual ease in his features hardened into seriousness.
She wasn’t alone in this fear. He felt it too.
And certainty washed over her: that she was not alone in her worry. Everything about Faivish’s careful glance at Father bore the dense responsibility already pressing on his own future.
“Thank you for taking over, Faivish,” her father said, breaking the awkward silence as he lowered his hand to rest it firmly on the small table.
“It was nothing,” Faivish replied, his voice measured, his eyes still fixed on the older man. Maisie caught the flicker of something in his expression. Not pity. Respect, perhaps. Or concern. Deeply so.
“It was everything.” Her father shook his head, shoulders slumping slightly. “These tremors…” His voice trailed off, and he raised the teacup again, though this time it barely made it to his lips before his hand faltered, spilling more of the cooling tea into the saucer. Muttering something under his breath, he set the cup down with as steady a movement as he could manage. “I can’t practice anymore, my boy. And you cannot hold them off for me much longer.”
“Who?” Maisie asked, the words tumbling out before she couldstop them. Her gaze darted to Faivish, who had turned now and stood near the window, his frame tall and still as stone. “What does he mean?”
