Silence pressed in,thick and close. The lamp hissed faintly, its glow spilling over Faivish’s hands as he steadied the first tool.
The moment the metal touched Alfie’s tooth, he flinched hard, a sound torn out of him—and Faivish’s jaw locked.
It should have been me.
That thought had burned through him since the alley: the glint of steel, the step he’d shifted without thinking, Alfie moving in—taking the blow meant for him. The knife’s iron pommel had cracked across Alfie’s face. Not bone-breaking, but enough to shear the tooth nearly to the root, too.
Faivish had lived his whole life by one rule: keep your head down, keep your body whole. Jews didn’t fight aristocrats; they endured. And when the smoke cleared, it was always the Jews who paid.
He had never forgotten. Not the night his parents were dragged from their shop, nor the stink of lamp oil and scorched cloth clinging to the rafters. The crowd had called it a riot. But riots ended. Hatred didn’t. His father was a harmless merchant, his mother gentler than butterflies—and still they were beaten down while the mob walked away untouched. Aristocrats broke Jews with no repercussions; Jews were punished for breaking or even just thinking about fighting back. That was the unspoken law.
His mother’s voice haunted him still:Keep low. Survive. Don’t throw yourself to justice—the bad men always prevail.By morning, he had nothing left but his books and a grief that threatened to strangle him.
Professor Morgenschein had found him then, sharp-eyed, commanding, and said:Do well, not despite your mourning, but because of it.Achievement was the only revenge allowed him. And then, his beautiful daughter had handed him a syllabus he’d clung to for dear life.
So Faivish had lived by silence, by sidestepping. Survive. Survive. And tonight, Alfie bled for it.
Maisie shifted the lamp, her hand trembling, but her chin high. She hated what Calcutta meant; he could feel it. Yet she nodded. She would not leave him to it alone.
“Hold still,” Faivish murmured, voice steady as stone. “Any other clinic would’ve pulled the tooth before you sat down.”
Alfie’s lips twisted around the gauze. “That’s what they wanted. To mark me. To take the smile first. It’s the smile people remember—take that away, and every door’s already closed.”
Faivish swallowed hard. He knew. For a Jew, scars became proof. Evidence of inferiority. And aristocrats knew it.
“Porcelain on gold,” he said, turning the blade in the lamplight. “Stronger than anything they can break. You’ll keep your immaculate smile.”
Maisie’s hand stilled on the towel. “Why isn’t it used at the university?”
His voice cut sharper than the steel in his hand. “Because porcelain is reserved for men with crests. Their teeth, like their titles, must appear unbroken. We craft perfection for them, but we may never wear it ourselves. Alfie has no title, no crest. He doesn’t count.”
Her breath hitched. “And if they find out?”
“They’ll call it theft.” His tone was calm, almost too calm. “And then they’ll make certain I never practice again in Europe. That’s why your father is sending me away—before they do worse.”
Alfie groaned low, pain thick in his throat. “They tried tonight.”
The truth settled over the room like lead.
Faivish bent forward again, steel probe catching the light. He could hear Maisie’s breathing behind him, the weight of her trust heavy as the lamp she held steady. If he failed, Alfie would lose more than a tooth. Maisie lost the man she loved. Deena lost the brother he had promised to become.
He caught Maisie’s reflection in the polished brass tray. Her eyes, wide, fixed on him—not the instruments, not the wound, but him.
And Faivish thought:Please, let me be enough.
Chapter Seven
The next night,Faivish cemented the porcelain crown. When Alfie leaned toward the looking glass, it was almost as though nothing had happened at all. The tooth gleamed—whole, unmarred—as if pain, panic, and the attack meant for Faivish had been erased.
Almost.
The purpling shadow along Alfie’s cheekbone still told the truth.
He touched it with two fingers, thoughtful, then dabbed the corner of his mouth with the towel Maisie offered. His swagger began to seep back—slow as sap rising after winter, steady but not yet certain. “You two,” Alfie said, gaze flicking between them, “are remarkable. Truly. Thank you—for saving my smile.”
From the tool table, Faivish felt the words land deeper than he’d expected. “No, thank you, Alfie. You stood in the way when it should have been me.”
Alfie shrugged one shoulder into his coat sleeve as if it cost him nothing. “I stand by good people. You’re my friends. That’s all that matters. And if science has taught us anything, it’s that every vein carries the same blood, there’s no way to distinguish people by color or religion, only by their hearts.”
