“A boy waits in the hall,” Wendy added. “Kitchen maid’s son from number seven. He tried to be a man about it, but—” a small tilt of her hand “—he’s frayed.”
His schedule ran tight as clean stitches: a gentleman at the hour; a nervous lady at the half; two more beyond. He could keep to it and noone would fault him. He pictured a boy with a cap crushed between his palms, pride held together with stubborn thread.
“Bring him in, please,” Felix said.
The boy entered with his jaw set for battle. Tall but thin. Felix rolled his sleeves—not for show, only to feel the work in his forearms—and warmed his instrument in his palm so the metal wouldn’t startle.
“Name?”
“Tom, sir.”
“Tom.” Felix tipped the lamp a fraction, coaxing clean light across the chair.
“How old?”
“Twelve.” Tom tightened his grip on the cap. “My mother said you could help me.”
“Let me see.” The front tooth told its story at once: a fall, a split edge. Not a case for gold but porcelain. “Market cart?”
A flush rose in patches. “I might’ve slipped. To show I could.”
“Of course, you could.” Felix brushed clove oil to the gum and spoke while he worked. “We’ll make it neat. Then you may boast properly.”
Tom’s lip trembled once. “I can’t pay, sir.”
“Does your mother make the delightful plum tarts?” Felix asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then consider this our thanks for the smell of her plum tart drifting up our stairs.” He raised his voice a shade. “Wendy, is there anyone else waiting for me?”
“Not yet,” came her dry answer from the passage.
“Then I’ll tend to our young acrobat right away.”
Tom’s chest rose as if a button might pop. He managed a strangled “Thank you, sir,” and ducked his head. When the door closed behind Wendy, Felix let himself take one long breath that reached the tight place under his ribs.This is the work. This is what matters.
A short while later, the boy left lighter and with another appointment in a day. The nervous Lord Chesterfield followed; he left steadier than he arrived. Outside, the lamplighter’s pole flashed in the window and moved on. Inside, Felix’s hands did exactly what they’d been trained to do: swift when swiftness spared pain, patient when patience protected what could be saved.
Between one patient and the next, Vienna rose in his mind again.
It had taught him how to seal gold so it held like enamel—no show, only strength. It had taught him to see a flinch before it arrived, to pause a heartbeat longer than pride advised, to trust what lived in his fingertips. His mentor had covered his hand once and waited until the urge to rush quieted.
He had believed he’d never leave that room with its cold air and varnished benches and stern windows. He had believed he would give anything to stay because she was near. In the end, he had given more than he had counted.
And London asked its price still. The notice on his desk—dull paper, thin ink—requested the particulars of every tradesman with a Royal Warrant for the sake of “order.” Names. Birthplaces. Affiliations. Lists chase of Jews.
Alfie had set his palm over another notice this morning and said, very mildly, “Let it sit.”
Now, Felix stared at the threat as if it had been no different than the one all those years ago in Vienna.
He trimmed the lamp’s wick until the flame burned clean. The burnisher lay curved and faithful on the linen. He set it down too carefully, as if it might break. Warmth stirred under his breastbone at the memory that always arrived with Vienna; then a practiced chill swept it aside.
He had lost her.
Maisie.
All those years ago.
