Faivish’s voice cut the silence. “He wasn’t discredited. He escaped while Alfie was beaten. They came at night because I surpassed them on merit.”
Hofstätter turned the folder in his hand, as if testing its weight. “Still this slander. My son doesn’t dirty himself in alleys. He prepares to inherit his station.”
Maisie’s fists curled into her skirts. Her voice broke free before she could stop it. “I held the lamp. I saw the wound. Without the crown, infection would have spread. He’d have lost more than a tooth.”
The Rector looked at her, not truly at her—through her, as though she were nothing more than a shadow that dared to speak. “And this,” he said to her father, “is the rot you permit. A nurse with opinions. You’ve forgotten your place, Morgenschein.”
The ivory knob of her father’s cane creaked under his grip. His reply was quiet but unyielding. “Do not speak to my daughter.”
Hofstätter’s smile dropped away. What replaced it was colder. “You tremble, old man. Then hear me plainly. Your anarchy ends tonight. Keys to the kiln. Now.”
Her father’s hand moved slowly, reluctant. The key scraped against metal, then fell into Hofstätter’s palm.
“You will not light it again. You will not let this boy claim what he has not earned. And tomorrow morning, you face the wrath of the entire academic committee.”
“Under oath?” Faivish asked, his voice iron.
“Under mercy,” Hofstätter said, almost lightly. “If any remains.”
Maisie thought of Deena asleep upstairs, of the house worn soft by her mother’s steps. She thought of Faivish’s hand on her jaw only an hour ago—and how this man could twist that tenderness into danger.
At the threshold, Hofstätter paused, eyes drilling into her father. “Position, Professor. Learn it—or I will teach it.”
The door slammed shut, rattling the shelves.
Her father sank into a chair, a tremor running up his arm. Whenhe looked at Maisie, it was with the same broken calculation she remembered from years ago: how to shield a child when there was no shield left.
Chapter Eight
Father had beenat the university in the morning but he hadn’t told Maisie what the committee had decided. Nor what they’d done. He didn’t need to, she could see how bad it was in his expression.
Later in the afternoon, after the last patient left with a stiff bow, the practice sagged into quiet. The air still carried its mix of sharp clove oil and the faint bitterness of antiseptic, but without voices to cut through, the silence felt suspiciously as if walls were listening.
Maisie latched the door and turned back to the treatment chair. Her cloth moved in practiced, even strokes across the leather, but every swish of damp linen seemed to echo. No Faivish to murmur instructions. No steady rhythm of his hands setting instruments to order. The room felt emptier for it—emptier than she could bear.
He hadn’t come. Not once.
And her father had not spoken his name.
She rinsed the cloth and worked faster, as though brisk movements alone might scrub away the dread rising in her chest. She wanted Faivish near, more than she’d ever dared put into words. Not as her father’s pupil but as her husband and partner in life. She wanted to assist him and care for him. Her pulse jumped at the thought of mornings that might follow nights full of his kisses—perhaps more. Heat rushed under her collar, and she pressed her palm to her brow,trying to smother the thought before it carried her away.
At the desk, her father sat too still. His eyes moved to the clock again, and again, and again. Normally he timed everything precisely—patients never waiting more than a heartbeat past the hour. But this was different. This was waiting. And his hands trembled worse than she had seen in weeks.
She noticed the rest too: the unnerving clarity of the desk. No stack of patient records, no half-finished sketch of a tooth, no pencil left to roll. Just the pen, perfectly aligned with the inkwell, as though the desk had been prepared for some solemn ritual.
“Father?” Her voice was careful, almost hushed. She dried her hands on her apron. “Are you expecting someone?”
His swallow was sharp, the line of his throat jerking. “Yes.”
The answer had barely settled when a knock rapped through the silence.
Maisie’s palm dampened on the knob. She opened the door and there he was—Faivish. Solemn, composed, his dark coat brushed clean of snow. His eyes caught hers, and she knew at once this wasn’t a visit for pleasantries or tea.
“Come in, Faivish,” Father said.
He stepped inside, ungloved, hat in hand. His boots left faint wet marks across the mat. Her father remained behind the desk, hands clasped tight as if they alone kept him steady.
“The university has decided.” His voice was taut, like wire about to snap. “You will graduate. But you may not walk in the ceremony. And you are to leave Vienna.”
