Her name thrummed through him like a low chord. He saw her as she’d been the night before—hair tumbling from its pins, eyes lit with stubborn faith in him. He wanted her laughter in his home, her hand steadying his instruments, her breath warm in the quiet between one heartbeat and the next. He wanted her, everywhere, always.
Alfie’s voice cut in. “Why don’t you ask her to come with us?”
“Come with us?” Faivish blinked hard. “You know her father’s ill. And there’s Deena.” The thought twisted sharp inside him. Does Maisie even know how close he is to failing? How much is waiting to fall on her shoulders?
“Poor little thing,” Alfie said, his voice rough. “She needs someone.”
And Maisie… I thought that someone would be me.
Alfie sat back, a half-smile shadowing his bruises. “Then that’s the plan, just like the professor said. We go. We learn. We come back stronger. And next time…” His tone hardened. “Next time, we don’t just survive. We win.”
Faivish shut the trunk. The latch clicked with a finality that made his chest tighten. His palm rested there longer than it should have, as if holding the lid shut might keep him from losing the vision inside his head—Maisie, standing in a doorway, smiling at him as though he already belonged.
But instead of reaching for her, he dragged out the second trunk from beneath his bed and snapped it open.
I’m preparing for a journey I never wanted. And leaving behind the only one I do.
Chapter Nine
A few hours later at the University of Vienna, still 1812.
Afaint chillhung in the corridor as Maisie crept through the student dormitory, her father’s old cloak trailing at her ankles, smelling faintly of tobacco and time. The floorboards carried the stale perfume of young men’s lives—cheap liquor, cold coffee, the sour tang of ink left too long in its pot. She’d slipped out while her father was still speaking over supper, his voice full of other people’s stories: Jews in England, Rachel-this and Rachel-that, starting over after flights from Switzerland. Each word had pressed on her ribs until she felt caged in her own skin. She couldn’t bear the room with its polite disapproval, the silences that said more than the words. So she had come here.
Beyond the shuttered windows, Vienna sprawled in lamplight and frost. The spire ofStephansdomcarved its black silhouette into the winter sky. Oil lamps shivered on the cobbles; alleys breathed woodsmoke, dung, and roasted chestnuts hawked by shivering vendors. A carriage slammed its door somewhere, wheels clattering away. A night watchman’s cry echoed off the stone—Alles sicher! Safe!—but the sound felt hollow, as if even the walls knew it was a lie.
She tightened the cloak at her throat. Every street she had known since childhood now seemed altered, the very stones shifting beneath her as though Vienna itself had turned against them. And still she walked, heart hammering, not sure if she was seeking Faivish or simply refusing to let him vanish without her.
The dormitory was stark, foreign: bare plaster streaked with water stains, plain doors lined up like soldiers at attention. Brass handles dulled by years of use. At the end of the hall, one candle guttered in its sconce, its light running along the wainscoting in jagged shadows.
25B.
Her pulse leapt. She remembered the number etched on the key he always carried. Her hand hovered above the latch, trembling, empty of words but full of need. She couldn’t face a dawn where he had gone and she hadn’t tried. She knocked.
Alfie opened. His bruised cheek looked oddly tender in the lamplight. She slipped past quickly; the room’s warmth hit her at once. Soap. Leather. And underneath, the faint trace that was unmistakably him.
Faivish was crouched over a trunk. He looked up. Froze. Then rose, slowly, until he stood to his full height. For a breath their eyes caught—flared—and then his gaze shuttered.
“Maisie,” he said, glancing toward Alfie.
“I don’t need to be here,” Alfie murmured. Apology in his voice, heavy enough to sting. “I’m sorry, Maisie. All of this—it’s mine to bear.”
“I let it happen,” she whispered.
“No—I caused it.” He tugged his coat from the nail on the wall. He and Faivish exchanged a look that carried more than words—shared blame, shared loss—and then Alfie slipped out. The latch shut behind him, sharp as a sentence.
Maisie slid the bolt.
Faivish stood at his desk, folding a shirt with mechanical care, as if neat creases could shield him from what lay between them.
“No girls allowed in the dormitory,” he said at last. A joke so thin it nearly tore.
“You’ve broken worse rules,” she said, keeping her voice steady though her heart skittered. “One more won’t count.”
“I’m not expelled. Just… exiled a little.” His lips pressed into something between bitterness and defiance.A little. Not funny.
Her gaze swept the shelves—stripped bare. The emptiness made her throat ache. “You’re truly packing for India?”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “We leave at dawn. Alfie made the arrangements. Your father… helped.”
