But he didn’t respond. His breath came jagged, too shallow, each pull like it might be the last. Sweat gleamed along his hairline. At his knee, Deena clung to him, her small face blotched with tears, whispering fragments of comfort that broke apart in her throat.
Beside them stood the Marquess, straight-backed, papers clutched in his fist like a summons. His eyes locked on Maisie’s with clipped urgency.
“Miss Morgenschein,” he said. “It is time.”
Time for what?Maisie’s mouth opened, but before the question formed, her father’s rasp broke through, raw and thinning, “Leave Vienna and go to London to Rachel. She’ll know what to do.”
She dropped beside him, knees striking the floorboards. TheBurschenschaftshadows shifted closer, their nearness answering the question her mind refused to finish. This wasn’t illness. It wasn’t chance, but rather a punishment for defying them and daring to let Faivish finish what he had earned.
Her father’s hand flew to his chest. His groan cracked through her like glass.
“Father,” she choked, gripping his wrist, the thin bones hot beneath her palm.
His eyes found hers, dim already, but still fierce with meaning. “Take Deena,” he whispered. “Go to Rachel. I thought I’d have more time…”
The words shuddered into silence as he sagged, the Marquess catching his shoulder before he slid from the chair. Deena cried out, her thin wail piercing the air, and Maisie gathered her close, pressing her sister’s face into her skirts to shield her from the sight.
Behind them, one of the Burschenschaft stepped fully into the kitchen, his smile wolfish. “Should’ve left when you had the chance.”
The Marquess turned on him, voice steel. “Take another step and I’ll have your name delivered to every foreign ministry from here to London.”
TheBurschenschaftmen paused, then shifted, and finally withdrew muttering something vicious.
Her father’s hand, still warm, slipped from the table and hung there helpless and emptied of its strength. The lamplight blurred; whether from tears or smoke, Maisie could not tell.
She dropped beside him, knees striking the floorboards. TheBurschenschaftshadows had crept closer. Their boots scraped the floor. One leaned toward the doorway and sneered.
It struck her in a wave: the man who had taught her every stitch, every careful measure, who had held their fragile world together since Mother’s death—gone. There would be no voice at her shoulder correcting her grip on the scalpel, no quiet hum of Yiddish lullabies when Deena had fevers. The silence where he had always been was unbearable, pressing against her chest until she could scarcely breathe.
Her heart howled with the injustice of it. That men with crests on their folders, boots polished to a glare, could callously snuff out a life like this. To leave her with a child’s sobs and a wrecked practice. She bent her head to Deena’s hair, kissed her crown, and promised without words that she would not let her drown in this loss.
But as the room filled with the shuffle of hurried feet and hushed orders—the Marquess speaking to someone she couldn’t see—onethought pierced through the haze of grief, sharp and merciless:If they take our home and the practice away now, how will I keep Deena safe? And when Faivish comes back—how will he ever find us again?
When the Marquess returned, his voice low and certain. “You’ll go in my carriage and under the protection of my name. Tonight. You’ll be in Italy by tomorrow evening. England within the fortnight. I promised I’d protect his daughters and hope you’ll protect my only heir.”
Maisie looked at him—truly looked. At the man who had stood between them and danger. Who had carried her father’s weight without flinching.
“I’ll care for your son,” she said. “I swear it. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Chapter Eleven
London, 1817.
Five years hadpassed.
Felix Leafley—though in his heart he was still Faivish Blattner—could never decide if those years had crawled like winter molasses or thundered past like a midsummer storm. All he knew was that it had been five years without her. Five years since hurried farewells under Vienna’s heavy skies, since whispered promises made with grief clinging to every word.
Even here, in London’s noise and bustle, Maisie’s absence lived in him like iron chained to his ribs. He kept his vow—to her, to himself, to every patient—that he would be the best in his craft. But what was skill worth without her? To go on forever without her love felt like a cruelty he could hardly name.
“I’ve barely enough gold for a week’s work,” Felix muttered, pushing open the familiar door of his supplier’s shop—his friends.
35 Regent Street
Klonimus & Sons, Jewelers
The workshop greeted him with the warm scent of beeswax, wood shavings, and fire-polished metal. It was the smell of things built to last. But before he could brush off the London drizzle from his coat, a voice called from the back.
“Faivish!”
