He turned to Raphi, his voice even, though something hard pressed against his ribs.
“Your contacts at the docks. Tell me—any word?”
Five years of silence. Five years of hope clung to like glass shards—cutting, but impossible to let go.
Raphi’s pause spoke before his mouth did. And then, softly, the blow: “Nothing.”
The room seemed to dull at once, candlelight paling, shadows thickening. Felix blinked hard, forcing the sting back, refusing to let it spill here. Not in front of Raphi. A man doesn’t bear the wound that hasn’t healed. And yet, Maisie’s absence still felt as raw as the day she’d been torn from him.
“She’s still out there.” His voice was low, meant for no one—or perhaps only for himself. His hand tightened on the press until his knuckles blanched. Raphi’s hand came down, firm, steadying.
“You’ll find her,” Raphi said. Simple words but weighted with the kind of loyalty that never mocked hope, even when it hurt.
Felix met his friend’s eyes. For a moment, he nearly said the truth—that if words alone could bridge the sea, he’d have been back in Vienna long ago. But Harley Street tethered him, and he couldn’t risk undoing everything they’d built. Worse, searching blindly meant passing her in some port or inn, missing her by a day, an hour. Better to stand fast and send the net wide—Raphi’s letters, his trade contacts, his quiet inquiries stretching farther than Felix could reach without raising suspicion.
But standing still was its own torment. Every unanswered letter was another lash, every empty ship’s list a blade across the hope he refused to release. He was fighting blind, chained by duty, yet still—still—he never stopped turning stones, never stopped pressing forward.
He looked down at the gold in his hands. Cold, unyielding, yet promising something lasting. If he could mold this metal into crowns,bridges, lives rebuilt, then surely—surely—somewhere in the city’s shadows lay the answer he was searching for.
And even if tomorrow crushed him again, he would keep searching.
Always.
Chapter Twelve
For five years,Maisie had carried this letter like contraband—slipped under hems, hidden in satchels, pressed against her heart on nights when sleep refused her. The creases were soft now, the ink beginning to blur where her fingers had traced the lines too often.
She had read it first on the night her father collapsed. TheBurschenschafthad come like a storm, and by morning, everything was gone. The university seized his practice, his instruments, even the brass lamp that had always glowed on his desk. A whole lifetime—his skill, his teaching, his pride—stripped bare, as though Vienna could swallow a man whole and erase every trace he had lived.
That night, while the house still smelled of candle smoke and overturned ink, the Marquess had pressed the letter into her hands. His words were clipped, urgent—there had been no time for comfort. His carriage waited in the street, the horses stamping, breath steaming in the cold. She could still feel the roughness of the parchment, the way her fingers trembled as he closed her hand over it. “Read it when you are safe,” he’d said. Then the door had slammed, and she and Deena were jolted into the night.
She had clutched the letter ever since. Through border crossings and borrowed rooms, through the endless rehearsals of a life that wasn’t hers, she read and reread until Eleanor Spencer’s story slid over her like a second skin.
And tonight—here in London—it mattered more than ever.
It had beenher father’s final request delivered at the hand of the Marquess, who’d be forever tied to her now, the blueprint of a life she had never chosen. This letter felt less like protection than a commandment: the old world erased, a new one imposed.
Dear Miss Morgenschein,
If you are reading this, it means the plan your father and I spoke of in private has come to pass—sooner, and with more cost, than either of us wished.
Forgive me. What I ask is cruel: to step into another woman’s life, to take her name as your own, and to let your own vanish from the ledgers of Vienna. Yet it is the only way to keep you and Deena safe—and to save my son, John, from a fate I cannot bear.
You know what Vienna has taken from you. The night your father defended Faivish Blattner against the university’s cruelty, I believe he knew the price. When the Burschenschaft came for him, there was no time to send word. I had your name struck from every record “for your protection.” It was as if you had never lived there at all.
I have kept the death of my sister Eleanor private. In truth, Eleanor is gone—taken by illness years ago—but in law, she still lives. Her absence from society makes it possible for you to become her. It is the only way to keep John from a guardian appointed by the Chancery who would squander his estate and break his spirit. The papers, the household, the servants—all are arranged.
Upon your arrival in England, you shall take Eleanor’s estate. You will not inherit her life, but her absence, her seclusion. That shadow will be your shield. A tutor will be waiting to teach you and Deena to speak and move as Englishwomen, so that no one might suspect your origins.
I know what this costs you. I know you’ll lose contact with Faivish, your home, and your father in one cruel sweep. I cannot givethose back. But I can give you this: a life beyond the reach of those who would harm you, and the power to protect your sister and my heir.
Hold to this role until the world is kinder. One day, I hope, you may take back your name.
Yours, in trust and necessity,
Charles Stewart Spencer
Marquess of Stonefield
