Those had been the Marquess’s last words to her, and his plan had been financed by his executor along with the tutor who schooled her and Deena in English vowels, manners, and silences.
Maisie remembered—sharp as broken glass—the night in Vienna when she had glimpsed her father and the Marquess bent over his desk, voices hushed, papers spread before them. She had caught fragments—your sister Eleanor… the boy… protection—before the door closed. She had not understood then. But she did now.
Five years earlier, she had rehearsed Eleanor Spencer’s story and she’d spoken her name aloud until it no longer caught in her throat. Yet she carried her father’s name—her true name—pressed against her in secret, the ghost she could not lay to rest.
And now, London. No longer practice, but reality. The ruse her father had devised, the shadow-life the Marquess had secured—it was no longer a disguise but her future. And as Father had asked her, she’d go to Rachel.
She folded the parchment with deliberate care and slid it deep into her glove, as though tucking her true self safely inside. At her side, John—barely thirteen, eyes already older than his years—stood straight, the invisible weight of his inheritance bending his small shoulders. Deena clutched Maisie’s other hand, her grip tight, frightened.
Maisie drew them both closer. “Come on,” she whispered. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “It’s time.”
The Pearler residence loomed ahead, its façade all polished stone and symmetry, windows shuttered like watchful eyes. Maisie’s steps faltered at the threshold, nerves clawing at the calm she had practiced on the walk over. It wasn’t just a house she faced. It was Father’s last plan—his way of binding her to a safety he would never live to see.
The lion’s-head knocker gleamed, brass polished to a mirror shine. Maisie’s gloved hand hovered above it, her reflection wavered in the metal, blurred and uncertain, as if even the house itself demanded: Who are you to enter?
Father’s voice pressed against her memory: Trust the Marquess. England will protect you. His faith in this arrangement had been unshakable, and so here she was—five years of obedience behind her, five years of silence pressed down like a stone on her chest. Five years without Faivish.
Would Father have chosen this path if he had known the cost? That his daughter’s name would vanish from Vienna’s ledgers as if she had never lived there? That the boy who had promised to return in a year would find nothing—no trace of her, no whisper of her existence? If Faivish ever set foot in Vienna again, she was a ghost to him now.
Her grip tightened around Deena’s hand until the younger girl glanced up, eyes wide with questions that Maisie could not answer. John, on her other side, shifted his weight. At thirteen, he carried himself with a solemnity that belonged on older shoulders, his gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw tight with duty.
Deena’s attention flicked to the knocker, then back to Maisie. She straightened her posture—chin lifted, shoulders squared—with a practiced composure that startled her sister. Sixteen, and already steadier than Maisie felt. Children learned to adapt; perhaps that was her gift. Maisie envied her courage, for her own heart was still waging war inside her chest.
She swallowed hard. Father had wanted the protection of Eleanor Spencer’s name. But that protection had cost Maisie her own heart.Every beat of it still whispered of Vienna—of lamp-lit nights and vows spoken in a dormitory where the future had felt certain, if only for a breath.
Her chest tightened. Survival did not care for love, or vows, or what-ifs. Survival demanded silence. And here she stood: five years of silence, five years of hiding.
Once, she had pictured her life as clear as porcelain—her father’s practice carried forward, her work at Faivish’s side, their lives entwined in purpose and love. That dream now felt like something seen through glass warped with age: faint, unreachable, almost belonging to someone else.
Maisie exhaled slowly, the sigh weighted with everything she had lost but not her courage. She lifted her hand to the knocker.
If only Faivish were here…
But wishes were lost thoughts in the wind. Maisie lifted the knocker and let it fall, once, cleanly. She couldn’t stand in what-ifs any longer; John’s eyes were on her.
The door opened at once. A butler in ink-dark velvet stood framed by marble and light, his stillness practiced to an art.
“Lady—” Maisie began, the alias catching on her tongue.
“Mrs. Pearler awaits you in the green drawing room, Lady Eleanor Spencer,” he said with a slight inclination, as if finishing the sentence she’d struggled to start. A maid slipped forward, deft hands already reaching for their cloaks.
Warmth lifted from the hall like a hush after snow. The entry’s black-and-white tiles shone as if they’d been polished between heartbeats; beeswax rode the air, subtle and clean. For a breath, something in Maisie tugged backward—not quite homesickness, but close.
“Shoulders, love,” she murmured to Deena, squeezing her fingers. She straightened—quick study, old habit—and Maisie’s own spine obliged.
Behind them, the young marquess kept pace in his small, faultless coat. His silence had weight; it matched her own.
The green drawing room earned its name: walls the deep green of a hawthorn leaf, silk catching the light; chairs swallowing sound; gilt grazing the moldings. Beauty here did not soothe; it arranged. Every symmetry reminded her she was a guest in someone else’s order.
Rachel Pearler stood by the tall windows, face tipped to the pale day. Petite, composed, steel wrapped in silk.
“Miss Maisie Morgenschein!” she said warmly, the name precise on her tongue, as if she’d practiced it once and never forgot. Before Maisie could brace herself, Rachel crossed the room and took both her hands. Her eyes were bright with welcome and edged with appraisal. “And you must be Deena.” Her glance softened, measured. She turned to the boy. “And the young Marquess—welcome.Ich freue mich, Ihnen behilflich sein zu können.”
So she moved between worlds with ease—German, Yiddish, and English, heritage and society—no seams showing.
Maisie’s chest tightened—gratitude laced with caution. One weighs help; one never stops.
“Vielen Dank, dass Sie uns so bald nach unserer Ankunft empfangen,” Maisie said, formal despite the thrum in her throat. Thank you for welcoming us so soon upon our arrival.
