Folsham, Collins, Fernando, Leafley
87 Harley Street
Maisie turned it over, her breath catching at the final name. It was odd and yet she couldn’t say why.
Leafley.
She swallowed. “Thank you,” she said.
Rachel’s gaze lingered with a quiet smile. “At the very least, the marquess will be well cared for.”
But Maisie heard what Rachelmeant.
And for the first time in years, something inside her whispered:Maybe so will I.
Chapter Thirteen
On an ordinaryafternoon on Harley Street, Felix was sick of the hopelessness of finding Maisie. Plus, the practice was loud today. Voices echoed through the hallway, muffled behind closed doors. Someone coughed down the corridor; someone else fake-laughed too loudly. His next patient wasn’t scheduled for another half hour, so Felix slipped into the back kitchen downstairs and shut the door behind him with the soft finality of someone not wanting to be followed.
It was a plain little room—sturdy oak table, a row of barely chipped mugs, a half-tin of tea that rattled when he picked it up.
He filled the kettle and lit the flame.
One scoop.
And another.
Still not enough. Nothing was enough anymore.I miss her so much.
He paused, the tin in his hand.
She used to bring tea to the practice in Vienna—always careful not to spill when she balanced the teapot and cups on the tray as she pushed the door from the waiting area to Professor Morgenschein’s treatment room open with her back. Once, she’d set the tray down beside him, and he’d said—without quite thinking—that she’d looked perfectly pretty that day.
She’d gone still, just for a second and then smiled.
He added a fourth scoop.
Then a fifth.
The leaves hit the pot with a soft hiss, like something breaking. He missed how her braid came loose by the end of the morning. And that one night, when her braid had come apart under his touch and she’d given herself… if he had known he wouldn’t see her again, he would have never let her go. That stupid promise to be back after a year… five now. He’d left her and didn’t even know where she was. But sometimes, it was as if he could sense her sadness. Or was it his own broken heart? Either way, every second without Maisie felt too long. The leaves had clumped in the bottom of the pot like dirt. That’s fine, he thought. Let it brew bitter. The flame hissed low. He didn’t move.
Behind him, the door opened.
“Oh—you’re here?” Andre sounded surprised. “Thought you were upstairs.”
Felix kept his back to him, still holding the spoon.
Andre stepped closer. “Felix. What is that, tea concentrate? You’ll kill someone with that.”
“I just want a biscuit,” Felix said. He opened the cupboard. Empty. Bent down. Nothing but crumbs in the jar. “Isn’t there anything useful in this kitchen?”
“I dare say, we’re pretty useful,” Andre said.
Before Felix could answer, the door opened again. “Who’s talking about useful?” Wendy walked in, tugging off her gloves. “Oh, tea.”
She poured herself a cup, took one sip, and gagged. “Ugh. Who made this?”
“It’s too strong,” Felix muttered.
