“You loved him,” Deena said.
Maisie didn’t look up. “Yes.”
“And do you still?”
There was a long pause.
“I don’t think love works like that,” Maisie said finally. “You don’t put it away in a drawer when the war ends or the papers stop printing a name. It doesn’t end just because the world moved on.” She touched the rim of the cup again. Her fingers were icy. “It stays. Even when it’s not allowed to. Even when it doesn’t make sense anymore.”
Deena reached for the teapot, but Maisie shook her head.
“It won’t taste right. Not tonight.”
They sat there, the clock ticking softly, the house creaking as it settled into sleep.
“I hope he’s alive,” Deena said, not looking at her.
Maisie closed her eyes. I hope so too. But she’d learned not to say that part aloud. Hope had a way of unraveling when spoken too often.
“I dream about him sometimes,” she admitted. “He’s older. Changed. But he looks at me the same. Like I’m still the girl who brought him rose tea in a chipped cup and flushed when he smiled at me.”
The fire crackled low.
“I wish you’d gotten to say goodbye,” Deena whispered.
Maisie’s throat tightened. “I did.” But I didn’t expect it to be a farewell.
But the worst part was that she hadn’t known that the last kiss would be the last. That the next morning, everything would break.
She pressed her hand flat to the table, grounding herself. “I miss her,” she said softly. “The girl I was with him. She was brave.”
“You still are.”
Maisie looked up. Deena was watching her—not as a child, not asthe girl she used to tuck in—but as a young woman.
“I don’t feel brave,” Maisie said.
Deena poured her own cup and drank. “Then let me be brave for you, just for tonight.” Then she reached out and held Maisie’s hand.
The firelight flickered across the walls. Outside, the fog pressed thick against the windows. Somewhere in the street, a carriage rattled past, fading quickly into silence.
Maisie looked down at her tea one last time.
She didn’t drink it.
“After we left Vienna and came to England so soon after Father’s death, I didn’t even know where to start.” Her fingers tightened around the spoon. “But here… I’ve started to look for Faivish again.” Deena gave a small nod. “The executor of the Marquess’s estate has been thorough,” Maisie said. “He traced Faivish to Calcutta. That’s where the records stop. No notice of his return to Vienna. No ship manifests with his name. Nothing in any hospital rolls, no obituary, no letters.”
“And Rachel?” Deena asked softly. “Do you think she might be able to help?”
Maisie investigated her cup, as if the tea might offer an answer. “She might. But without a name, without something more than a memory… I’m not sure she could find anything we haven’t already tried.” She drew a slow breath. “It’s like chasing fog.”
Chapter Fourteen
The next day, 87 Harley Street…
Late morning sunlightpoured through the tall windows, spilling across the polished wood floor and catching on the brass fittings of the chair. Felix adjusted the mouth mirror one last time, tilting it until the light slid exactly where he wanted it. Shadows could hide infection. Shadows could ruin trust.
He stepped back, letting his gaze take in the room as a patient might: the linen drape smoothed crisp and neat, a roll at the headrest laced with lavender and chamomile. Not ornament—defense. Frightened children breathed easier when the air carried something soft. On the tray beside it waited clove oil in a stoppered vial, a scent sharp as memory, and his favorite burnisher gleamed like a promise. The gold pellets lay in their case, each one shaped by his own hand the night before. Tiny spheres of permanence. Gold yielded where it must and held where it mattered. If only hearts could do the same.
