The hallway gave a faint groan, and he looked up.
“Still fighting with the light, Felix?” Alfie’s voice came before he did, warm and teasing, like friendship carried on creaking boards.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, a satchel slung across his shoulder, his grin boyish despite the faint scar on his cheek. “I brought more calendula salve.”
Felix let the corner of his mouth lift. “You know I keep it ready.”
“And yet you’d have set the room three times over if I’d let you,”Alfie said, stepping in, his apothecary’s bag thumping against the table. “I swear, you’ve been polishing since breakfast.”
“Precision matters,” Felix replied, but the cloth was already in his hand, sweeping over the tray again though it needed no more.
Alfie folded his arms, watching him with the patience of someone long used to this ritual. “It’s not every day the Crown Jewelers send word. You could almost fool me into thinking you’re nervous.”
Felix dipped his chin, though he didn’t quite deny it. “Rachel Pearler wrote herself. Said the boy was delicate. Said his guardian might be his aunt. That was all.”
Alfie’s brow rose. “Rachel Pearler doesn’t write letters for trifles. Her firm cuts the stones that princes wear on their fingers. If she says ‘delicate,’ she means the ton is already sniffing around.”
Felix’s gaze fell back to the tools, to the glinting gold. “Delicate is a polite word. Children like that aren’t left alone—they’re turned into currency. She didn’t say who’s circling.”
Alfie’s grin slipped. His voice dropped low. “List?”
The name burned in the air like a hot iron.
Felix’s jaw worked until it hurt. “Who else? He’s sniffing at Parliament again. Whispering that foreign heirs don’t belong, that Jewish guardians can’t be trusted. A boy like this—alone—” His fingers closed hard around the case of gold pellets, as though he might crush the threat with his hand. “He’d be easy prey.”
Alfie’s silence was answer enough.
Alfie let the words hang a moment, then he let out a breath that could scatter the heaviness with it. “You’ll do well. You always do. That’s why people trust you. Still—it also means the boy’s terrified, and no one else has the patience to see him through.” He set a small box on the desk. “New salts. Lemon, faint enough not to fight the lavender.”
“Thank you,” Felix murmured, taking the box and setting it neatly aside. “If the air smells safe, maybe he won’t dread the clove so much.”
Alfie watched him for a beat, lips twitching. “You’re preparing like he’s the Prince Regent himself.”
Felix shook his head. “He’s only thirteen. And he’s lost both parents. That’s enough reason to give him every dignity I can.”
Alfie’s grin softened into something quieter. “You’ve too much kindness in you. I hope the world gives you a fraction of it back. You patch people up with gold as if you can mend the whole world.”
Felix turned a small pellet in his fingers, letting it catch the light before placing it back in the row. “Gold doesn’t ask questions. It just fills the cracks and holds them together. If only more men were made of it.”
Alfie chuckled. “Always the philosopher.”
The clock ticked, its steady beat tightening the room. Felix glanced at it. “They’ll be here soon.”
Alfie swung his satchel back over his shoulder, pausing at the door. “Don’t forget to charge them properly. Just because half of Mayfair’s servants get free fillings from you doesn’t mean the practice can live on goodwill.”
“I don’t charge for easing pain.”
“You should.”
Felix’s eyes lifted, calm but firm. “I charge the ones who can afford not to feel it.”
Alfie shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Noble man. I’ll be at the dispensary if you need me. And don’t let the boy bite you.”
Felix almost smiled. “He won’t.”
When the door clicked shut, the room seemed to exhale. Felix adjusted the neck roll one final time, his hand lingering there before he drew it back. Soon a boy would sit in that chair—heart heavy, mouth aching—and for a little while, Felix could make one small corner of his life better.
He didn’t know what face would meet him when the door opened, but he already knew it wouldn’t matter. Not to the boy. Not to thework. And not to the ghost of a woman who had once steadied the lamp for him, her hand warm on his shoulder. A touch he still carried, five years on.
