He’d glimpsed her at the university, escorting her father, just enough to lose his breath each time. But the memory that haunted him wasn’t her face—it was her voice. That day at the practice whenhe’d borrowed Morgenschein’s kiln, he’d heard her humming Tumbalalaika from the back rooms.
The Yiddish melody had slipped under his skin, impossible to forget, just like her.
Topping his class had been his ambition for four years. But working beside her? That felt like standing on top of the world.
*
The handheld mirroron the brass tray caught the light and flared like a small sun. Maisie rubbed at it until her own face swam in the steel—ghostly, stretched. She smoothed her apron after, forcing her restless hands to be still. Her mother had stood here once, polishing these same tools before Father’s most important patients. That was seven years ago. Illness had carried her off, leaving Maisie with a three-year-old sister and the certainty that she could never again be only a girl. Not after that.
The muffled rumble of wheels outside drifted in through the shutters. The air carried the clean, sharp bite of clove oil from the practice below.
Then came footsteps. Heavier than Father’s. Slower, deliberate. And a voice—a ripple of English vowels through the doorway.
The Marquess of Stonebridge.
One of Father’s most loyal patients. An exiled English nobleman whose reserve melted only when he spoke of his boy back in England. Maisie was used to his polite nods when she appeared with towels or filled the basin. But today his voice carried a different weight.
“…my wife has taken a turn for the worse,” he said. “When she’s gone, our little John will be all I have left. And if something happens to me, my sister is nearly an invalid. She cannot raise a boy and protect the marquisate till John’s of age.”
Father’s reply was gentle, but the edge in it was firm. “Bring himhere. Vienna has every advantage—art, culture, medicine at the forefront of Europe.”
“Medicine, yes, but it is as riddled with politics as the stage,” the Marquess returned with a wry twist of the mouth. “Still… without you, Morgenschein, I might not have a single tooth left.”
Maisie stepped forward, balancing a folded towel and a pitcher. The Marquess’s eyes flicked to her—measuring, considering. Then he lowered himself into the chair.
“If society allowed it,” he said suddenly, “I’d trust a capable woman like your daughter to watch over John.”
The words hit strangely. Impossible, of course. Her place was here, not in some English estate. Yet the thought lodged, faint as a blur.
He settled back. “So, with this new technique, you can restore a smile?”
Father’s pride warmed his tone. “Yes. The latest method. Not yet released for general use.” But Maisie saw it then—the faint tremor in his hand as he gestured toward the tray.
Before she could think about it, a knock sounded.
“That will be my new apprentice,” Father said, and pride softened his whole face. “First in his class every year since he enrolled—Faivish Blattner.”
Maisie turned. And nearly lost her grip on the pitcher.
The student was not what she had pictured. His dark hair looked wind-tossed, a sun-touched strand falling over his brow. His eyes—brown, clear, alive with intelligence. His coat could not disguise the breadth of his shoulders or the easy strength in his stride. She had imagined nimble, scholarly hands. Instead, they were broad, veins visible beneath smooth, tanned skin.
He bowed to the Marquess, then looked at Father with a smile. Warm. Unassuming. Admiring in a way that sent a strange flutter through her chest.
Rolling up his sleeves, he made his way to the basin. Watersplashed, mingling with the bite of clove oil. His movements were deliberate, almost meditative, as though the work began before he even touched the tools.
He let his gaze drift over the tray. Did he nod to her?
The mirror caught the light again in his hand. He tested the mallet and weighed it. Even the air around him seemed charged with purpose.
Father began to explain, gesturing, and again—the tremor.
Maisie’s breath caught. She had noticed it before, that tiny quiver. But never like this. The ache of it pressed into her chest. For a heartbeat, she forgot anyone else was in the room—until Faivish’s gaze met hers.
He spoke gently. “If I may, Professor.” He lifted the plaster model for the Marquess to see. “Porcelain fused over gold caps, cemented in place. We can halt decay without extraction. Your teeth, restored—and lasting a lifetime.”
“You made these for me?”
“Yes,” Faivish said.
