“Under my supervision,” Father added quickly. Pride sharpened his voice. “With the newest techniques at the university.”
Maisie found herself watching Faivish’s hands again. Deft. Steady. Gentle.
The hour slid past in the soft hum of steel and water, the rise and fall of low voices. Even the Marquess’s stiff frame eased under Faivish’s careful touch. Grateful—that was the word. He looked almost grateful.
Maisie worked quietly, clearing the tray, replacing towels. And when she stepped back into the hall for fresh supplies, she caught herself humming—Tumbalalaika. A tune her mother had once filled this house with.
When she returned, Faivish’s eyes lifted. A faint smile touched them. “I know that song,” he murmured, just for her. “But never quite like that.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. She set down the towels, busying her hands. Their rhythm fell in step again—she anticipated his reach, he nodded in wordless thanks—the scrape of metal, the clink of porcelain, the quiet cadence of doctor and nurse.
She told herself it was only efficiency. But when his fingers brushed hers, steadying the plaster model as she set it down after the last crown was fixed, she felt it. That spark and danger. And beneath the scent of clove oil and the rustling of cloth, the risk echoed like a shadow: sometimes, the impossible was exactly what the heart began to want.
Chapter Two
Two months later, Vienna…
The last patientof the day had scarcely stepped out into the street when Faivish rinsed his hands in the porcelain basin. Soapy foam slid over his knuckles, and he listened to the house shift into a quieter evening rhythm.
From the kitchen drifted the scrape of cutlery, the clink of bowls, a burst of laughter that could only belong to Deena. Nine years old and thus eleven years younger than Maisie, was incapable of being still.
Drawn to the friendly sound, he stepped into the doorway.
The Morgenschein kitchen glowed like a hearth—lamplight gilding the plaster walls, a bowl of strawberries crowned with whipped cream at the center of the oak table, adorned with a simple woven center cloth. The window was propped open to the street; outside, a carriage rumbled over cobblestones, a hawker’s call trailing faintly behind.
Maisie sat close to her father’s right hand, sleeves pushed back, her braid loosened by the day’s labor. One delightfully stubborn blonde wisp had slipped free and curved against her cheek, catching the lamplight. The sight of it made his fingers ache—an almost physical pull—to reach across and smooth it into place. To touch her. Hold her.
Instead, he lingered where he was. Watching.
Her gaze lifted to his. And even though his eyes held hers, his heart stopped. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” she asked.
He’d noticed the simple spread on the counter, likely reserved forafter the meal—bread torn thick, a wedge of cheese, apples sliced clean, and of course, the berries bright as jewels against the porcelain. Before he could answer, Deena bounced in her seat, curls springing. “Ananas mit Schlagobers!” she declared, though there wasn’t a pineapple in sight. Ananas meant pineapple, except in Viennese German where it meant strawberries. Whipped cream was named after the heavy cream rising to the top of the milk, which, well, was whipped to its fluffy perfection like the one on the table.
Faivish chuckled. “That looks delicious.”
“As we call it in Vienna,” she shot back, chin high with the pride of belonging.
Professor Morgenschein’s knife paused mid-slice on a piece of apple. His tone was mild, but the words had an edge. “You were born Jewish. That is the only truth that follows us. Nationality—no matter what we give to them—never sticks.”
Maisie’s spoon hovered over her bowl, her lashes dropping like shutters.
The air shifted. Faivish knew that silence. The same taut quiet that always crept in when prejudice pressed too close to their door. He thought of Rector Hofstätter, of the man’s endless disputes with the professor, and felt heat rise at the back of his neck.
“He demands I use the porcelain work under his roof,” Professor Morgenschein muttered as if he’d known that Faivish knew why he’d corrected Deena as the older man resumed his slice with more force than needed. “The building belongs to the university, he says. As if thirty years of my work do not count.”
Every corner of this place bore Morgenschein’s mark—his wife’s, too, before illness stole her away. They had built not just a practice, but a refuge. And still, men like Hofstätter would call it borrowed.
The professor gestured toward the empty chair. Faivish sat, the wood warm from recent use. Deena smeared cream across her chin, giggling, while Maisie leaned over now and then to steady her littlesister’s hand or nudge the bowl closer. Quiet efficiency. But also, devotion. She was the axis around which this household turned.
Faivish felt it then—an ache low and steady. She belonged here, in this house, in this role. And yet, somehow, he wanted her for himself.
“You know, Professor,” he said, aiming his voice low enough for Maisie to hear, “I’m to meet Alfie Collins tonight at the Spanish Riding School.”
The words hung in the air. Maisie’s spoon slowed.
The professor nodded. “Ah, yes, the apothecary. Ambitious for a British student. He’ll have his shop one day, I’m sure.”
Maisie traced slow circles in the cream with her spoon. “What business do you and Alfie have there?” The question was soft, almost reluctant, but it carried a spark of curiosity that thrilled him.
