For a long moment he sat there—man, puppy, lamplight, the silence wrapped around them like a fragile promise. “You’ll be all right,” he whispered. “I’ll see to it.” His thumb brushed her fur once more. “Shall we choose a name for you?”
Chapter Nineteen
The house wasquiet save for the soft tick of the clock on the mantel. Maisie sat alone at her escritoire, the candle guttering low, wax sliding in uneven ridges. The shadows didn’t just lean in—they crowded close, nosy things, as if they meant to read along. Her quill scratched, stuttered, a blot of ink blooming where her hand shook. Not from weariness. From the weight of words she would never send.
She wrote as though he might still hear her—no, not hear, but feel—the drag of ink, the spill of thought, as if paper could be a bridge. But she did not know where he was. Did not even know if he breathed, or if her letter, should it be found, might betray him.
And still, she wrote. Because silence frightened her more than danger. Because if she stopped, the words would rot inside her, and she would rot with them.
My dearest Faivish,
There are nights I close my eyes and whisper your name into the stillness, as though the darkness itself might carry my words across the miles to you. In my heart, I am already your wife. And yet—I tremble to write such a thing, for I fear I am unworthy of the honor of loving you.
You left to prove your heart was true, and I let you go. Even on the night when we sealed our promises—when I gave you all that Iwas and all I could ever be—I faltered. I ran. Not from you, never from you, but from a world that would not let me keep what was mine.
What if you believe I did not keep faith? What if you think I broke the vow written in my very soul? How could I, when you carry my heart still? It beats only for it remembers your hands, your voice, your touch.
I do not know if these words will ever find you. But if they should, know this: whether you are near or lost to me forever, I am yours. Entirely. Eternally.
—Maisie
She folded the letter slowly, smoothing the paper with her fingertips, careful as though the ink might smudge or the words dissolve. Her hands lingered on the crease before tucking it into the small carved box at the back of her escritoire. She didn’t need to open it to know it was already full.
There were so many already.
Letters. Pleas. Confessions. Pages that would never travel farther than her trembling fingers. She didn’t know where he was. Didn’t know if her words might place him in danger—or if they would ever be read at all.
So, she kept writing.
And hiding and hoping. Because the only thing more unbearable than silence was the thought of forgetting how to speak to him.
Later, when morning had pressed its grey light against the windows and the rustle of freshly ironed newsprint stirred the still air of the Spencer breakfast room, Maisie sat at the table with a stiff neck and a heart no less splintered than the night before. She held the paper upright, not to read it, but to hide behind it. The faint scent of ink clung to her fingertips, mingled with ink and regret.
When she’d told the butler once that the papers didn’t need to be ironed, he’d only replied, “Don’t let your fingers get ink-stained,madam.”
She hadn’t bothered arguing again. Not after the second time.
It wasn’t the crumpled paper that made her hands go still. It was the headline.
Baron von List proposes halt to Jewish emancipation; generously offers guardianship to orphaned aristocrats.
Her stomach tightened. Not just from the words—but from how calmly they sat beneath the masthead, like it was simply a policy shift, a clever bit of social engineering. The article discussed List’s generosity:Guardianship. Schooling. Proper thought.As if this man wasn’t slowly coaxing Europe toward a future far more dangerous than anyone cared to admit.
Her gaze snagged on that word—proper.
A chill spread through her chest, slow and invasive. It wasn’t enough to argue in Parliament anymore. Now he would shape children. Mold their minds before they were old enough to question. Until contempt for people like her was not a belief but a reflex.
She could almost hear Rachel’s voice, low and urgent:He dresses it up in polish and reason. That’s how he gets in.
The door flew open. Quick footsteps. A voice already mid-sentence.
“I’m famished!”
John barreled in and collapsed into a chair with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.
Maisie didn’t look up right away. She lowered the paper slowly, one brow rising. “Good morning to you, too.”
He paused, sheepish, toast already halfway to his mouth. “Good morning,” he mumbled around a grin, grabbing for the butter and wielding the knife like a child soldiering through a battlefield.
