Maisie’s hand slipped from the chair. Her fingers curled into her skirt.
“What song did you hum?” she asked.
“Tumbalalaika,” Deena answered.
The breath caught in Maisie’s throat. Faivish had known that song. Had loved it. Had once paused mid-sentence, just to listen.
“And he didn’t react?” she pressed. Faivish would have known it.
“No.” A pause. “Not truly.”
Maisie traced the rim of her teacup. Around and around. The paper beside her plate blurred. Tension crept behind her eyes, pressure building where the light touched too bright.
That technique—it had a fingerprint. A signature. Invisible to most. Clear as a name, to her.
Her father would have smiled.
But her stomach twisted. She knew better than to hope to find Faivish in London. She had combed registries. Asked every contact. Not one clue. Faivish might be in Vienna. But there was no sign of him in London. He was lost somewhere between here and India.
She swallowed hard, forcing down the lump that had risen in her throat.
Wouldn’t he have found her? Wouldn’t he have searched?
But after the riot, she hadn’t dared to leave word with anyone—not when every knock could’ve meant danger. She had fled with only what she could carry. No goodbyes. No explanations. No safety in trust.
After five years, could there still be hope?
She wasn’t even herself anymore. Not really. Certainly not Maisie Morgenschein. Just Lady Eleanor Spencer now. Wrapped in titles. Hidden behind the safety of a name no one would think to ask for.
He couldn’t find her. Even if he’d come close. But there had been no letters. No messages. No one asking. Not even a whisper. Cruel symmetry. She hadn’t been there when he returned. And now she was here, and he was nowhere.
Her lungs fought to draw air. Each breath felt like it took more effort than it should. She pressed her hand lightly to her bodice, fingertips seeking something—anything—that might steady her.
But there was nothing. Not even an anchor or a touchstone. Just silk, bone stays, and emptiness.
What if he went back? What if he waited… and I didn’t?
Across the table, Deena and John let the staff clear their plates. The clink of porcelain—so faint, so ordinary—yet scraped along her nerves.
Maisie lifted her gaze.
“I’m going to visit Rachel today,” she said evenly, as if she hadn’t just come undone inside her own skin.
*
Harley Street, around the same time…
The room wasstill dark when Felix woke with a jolt. His breath snagged in his throat, chest rising too fast, heart kicking like it was mid-chase. For a long moment, he lay still, eyes pinned to the ceiling beams, sweat cooling in the hollow of his back. Rain tapped at the windows. Inside him, heat still pulsed, low and stubborn.
It was her. Not a dream. Not fantasy. Maisie. The curve of her mouth under his. The hollow of her throat, warm against his lips. The way she laughed—so close to yielding. His body ached with it, sharp and specific, remembering the weight of her. Her breath. Her hands.
A sound escaped him—low, raw. He rolled over, pulled the pillow over his head. Pointless. Her imprint stayed.
He wanted her.
Not shadows and fragments.
Maisie.
