Raphi turned away. But Felix stayed, facing the scattered tools, the bent wire, the cold cup of tea. The room didn’t feel empty. It felt stalled—like a breath held too long.
The world might keep moving. But he would wait, always, for her.
*
About a twentyminute walk away, sunlight spilled across the drawing room just off Green Park. Maisie had asked to see her friend Rachel Pearler—no grand purpose, only a restless pull she didn’t bother to question. She’d run down every practical lead, sent notes to every newspaper that might have taken interest, and now her search for Faivish clung to a thread grown thin with wear. Every day without news tightened her.
She was starting to come apart.
The butler opened the door. Maisie adjusted her grip on Deena’s smaller hand, steadying them both. John bounded in ahead, all elbows and energy, already at ease. Maisie paused at the threshold.
The chambers inside smelled of lemon tart and ripe apples. Warmth met her like a shawl pulled from the oven—but she didn’t step forward. The sounds beyond the foyer—silver on porcelain, voices overlapping—slowed her. Too much comfort that wasn’t meant for her.
She wasn’t here to visit and didn’t want tea. She wanted time to collapse into something she could name.
“This way, madam,” the butler said, bowing. She followed, skirts sweeping softly over polished wood. She had imagined the usual parlor—Rachel cross-legged on the settee, Deena curled at her feet, cold tea forgotten. But they passed down a different hall.
The drawing room opened wide.
Sunlight flared against burgundy damask walls. Crystals swung from a chandelier overhead, scattering color across the white-draped table like a dropped handful of gems. And then—music.
Low at first. A fiddle, a singer, a man at the pianoforte. The notes curled through the room—slow and lush, pulling at the edges of things.
Maisie stopped in the doorway.
The sound swelled, close enough to touch. It filled her chest, leaving less room to breathe.
She had come looking for a distraction. But the music didn’t clear her thoughts—it pressed against them. Thick and ornate.
She didn’t want beauty but stillness. A quiet space large enough to hold his voice but anywhere she turned these days, she thought of Faivish. She could almost feel him.Am I going mad?
By the fireplace sat Eve Pearler, Rachel’s mother-in-law, whom Maisie had only met once in passing. But even at a glance, Eve commanded a room the way some women wore diamonds—calmly, deliberately, without apology. She sat straight-backed in a high-back chair, her posture untouched by comfort, surveying the room like it belonged to her simply because no one had challenged her claim.
Children sprawled at her feet, tumbling over pillows. Little Maia, Rachel’s daughter, waved at John, who had already plopped down cross-legged at the front. He looked entirely at home. Eager. Unbothered. As though Maisie weren’t standing frozen behind him, her chest tight with unease.
“Over here!” Rachel called, her voice warm as always. A footman appeared and adjusted a chair. Maisie moved reluctantly, tugging Deena’s hand until the girl wriggled onto a footstool beside her.
Rachel leaned in, her voice pitched low beneath the string’s hum. “They’re from Warsaw,” she said. “Traveling musicians. Eve arranged it.”
Of course, she had. Eve Pearler had a way of making generosity feel like a binding contract. Maisie had heard the whispers: Eve was sunlight. Everything grew around her—but stand too close and you’d burn.
Maisie wasn’t here to be scorched. She needed quiet, not attention.
“They played at the new synagogue, too,” Rachel added.
Maisie nodded. Polite. Tight. Her hands rested carefully in her lap, fingers still. She didn’t clench them, but the effort cost her. Everycourteous smile felt like a betrayal—of urgency, of longing, of Faivish.
Rachel’s smile didn’t waver. “Most in London haven’t heard anything like this.”
The next piece began—slower, aching. The fiddle keened. The voice followed, heavy with memory.
Maisie’s pulse thudded behind her eyes.
She’d always hated these Yiddish laments. Not the language, not the notes—but the surrender in them. Heartbreak set to melody. She didn’t understand why people turned their sorrow into song and offered it up like incense. Around her, handkerchiefs appeared—Rachel, Eve, even Deena swayed softly, caught in the current.
Maisie kept her eyes on her skirt. Gray wool. Pressed. Every pleat perfectly sharp. Each note pressed in harder. The lump in her throat rose too quickly.
Lately, it took nothing at all to cry. And the reason—always—circled back to him. Faivish. If she gave in here, in Rachel’s drawing room, in Eve’s curated spectacle, she might not know how to stop.
