How many nights had she stared at the ceiling, wondering if he still remembered her laugh? If his voice had changed? If he was breathing free air? Or if she’d been chasing a shadow all this time, while life pushed forward without her.
She reached for her handkerchief.
Rachel took her hand. Gave it a quiet squeeze. A nod that said,Yes, we share the weight.
But her tears weren’t Maisie’s.
The music stopped. Maisie’s head snapped up.
Her breath caught when the fiddle fell silent. A flute took its place, playing a low and eerie melody. Then the fiddler stepped forward. Maisie’s chest pulled tight. Then came the first unmistakable notes.
Tumbalalaika.
Deena clapped softly. “Maisie,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
Maisie nodded faintly. She couldn’t speak. The song pierced tooclose, too familiar, as if the past had found her here in this glittering room, refusing to let her pretend.
She leaned toward Rachel. “Do you know this, too?”
Rachel nodded, eyes still on the musicians. “Everyone does. They play it atsimchas.” Celebrations.
But this wasn’t one. Everything around her faded—the damask walls, the rainbows, the hush of polite admiration. All she heard was the melody. Every note was a plea. A memory. A wound. Every note was Faivish.
Chapter Twenty-Two
After the lastsong, the musicians slipped away for tea—their bows tucked, eyes bright with relief. Maisie exhaled, relief blooming through the tight coil in her stomach. She’d asked them about Faivish. They hadn’t known. And so, she lingered at Rachel’s elegant home with a heavy heart.
The drawing room had emptied into stillness. Deena and John drifted off, drawn toward the smaller parlor where rugelach and warm milk waited like a salve. The hushed quiet that settled between Rachel and Maisie became cavernous.
Rachel sat forward, her shoulders soft. A breath of breeze drifted through the open window, sending the sheer curtains floating, landing lightly across the room.
“And you’ve gone through everything in the archives?” she asked at last, voice gentle.
Maisie drew in a slow breath, crossing her arms over her midriff as though she could catch herself from falling apart. The question pricked, as if Rachel didn’t trust she’d done enough. She had burned through ledger after ledger, hoping for a flicker of proof, but only found dead ends.
“The old broadsheets?”
“Yes,” Maisie said, voice thin, tighter than she meant. “In French. In Prussian.”
Rachel hesitated. “What about those single-print leaflets?”
“Yes. Everything.” Her own voice betrayed her—strained, raw. She’d scoured every record of births, deaths, marriages, and notices. Every name but his name had answered her in silence.
“I’ve left no stone unturned. He’s nowhere.”
Rachel turned her gaze away and smoothed the fabric of her gown. Silk shifting under fingertips. After a moment, she offered a whisper: “Maybe… he doesn’t want to be found.”
The words landed like icicles against Maisie’s ribcage. Her breath froze. She’d refused even to let herself think it. “Why ever not?” she managed, throat tight.
Rachel didn’t answer with words. Instead, her brow arched—the same cool gesture her mother-in-law made when disagreement glided too close to argument.
Heat rose across Maisie’s face, anger coiling under dread. The thought that he might have turned away from her—rather than the other way around—felt intolerable.
She forced out a hollow laugh. “Maybe he’s content—in India?”
The words tasted sharp in her mouth.
Rachel’s features eased. “My brother-in-law, Benjamin Klonimus, was in India once. He said the Jewish communities there are small, but alive. Thriving, even.”
