And then—something. Or someone.
A shape first. The edge of a profile. A line of nose, a sweep of cheekbone. Hair pinned beneath a broad, modern hat. Not the kind Maisie ever wore. Too bold, too of-the-moment. And yet—
Something about the tilt of her head. The grace in the way she leaned in to speak. The poise that threaded through her shoulders like confidence set to music. It didn’t match what he knew… but it pulled at what he remembered.
His chest tightened. It couldn’t be her.
Or could it?
She turned slightly, murmuring something to the clerk. He couldn’t hear. Her back was to him now, posture elegant, the curve of her spine like a brushstroke. Nothing about her said Maisie. But everything in his blood did.
The rush was immediate. Heat, hope, ache—a chorus too loud to silence.
“Felix.” Alfie’s voice broke through, dry and pointed. “You’re staring like you’ve seen a mirage. Want me to take Lilly outside while you try to remember how to breathe?”
“No,” Felix said quickly, blinking hard as if to shake loose the spell. “This won’t take long.”
But by the time he looked again, she was gone. Only the swish of a hem remained, vanishing behind the door at the rear of the archive.
He moved instinctively, Lilly held tight against his chest, pushing through the hush of paper and whispers. A cart blocked his way. He swerved, catching the edge of a stacked tower of books that tumbled down in a chaotic spill. The crash rang out—sharp, discordant. Lilly let out a startled yip. Felix cursed under his breath.
Heads turned. Silence deepened, judgment thick in the air.
And still—she was nowhere.
He turned sharply, eyes landing on the nearest clerk. “The woman who just went into the back room. Please—I need to speak with her.”
The clerk barely blinked. “That section is restricted.”
“It’s important.” Felix leaned forward, voice taut with urgency. “Just a moment.”
The clerk gave a tight-lipped smile, the sort that didn’t reach theeyes. “Only distinguished patrons are permitted access.”
It wasn’t the words, but the weight behind them—coated in disdain, sharpened by scrutiny.
Felix held the clerk’s gaze, his jaw tightening. He knew this look. Knew the slow, silent dissection: dark hair, sharper cheekbones, the faint lilt of an accent too foreign for comfort. Not quite belonging. Never quite invited in.
Before he could speak, Alfie appeared beside him, easy as breath.
“The gent’s with me,” he said, slipping a coin across the desk without breaking stride. “Loyal patron, through and through.”
The coin clicked softly, landing with the weight of practiced diplomacy. Alfie’s smile made it a jest, a game, nothing serious—just enough to smooth over the friction.
Felix said nothing, swallowing the heat that rose in his throat. He hated needing the gesture. Hated what it meant. But the rope was lowered, the gate unlatched.
The clerk hesitated, then leaned in, voice dropping. “That was Lady Spencer. Sister to the late Marquess of Stonefield.”
Felix stilled.
Lady Spencer.
The name glittered like cut crystal—delicate, cold, and painfully unfamiliar. It didn’t fit.
And yet.
He almost asked nothing more, but the clerk went on, lowering his voice further. “Odd request, though. She asked for theWiener Zeitung for 1812. Who wants to read old news from Vienna? Said she wanted 1813 and 1814, too.”
The words struck him like a fist. Vienna. The year everything had unraveled. His father’s practice raided, Maisie vanished. His breath caught, though he forced his face still.
