Maisie swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Then I’ll come and fetch you with pastries from the French patisserie. Friday mornings, without fail.”
Not challah, of course. Something else that meant home.
He gave a quick nod, straightening again, his young face set with resolve. But as Maisie rose to leave, he faltered. His feet edged toward the great oak doors—and then, with a sudden turn, he was back at her side.
He threw his arms around her waist, tight, unexpected.
Maisie gasped softly as she caught him, folding him close. Her hand settled over his small back, warm and steady. He smelled of honey soap and fresh linen.
She held him as long as he let her—a moment stitched into memory—and then, without a word, he stepped back.
And just like that, he let go.
She stood a moment longer, one hand resting where he’d held her, her eyes fixed on the doorway that had swallowed him whole. The smudge of soil on her gown was the only sign he’d been there at all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Later that afternoon,summer light slanted through the glass-paned windows of the Pearlers’ parlor, casting dappled warmth across the room. Maisie clutched her teacup with both hands—less for the drink, more for the heat it gave her.
“I tried,” she murmured, the words brittle as old silver. “I wrote to every person I could remember in Vienna. I asked the East India Company. They said no Faivish Blattner ever returned to England. No one knows where he is.”
Rachel paused mid-stir—her spoon tinkling in the cup—her voice soft as gauze and bright as diamonds. “Maisie… might something dreadful have happened? Could he not have reached India—or something gone wrong on the voyage home?”
The words landed with cold weight. Maisie blinked once, swallowing hard against the knot tightening inside her.
Don’t imagine it. Don’t name it. Oh, please be alive.
“I’ve thought of it,” she confessed, voice so low it felt tangled in the tablecloth. “Then I tried not to. There were storms that year… I remember a merchant ship lost off Bombay.”
Rachel didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pressed a fresh cup into Maisie’s trembling hands. The rings on her fingers glinted when the porcelain moved between them.
Maisie stared down. The surface of the tea quivered. Fear didn’troar—it just waited, like a weight gathering in her bones.What if he’s gone? Buried under foreign earth, buried from all memory?
Her fingers shook. The liquid rippled. She set the cup down to stop the tremors from showing.
“What if,” she said eventually, voice rough and slow, “he doesn’t want to be found anymore? What if he’s married now—has a wife, a child?”
Rachel blinked, eyes gathering something more profound than her surprise.
“Would he be able to?” she asked, carefully, as if her words might shatter something.
Maisie didn’t answer. Instead, she saw him again in her mind: the mischief in his dark eyes, the way light kissed his skin, his laugh pulling her in like gravity itself. They had a bond—but that did nothing to stop him from falling into another’s arms if given the chance.
Fear trickled up behind her ribs. She could see the child: inquisitive eyes like his, a silent mother watching, wise and soft with settled strength, orchestrating a household. The sketch formed so clearly it made her whole being spin—before it ghosted away like a nightmare.
“He was mine,” she whispered. Not possessed, simply… loved me. Whole. Her voice caught there. “He’d touch my sleeve. Not my hand—just the cloth. Something in him needed that. I’d feel it… He’d pretend surprise, then that crooked smile… I—” She laughed, breathless. “I’d forget the rest of the world.” She exhaled. “He adored me. Every look. Every breath.”
And later that night… he showed her.
Her lips shook; the next breath was sharp. “If he smiles that way at another woman… if he whispers her name like he spoke mine—” Her gaze dropped to the cooling tea. Words nearly escaped.
“Then maybe it was all a dream.” But her heart recoiled from the silence beyond waking.A life touched by his love—even if dreamed—is better than one without it.
Rachel didn’t speak. Just set her spoon down with a soft click. “Youdidn’t dream it.”
Maisie shook her head. It didn’t steady anything.
Rachel leaned forward. “Would you want to know? Even if he had married another?” The question settled between them like fog.
