He turned away.
The street behind the Pearlers’ home curved softly into the dark edges of Green Park. The house glowed behind him, the light beautifulbut distant. Untouchable.
He passed beneath one window, glancing up.
She might have stood at a window like that once. In Vienna. In Paris. Or just down the street.
Maisie.
Even now, just her name stirred him. After all this time, after all the silence. It still ached.
He walked slowly, boots scuffing over the gravel. The truth pressed in with each step—he didn’t want to be seen. Not with the streaks of silver in his hair. Not with a name he hardly used anymore.
Faivish had belonged to her. Felix was what remained. But he’d always be hers with all his heart.
And if she had forgotten him—or worse, if someone had told her he wasn’t worth remembering—then maybe that was best.
But even so, he couldn’t stop the quiet, impossible hope that somewhere, somehow, she hadn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Inside the Pearlers’house, Shabbat candles flickered along the damask walls, their flames casting soft, restless shadows across the dining room. Maisie followed Rachel through the double doors into the study, her gloved hands clasped tightly at her waist. Deena was somewhere else in the house, gently distracted. The table in the dining room lay waiting—silver catching the candlelight, wine glowing like garnet in its glass.
At the far end of the study, Fave Pearler stood near the desk, his fingers idly brushing the velvet rim of a jeweler’s tray. Another man stood beside him—taller, broad across the shoulders, his dark hair polished to a sheen under the chandelier. Both had their backs to the door.
“These are remarkable,” Fave said, lifting a stone between thumb and forefinger, turning it until it flashed.
“Each is one carat exactly,” the man beside him replied, his voice measured, precise. “All twelve delivered, ready for you to set.”
Rachel stepped forward, her smile quick and warm. “Good evening, Raphi.Git Shabbos.” She kissed him on each cheek with the ease of someone long familiar. “How are you tonight?”
“Well, Rachel.Git Shabbos.And you are radiant, as always.”
Rachel laughed, slipping her arm through Fave’s. “You flatter me just like your brothers do.” She turned, her gaze landing on Maisie. “Have you met my dear friend?”
Maisie stepped forward, curtsying with the poise she had practiced so many times—elegant, correct, entirely automatic.
And in that movement, she felt it—the slip intoLady Spencer. The cool, deliberate courtesy of a role she had worn like armor before. Not the girl from Vienna. Not Faivish’s Maisie. A woman several years older, an aunt at the edge of aristocracy.
Rachel’s eyes flicked. A brief furrow crossed her brow, gone almost as quickly as it came. Her voice rose smoothly: “Allow me to introduce Mr. Raphael Klonimus to Lady Eleanor Spencer, aunt to the Marquess of Stonefield. Raphi is a dear friend, and his brother married Fave’s sister.”
The lie slid into the room without resistance.
Raphi turned, bowing low. When he took her hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips, Maisie felt it—a pause, subtle but sharp. As if he’d seen something he shouldn’t have, or recognized more than he meant to admit. His eyes lingered, just long enough to catch her breath.
“From Oxfordshire,” she said evenly, the words falling into place like pieces of a part she had long rehearsed.
Raphi straightened. “Lovely countryside. A pleasure.”
Behind him, Fave and Rachel shared a glance—fleeting, sad, and not lost on her.
Yes. She was playing a role. And no one could know otherwise.
If Faivish truly was in danger, her real name helped no one. Better to stay hidden. To become Eleanor Spencer when she must. Someone who could pass unnoticed. Someone who might watch, protect, and perhaps—even if it tore her apart—help him, if only she could find him.
Maisie’s throat tightened. The ache returned beneath her ribs—the same old ache that surfaced whenever the woman she pretended to be brushed against the woman she truly was.
I’m not here as a Jew,she reminded herself, lifting her chin.I’m here for a reason.
