It had been indulgent, sitting with Deena and Rachel, letting the mask slip, laughing as if she were safe among her own. But that was an illusion too easily shattered. Jews endured by silence, by caution. A careless word could be overheard, repeated, twisted—and a whisper was all it took to unravel a life. Even here, in London, even in the houses of those who claimed friendship, trust was a ration to be measured, never freely given.
The gentile shell she wore felt closer than it ever had—what once shielded her now pressed like a hand against her throat. She crossed to the table, setting her palms lightly on its edge, and tried to find a steady breath.
“Would you like me to ask Mr. Klonimus about his connections?” Rachel’s voice was soft, pitched for Maisie’s ears alone.
Maisie’s head snapped up. “No.” The word came too sharp, too quick.
Rachel’s expression smoothed as if Maisie had merely declined another helping of soup. “He’s family,” she murmured, gentle but insistent. “One of the most trusted.”
Maisie folded her arms across her bodice. It wasn’t defiance—it was armor. “No risks,” she said, eyes locked on the tidy stitches of the tablecloth. “Nobody can know.”
Rachel let out a slow breath and turned to her husband, her expression unreadable.
“Is there anything I might do for you?” Raphi Klonimus asked. His voice carried warmth, measured and calm, the voice of a man long accustomed to standing beside the Pearlers, never beneath them. His coat was bottle-green, the color catching the lamplight, though Maisie hardly noticed. It was his bearing that struck her—at ease, as if there was nothing in him that needed to be hidden.
But I do.
The ache pressed harder against her sternum. People like that—people she could sit with and speak to without weighing each syllable—belonged to another life. A life she no longer had. Rachel was the only one she still allowed herself, and even that closeness she held at a cautious distance.
She would guard what remained: her love, her sister, John at any cost.
Rachel’s warning from earlier days drifted back to her. List making speeches in Parliament, stoking fear and suspicion. His boasts at parties about taking guardianship of orphaned heirs—boys with names, with fortunes, but no one strong enough to shield them.
What if he meant John?
The thought struck deep. The ache sharpened into something cold and steady.
If Faivish was gone, if she must wear this mask forever—so be it. But John would not fall into List’s grasp. Not while she still drew breath.
She would keep watch—silent, unseen if she must—until the boy was old enough to stand against the world himself.
Without another word, Maisie turned from the table. Her skirts whispered across the polished floor as she crossed to the window. She pressed her fingertips to the glass, the cool pane grounding her as her eyes sought the night.
Darkness had deepened—the last wash of twilight fading into blue-black. Streetlamps along Green Park flickered, casting faint halos that kissed the edges of the clipped hedges. Beyond the garden gate, a stir of movement caught her eye.
The Pearler children had long since gone upstairs. Deena would be among them, perhaps chasing the little ones in the nursery or curled in the library with a book too heavy for her lap.Deena, perched between child and woman.Old enough to notice everything. Young enough to pretend she hadn’t.
Maisie’s chest tightened. The weight was hers to bear now for both of them.
Her gaze slipped back to the garden.
And then—she saw him.
A lone figure moved along the shadows of the park. His stride is unhurried. His posture is upright. The lamplight touched the line of his coat—dark, plain—and glanced off the curve of his shoulder as he paused.
Something about the stillness of him rang inside her, that quiet loneliness she knew so well. She was rarely without company—Deena’s laughter, Rachel’s welcome—but loneliness had nothing to do with company. It was the hollow echo of a heart searching for its other half.
Maisie leaned closer, palm flat against the glass. Breath slipped unbidden from her lips.
Not again.
It couldn’t be.
Her eyes strained against the dark. The man lingered near the hedgerow, past the iron gate. His features lost to shadow, his distance impossible.
Tall. Dark hair. Straight-backed. Nothing remarkable—yet—
Her heart fluttered once, twice, then stumbled into a restless beat. Something in him tugged at her with quiet insistence.
