Maisie tightened her grip by the smallest fraction, unwilling to let go.
“This way,” Alfie called, striding ahead with Deena skipping at his side. Framed engravings lined the passage: stallions frozen mid-leap, hooves tucked, riders stern.
And then—the passage ended, and the hall revealed itself.
Maisie stopped where she stood.
Light cascaded from tall arched windows, spilling across sand raked into perfect lines. Chandeliers dripped overhead like frozen rain. Crimson draperies fell in rich folds against the bright walls, and the marble columns stood in solemn rows, giving the whole place thesensation of a cathedral. Even the air smelled sanctified—clean sand, polished leather, a faint sweetness of hay.
Deena gasped and tugged on Alfie’s sleeve. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. Her voice carried in the vast hush, and then she was off again, leaning over the railing as if she could drink the scene straight into her bones.
Four riders already circled the arena, each astride a gleaming white Lipizzaner. The men’s boots gleamed, coats sharp at the waist, bicorne hats shadowing eyes that never strayed from their horses. The stallions’ tails had been braided with ribbon; their forelegs lifted and fell with a precision that made Maisie’s heart stumble.
The air seemed to pulse with the rhythm—thud of hooves, jingle of harness, soft snort of a stallion.
She let out a quiet gasp. “It’s… like something out of a fairy tale.”
Turning to share the wonder, she found Faivish watching her, not the horses.
The chandeliers caught in his eyes, scattering flecks of gold through the dark brown. The warmth there unsettled her, loosening something deep inside. He didn’t look away. Neither did she.
Somewhere, Deena resumed questioning Alfie about peppermint oil. Somewhere, the horses struck their rhythm into the sand. But between her hand resting on his arm and the weight of his gaze, Maisie felt the air alter around them. She should have withdrawn. She didn’t.
And he gave her no reason to.
*
Maisie noticed rightaway that the back stables were cooler than the grand hall. The air smelled of hay, saddle oil, and warm animal breath. Afternoon light streamed through narrow windows, stripping the stalls in gold. Somewhere behind her, Deena gave a small sneeze, and Maisie thought—not for the first time and with a heavy heart—thatsoon Faivish would insist on taking them home.
A tall rider in a spotless brown tailcoat appeared from the shadows, boots clicking on the stone as if every sound were meant to remind them who owned the space. His chin tipped at an angle of entitlement like that of a man accustomed to others stepping aside.
“Collins,” he said, eyes darting to the crate in Alfie’s arms.
Alfie set it down without hurry. “My lord,” he answered, calm and unbothered. “The salve for the Lipizzaner’s joints, as you ordered.”
The man’s gaze shifted, landing on Faivish. The flicker of politeness vanished. His lips curled faintly. “Best mind yourself. This stallion belongs to Baron von List, Rector Hofstätter’s nephew. He wouldn’t take kindly to…” He let the sentence dangle, but the look that accompanied it was enough.
Maisie’s stomach pinched tight at the mention of Hofstätter. The one with the sneer she’d never forgotten, who measured worth by lineage and nothing more, no matter how hard father worked and how many times he’d proved he was indispensable to the faculty.
Yet, Alfie seemed to ignore the insult. He crouched, uncorked one of the jars, and let the sharp, resinous scent of herbs spill into the air. The horse shifted, ears flicking, a tremor racing through its foreleg.
“Step back,” Faivish murmured, quiet but firm, and Maisie found herself pulling Deena behind her, skirts whispering through straw.
The stallion tossed his head, muscles bunching.
Alfie looked up quickly. “Careful, Faivish—”
“Better if you call off the Jew,” the rider cut in, tone sharp.
Maisie’s face went hot. She saw Faivish’s jaw tighten, the faint tic of restraint, but before he could reply, Alfie rose smoothly, voice bright as if to mask steel.
“Not my position, my lord. He’s a doctor—and my best friend. Almost a doctor, if you must be exact, but always the better man.”
“Almost?” The rider’s tone cut like a whip. “And yet he touches the horse?”
Alfie’s brows climbed. “Are you a doctor tending your horse? Or the stableboys? If titles are the only requirement, perhaps the Emperor should do it himself.”
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
