She tried to smile. It wavered and fell short.
Rachel’s nod was gentle, her hand making a small parting gesture. “Then at least let me send a footman and an umbrella to see you to the carriage. It’s raining again.”
But Maisie barely heard. She’d already turned.
The foyer stretched before her—polished parquet beneath the chandelier, crown molding carved in elegant swirls. She noticed everything and nothing at once: the faint clatter of cutlery somewhere distant, a clock marking time overhead, the shift of stillness near the double doors.
Three men stood there.
She recognized the Pearlers’ butler at once, tall, his sideburns neat, one gloved hand resting lightly against the frame.
The others—
Maisie’s fingers slipped. Her reticule struck the floor with a sharp, echoing crack.
The sound swallowed every other.
One of the men turned.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
His coat was dark, rain-slicked, the collar turned up. His boots left wet prints on the marble. And beneath the brim of his hat—shadow caught the line of his cheek, the cut of his mouth.
The world tilted. She couldn’t breathe.
He straightened. His eyes found hers.
Those eyes.
Storm-dark. Beloved. Too known to mistake.
Her lips parted, no sound escaping. He didn’t look away. Held her gaze for a breath. Then another.
Maisie moved forward, slow, unsteady, her pulse pounding.
And then—he spoke.
Her name. Soft. As though it had been locked in his chest for months. “Maisie.”
Her knees threatened to give way.
From somewhere behind came Deena’s voice, light, inconsequential, a thread of ordinary sound. Around them, the house stirred—glass, footsteps, conversation—but all of it blurred.
There was only this moment.
Her breath caught, but not from nerves.
It was him.
Alive.
Here.
Her lips trembled.
My Faivish.
