“Felix cannot speak,” Maisie whispered. “He’s a Jew. They’ll use it to ruin him—and pull every other doctor on Harley Street down with him.”
Rachel did not deny it.
From the hearth, Deena’s voice carried, steady despite her youth. She stood, her hands clenched at her sides. “John isn’t hiding. He’s preparing to stand before lords as if he weren’t thirteen—because he has a name and a title. And you—” her eyes brightened, “—you gave him that courage.”
Maisie pressed her palm to her ribs, where the ache lived. “I thought I was protecting you. Protecting him. That if we stayed quiet long enough, the world would let us belong.”
“And has it?” Deena asked—not cruel, only unflinching, the way a girl spoke when she had seen too much already.
Maisie’s gaze dropped. Her fingers curled into the folds of her gown. “No. Silence only takes. It took Father. It nearly took Felix. And if I stay silent tomorrow, it may take John too.”
Rachel crossed to her, resting a hand over hers. “Then let John speak. Even if you cannot enter that chamber, you will be present in every word he speaks.”
Maisie turned to the window, rain streaking the glass. Outside, the city went on with its gray indifference. Somewhere across town, Felix bent over his work, still mending what life had broken. And here shestood, with nothing but silence to offer.
She closed her eyes.
Ghosts might hide, but they did not raise boys.
“I didn’t realize,” Maisie murmured, “how long I’ve been vanishing into silence.” She lifted her chin, the spark reigniting. “And I won’t vanish again.”
*
At 87 Harley Street…
Another day blurredpast, and still he and Maisie had only stolen moments—quiet, half-lit meetings at the Pearlers’ where the walls listened too closely.
The carriage hadn’t moved in an hour.
From the surgery window at 87 Harley Street, Felix watched the blurred oval of its rear glass, the shadow of a man seated too still to be waiting on anyone. The harness sagged. The horse half-dozed. Only the watcher’s attention lived—coiled, patient, trained.
Enough.
Felix set his quill aside and dragged both hands through his hair. He had lived too long shrinking himself for safety—head lowered, voice measured, always stepping aside for men who carried titles like blades. But this—being stared at like a specimen while the woman he loved hid two streets away—this he could not bear.
A knock. “Felix?”
Alfie slipped in, rain still glittering on his lashes, a folded sheet in his fist, darkened where it had soaked through.
“The summons?” Felix asked.
Alfie nodded, passing it over. “Committee of Privileges. Chancery. Nine tomorrow. List petitioned to ‘examine the propriety of guardianship and trust administration.’” His mouth flattened. “Not the title—he can’t reach that. But he means to shame the household and wrenchauthority from it.”
“From her.” The word landed in Felix’s chest like a weight. “He stole my papers. He’s put men outside the Pearlers’ and outside here. He lurks in shadows and calls it justice.”
“That’s his tactic,” Alfie said quietly. “He can’t win clean, so he tries to win loud. If he paints Maisie a deceiver, he pushes the lords into overreach. If he paints you as dangerous, he chills your allies. He’s after control.”
Felix let the summons fall to the desk. “We are not criminals,” he said, low, almost to himself. “And not children to be watched.”
He turned back to the curtain. The watcher’s head shifted, as if he could tell that he was watching him back.
Felix’s pulse steadied. “I’m no longer a specimen.”
“Felix—” Alfie began.
But Felix was already moving. Coat shrugged on, door flung open, he strode down the stairs. The hall smelled of carbolic. Rain-silvered air rushed his face as he pushed outside.
Across the street, the watcher stiffened.
