With rock-hard pain melting into tenderness, I strode back to her and embraced the slender woman. She tensed instantly, and I whispered “thank you” near her ear as she responded with stiff, awkward pats. I stepped back to look again at the pianoforte, then at my kidnappers. Tears budded as I looked across each pale countenance brimming with smiles, and all I could do was stand in the center of that dusty room, hands over my face, and sob.

A soft voice broke the moment. “Why don’t you give it a play?”

“I think it’s sufficient simply to stand here and stare at it.” How hungry I’d been for such beauty.

“Isn’t it a good enough one?” Clara’s round face was pinched with concern.

“It’s the most exquisite thing I’ve seen in forever.” I walked over to it again, my bare feet sweeping clean spots on the dusty floor. “A six-octave, triple-stringed Broadwood with a metal plate, brass inlays, and fine matched ivory keys.” I lifted the lid, propping it on its stand, and ran a hand over the strings, surprised they were in decent condition despite the neglect. Dusty and loose, with hammers that were nearly bare, but present and whole. Someone had cared for it not long ago.

“Broadwood. Is that good?” Clara leaned forward eagerly.

I smiled. “It’s said that Beethoven, who owned an Erard, treasured the richly textured sound of his Broadwood even more.”

“Then why not play a bit for us?”

I glanced through the tall, barred window streaming with moonlight. “They’ll hear me. I shouldn’t like to make trouble again so soon.”

Bridget shook her head. “This is the east wing. An addition built onto exterior walls at least four feet thick. Come now, give it a try.”

Despite her assurance, I closed the lid to quiet the sound, then walked around to the keyboard. Resting my finger on one ivory key, I felt the weight of it against my touch and shivered, unable to voice the unreasonable fear churning inside. A simple hymn rolled from my memories to the keyboard: Rock of ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in thee . . .

The familiar notes plunked gently into the room, despite the gentle jar of a slightly out-of-tune and run-down instrument, and I delighted in the sacred piece. A shiver rode up my arm at the last note, and I pulled back, looking up at the women huddled together in silence, drinking in the modest melody.

“Now play something more,” urged Clara. “Something you’d play in one of those important performances.”

Performances. A sickening uncertainty returned as I recalled Marcel’s words and that evasive look. “Perhaps you should use this time to practice, to polish your skills.”

And the asylum copy work, papers filled with the words Marcel seemed to know but I could not grasp: I am not a concert pianist. I am not a concert pianist.