But that had been so long ago. I’d been a child, a lonely, isolated one, and my understanding of reality so very immature.

There was, of course, some simple explanation for it all. Of course there was.

With a shake of my head, I pulled my pen and blotter close and dashed off a letter to Hurstwell Asylum, inquiring as to the details of the woman for whom I was now responsible. The one I’d always thought a figment of my imagination. I did so without telling them of the guardianship that was switching hands, or letting on how little I knew of my actual connection to her, admitting silently I was merely appeasing my conscience on the matter.

I slid the image close again and studied her face, the roundness of her cheek against her fingers, and the dusting of curls along the nape of her neck. There she was, just as warm and inviting as I remembered. I looked back to the address, that lost melody resurfacing in my mind after all those years, then I crumpled the thing in my hand.

Madness. Somehow connected to us. To me.

Confused, tired, I moved back into the front room to find Richard still waiting for me.

He rose to greet me, hands outstretched to take mine. His fingertips found the little paper still curled in my palm. “What is it?”

I hastily swept the paper away from him, clutching it tight. “Nothing that need concern you.” Warmth poured over me as I realized what that little scrap would reveal. What it might change between us to have my family connected to someone at an asylum.

I moved the scrap behind my back, and he dove for it playfully. “Truly, it isn’t!”

I held it high, and he jumped, grabbing it from my hand. Alarmed, I snatched it back. My face heated even more. One glance at that address and his look of adoration would melt into something else. Something I’d never wanted—pity. I tightened my fist around that small wad of paper.

He frowned and stepped forward. “Everything of yours concerns me, Vivienne. I want the bad with the good.” He reached behind and threaded it firmly from my grasp . . . and I released it to him, stepping back.

I held my breath while he flattened it and read, frown deepening. “Asylum? What—”

My chin edged up. “A matter of the estate.”

Richard stared down at the paper containing only an address, as if he might derive more information out of it. “He has a fortune holed up in the place, does he? An investment, perhaps.”