“A light such as yours should be taken into the utmost darkness, you know.” That odd little man from the parlor gathering had said that. About asylums, no less. An odd prickling sensation climbed my skin. What had he to do with this? Nothing, most likely.

Yet I couldn’t shake the memory of his face.

Bridget pushed my hand aside and put all her weight into turning that crank. “We alternate so’s no one gets too tired.”

I gritted my teeth as I leaned down for more wet laundry, still fighting in my spirit against her words. “I’m not bringing any light to Hurstwell. All I do here is laundry.”

She shrugged. “That’s your choice.” Scooping up a handful of pins, she began throwing the wrung-out linens over the line and stabbing the pins in place. “Alls I know is the dark has lasted far too long here. And you have daylight bottled up in you.”

I smiled faintly. “Bridget, where’d you come by all your wisdom?”

“Me dearest Paul, that’s where. He spent more time locked up than I have. Good enough fellow, though. Writes the best letters.”

I blinked. “Your wise friend is . . . at Hurstwell?”

“Prison. Well, not anymore. Hard to be in prison when you’re dead.”

“Oh.” I squeezed a tunic and shook it out. “I’m sorry. How long has he been gone?”

She stared at me like I was mad. “About two thousand years. But you’d know that if you read the Bible.”

I pinched back a smile. Ah. That Paul. Dear Saint Paul of the New Testament. Never had I heard a body speak of him in such personal terms, as if he still lived. “No wonder you’re so wise, learning from him.”

“He’s my favorite. Always writes his letters the same way, greeting, truth, closing. Righteousness. Love. He had his patterns, the same as me. Fine man, he was. Full of fire and passion . . . and imprisoned.”

“And an encourager, all the while.” I threw her a meaningful smile.

She shrugged. “There was only so much about Paul a person could lock up. He was still Paul, and you’re still you.” She turned from her linens and looked me in the face. “Make your music for us, Vivienne Mourdant.”

I swallowed, pausing in the silence. How odd it was to finally hear my own name.

I turned back to my work and Bridget eyed me. “You don’t think we’re worth it, do you? Admit it. You believe there isn’t any point to improving our lot because we’re paupers. Mad ones to boot.”

“I’ve nothing against anyone here.”

Yet my own words returned to strike me with a powerful blow. “Why would I ever want to waste my time playing for an asylum?”

I shivered and looked at the face of my friend but found the lack in myself—not her.