A man yelled across the field, and Anna startled, feeling about her lap for the box to calm her. Heartbroken, I grabbed her hands and began humming. Humming, humming, the first melody that came to mind, and it was her song—the lost melody from the dream. How easily it resurfaced in my memory once begun. Anna began rocking to the rhythm, her face easing just slightly.

I could be of some use. It wasn’t my life purpose, but while I was here . . . well, kindness was never a waste of time. Then her hum joined mine and she too was voicing the notes of Rosamond’s song. Spooked, I let my voice fade, but Anna’s continued, striking each note with a soft, clear voice.

“How do you know that song?” I whispered the question when she stopped, and I stared into her face, into that weathered countenance that held no trace of familiarity. But it should—it should. That melody had been embedded in her memory when so much else had fallen out, and it belonged to Rosamond. My heart pounded, but Anna said nothing—simply looked beyond me toward the gardens. I caressed her hand as she had mine, and tried again. “Do you know me? Do you know Rosamond?”

I held my breath, but the only response was her gnarled fingers once again tracing mine.

A door slammed up at the house, and I spun, looking about to face the wrath of a descending nurse, but no one approached. Still crouched before the bench, I scanned the yard and my gaze connected with Dr. Turner’s. He stood facing us across the garden, sleeves rolled up in the midst of work. He had something to say, it seemed. I set the papers in Anna’s lap and rose, holding his gaze.

But he didn’t speak. Poised as a white stag he studied me, and all I knew was how wild and windblown my hair was, how silly that little flower tucked behind one ear, which is exactly where his stare centered. I touched the purple bloom, my skirt gently tickling my legs in the breeze, but could not bring myself to part with that little bit of color. We stood that way, staring across the low shrubs and dying roses, and he seemed to be looking at me, but also at something that did not belong to the present. I wondered what he saw.

He approached with long, loping strides, hands in his pockets, and stopped before us. “Once again I find myself in your debt, Miss Fletcher.” A quick nod toward Anna. “I wish there was some way I could repay your kindness.”

“No need.” He repaid me in droves with that tender look, the open approval on his face. Yet there was a hint of angst there. He wanted to ask something of me, or tell me something, but for whatever reason he held back.