He swallowed, memories sweeping over him. A cloudy spring day in the hamlet, walking up the flagstone path to the cottage, and knowing, before he entered, that Dahlia was singing. He’d closed his eyes, leaning against the door, and he could feel it—the gentle vibration of the music within.

She looked away. “I must sound even more mad to you now.”

He cleared his throat, raking fingers through his hair and shaking away the residual mud of regret sucking him down. “Well, it is quite extraordinary, hearing music the way you do.”

She looked at him with that bold, steady way she had. “Is it?” She rose and wrapped her shawl more tightly about herself, eyes turned toward the clockface, and swayed with the tempo of its ticks and thunks, skirt dusting her bare feet as she smiled up at him with a wry smile. “Perhaps we’re all a little mad in our own way, no? If this is my madness, I see no reason to be sane. Music is at the core of every human, in a most basic way.” She placed a hand over her heart. Then, eyes closing, she lifted her shawl-wrapped arms and bounced them lightly as if conducting.

She’d come into herself tonight, playing the pianoforte. She’d been a cogwheel out of alignment, shifting back and forth against its mate, but now she’d locked into position, teeth fitting as they should and turning together. No matter what this place told her, in this moment she knew who she was.

He swallowed, watching her lithe form given over to the tempo of night music. The water pipes thrummed, gurgling and clicking as they surged to life, the clock thunked in the background. The woman of magical melodies spun in slow circles, encompassing all the sounds, drawing them all into the beat of the clock with her feet until it all merged together into the symphony of Hurstwell. The chaos of noise synthesized into order. Rhythm. Auburn-haired music with lovely freckle-spattered white cheeks. Elegance and color swept through the stony gray of the tower he’d visited a hundred times, but now would never forget. The peace he sensed here would linger as he left, warming his night.

The steady rhythm pounded through his chest, inviting him to break out of the grief and regret and join in. It felt instinctual. Yet he shouldn’t. Already he was far too captivated with this woman—legally a patient—and it warred with the internal morality that had always been his own rhythm.

He could not look away, though. Could not help being captivated. She lifted her arms as if dancing with a partner, leaning into his imaginary arms, and continuing her waltz about the little space until her foot caught on a loose board and she stumbled.