I shivered as I reached Dr. Turner and glanced behind me to be sure no one saw.

He dropped his voice. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Leave your basket and come.”

I dropped that thing without hesitation, running to catch up as he strode around the corner of the fenced-in yard to the back. “What’s this about?”

Then, I saw it—the lost tower. I stiffened.

He didn’t answer until we’d slipped through a wooden door and closed ourselves into the narrow stairwell that circled up into the darkness above. He fumbled to light a candle and lifted it into the narrow passageway, the tiny flame leaping before us as we climbed the steps that went round and round into darkness above. “I’d like your help with something, Miss Mourdant.”

I stared at Dr. Turner’s back as he walked ahead on the stairs, at the light that created a glow around his figure. I could barely breathe the thick, wet air as we climbed. The daylight brought little illumination to the place, and it was mostly the dimmed gaslights running in long lines up the stairwell that gave any light to the place. Shadows were still deep and heavy, cloaking the faces that stared out at us on the climb.

“Under the circumstances, I’ve decided you will continue to be an unofficial aid, but I shouldn’t like to make a scene about it. Dr. Thornhill wouldn’t give his permission, and I don’t plan to ask him, so it’s best he not find out.”

“How will he not?”

“He’s away—the man is strict about keeping a six-day workweek and having plenty of distance from the place when he can. He’s at his residence over in Newall, and he won’t return until tomorrow. You will be my once-weekly aid, attending only to certain patients. Starting with one in this tower.”

My heart nearly stopped. I nodded and we continued climbing. What might God be orchestrating in this place? For some reason, I’d gotten it in my head that the secret of my disappearing ward, of Rose the ghost, lay in this tower. Perhaps her story lingered with a patient here.

My mind swirled with thoughts of ghosts, dreams, and Rosamond Swansea. I looked around, bracing to see a white face with dark hair peering out at me, begging for my help. Our footsteps echoed together up the narrow stone steps that were slick with moisture. Staccato dripping sounded high above us.

“He’s a brown-gown patient.”

“And brown is . . . ?”

“Violent. He cannot be around others.”

I hesitated, leaving my foot on a step for a few heartbeats before continuing. Rosamond—was she violent? Is that why I’d never seen her among the others?