The ache in my chest expanded, ready to swallow me whole as the sound of cellos rose to a crescendo and danced quickly toward a finale. One I wasn’t ready to reach.

“I’m not mad, Dr. Turner. I don’t need to be a patient here.”

He paused, searching my face. “I know.”

Then he was gone.

Head down, I hurried around the corner, but my steps were halted by a voice down the far-right corridor.

“Miss Fletcher.”

I cringed. Turning, I faced Dr. Thornhill approaching from the shadows.

“A word, if you please.”

A small group of women from the laundry—where I was supposed to be—hurried past me with wide eyes.

I swallowed my fear. “Of course.”

He walked toward his office in the main entrance, and I followed, pausing outside the door. “Come in.”

“I’d rather listen from here.” I gripped the doorframe, praying.

His eyes centered on my face for several moments. “Very well, then.” He sank into his desk chair, and I fought to keep my gaze from wandering to the desk drawer where a file was stored with the name “Thornhill” on it. Was it really him? Or was Thomas a relation? Looking at the eerie calm of his face, it was easy to believe the former, despite what Richard had told me.

He shuffled through papers as he spoke. “I do hope you’ve come to recognize all Hurstwell has to offer—all the help and discipline, the advanced medical resources. Perhaps you even see what there is here for you.”

I pinched my lips together, not having a fitting answer. Nothing polite, at least.

“But there are also things we do not offer at this establishment.” He turned to face me, tapping his pen on the desktop. “One should not expect to find matrimonial prospects here, for example.”

I clenched my hands. “Of course.”

“I hope we are clear on this matter. Are we?”

“We are.”

His smile was not quite friendly. “Good.” His gaze traveled over me. “Nurse, will you return this woman to her duties, please?”

A shuffle behind me caught me by surprise. Duffy hurried in. “Right away, sir.”

Her grip on my arm was tighter, her face pinched in some grim, contorted smile of victory.

Night fell more rapidly than usual, it seemed. The day was drained of its light, and shadows took over the corridors, dancing beneath the rows of gaslights.

“There’s something that needs saying.” Clara’s voice carried across the beds to me, her strained face barely visible through the heavy blackness. “I should have told you earlier, but I’ve been quite determined to keep to myself about things. I’ve been doing much better, you know. Holding my tongue and such. But . . .”

I turned onto my right side, propping my head with one hand. “What is it?”