“It’s about Thornhill.” Her hands twisted the sheet into a worry knot. “I saw you go into his office this afternoon, and there’s something you should know. About him in particular.”

“That he was a patient?”

She blinked into the dimness, fretting hands stilled for a moment. “Why ever would you think that?”

I sighed, not mentioning the file. “Because the man must have some secret—something he’s hiding.”

“It isn’t that.” The sheets rustled, twisting again in her hands. “It’s about that patient you’re searching for. You cannot ask him about her—cannot let on that you’re digging into that particular bit of past.”

“Why should he care if I’m searching out an old acquaintance?”

“Because she was his wife.”

My hand curled around the sheet. “Who was?”

“It’s Rose you’re looking for, isn’t it? The patient you were hoping to find. It’s Rose, the ghost.”

I said nothing. Sank down farther.

“Well, she was his wife.”

“What . . . how?”

“Just before my time here began. Thornhill fell in love with her, just as everyone did, and he married her even though she was a patient.”

“Did he think her mad?”

A shrug. “Likely didn’t matter to him. She was beautiful, brokenhearted, and alone. Not to mention the child.”

“If he married her, then why couldn’t she keep—”

“Because it was his. The Duke’s. He couldn’t raise that man’s child.”

I sank back onto my pillow, pondering the unfolding past. Rose . . . who couldn’t be my mother . . . who was probably dead . . . had married Thornhill.

Yet it awakened in me a resolute certainty on one point—just as I had said to Dr. Turner earlier that day . . . I was not mad. This whole thing, the mysterious notes and distant music at night. Thornhill must have found out who I searched for and felt threatened by my presence. I had mentioned my real name, and he must have realized I was here for Rosamond. Whatever the reason, he’d set it up to keep me here, to keep me imprisoned. I’d become a threat.

But a sane one.

“How terribly dreadful for him. For her too.” I swallowed. “You don’t think . . . that he . . .”

“I don’t know.” Her soft voice barely reached me. “I hope not.”

Thornhill was mad. Of that I was certain. But just as surely, I knew now that I was not.

I let that thought weight me comfortably to the bed, carrying me toward the sleep I so badly needed. I’d leave this place yet—maybe even without Marcel Beauchene’s help. They couldn’t keep a sane woman in an asylum. Not for long, anyway.

I breathed out a sigh and sank into the first solid sleep I’d had since arriving.