He blinked at me. “Are you certain?”

“I doubt he’s lying. He isn’t mad, Dr. Turner, he’s German.” Had no one at Hurstwell managed to leave our little area of Northern England, to educate themselves about other cultures and people? It was common of such rural areas, people living and dying and existing every day within a bubble unpenetrated by the world at large. This was the unforgivable result. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, full of gratitude for my pianoforte performances and the adventures that often took me far from England’s shores.

I turned back to the trapped man and asked, in halting words, where he was from and what had become of his family.

They were in Scotland, he told me, having fled Austria together after some difficulties from enemies—with the language barrier, I couldn’t make out what sort. They’d been separated, and he’d found himself in Northern England, wandering through the moors. His words gushed forth in an avalanche of sound, telling everything that had been done to him, what had gone wrong, and how desperately he’d prayed for help. I could only piece together parts of it, picking up words I recognized here and there.

He believed he’d been kidnapped by his enemies and asked me what I knew of his situation. I didn’t even have the German words to explain why he was here, and what sort of place this was.

At last I turned back to my companion. “Dr. Turner, would you kindly fetch me paper and ink? This man needs to send word to his family about where they can find him or he’ll be stuck here for all eternity.”

Dr. Turner’s frown deepened for several breaths. Then he disappeared and soon returned with writing instruments held against his chest. I pinched my lips together as I accepted them, hiding the surge of victory that flooded me. I dipped the pen in the inkwell balanced on a wooden chair on the landing, writing as quickly and clearly as I could. Hopefully his poor wife could decipher my butchering of their language. I wrote the same words out in English just below, in case she had someone to translate—that missive would be much clearer.

When I’d finished, I rose and left the page on the chair to dry. “Perhaps you ought to reconsider me as your aid. There’s a lot of good to be done, if only you’ll accept my help.” How whole and healthy I felt in his presence—I couldn’t bear to give it up.

He stiffened, the wall rising between us again. We were divided, patient and doctor. “It isn’t that simple. There are rules—”