“Where did that box come from, Anna? What was your real name?” I held my breath.

Rose. I almost willed her to say it.

“Ann . . . ih . . . ka. Annika.” Her gaze came to rest on me again, a light smile on her lips. Her words came slow and disjointed. “It was hers—the box. Ella Blythe. Little Ella Blythe.” Her look grew distant.

I dipped and squeezed the rag. Ella Blythe, the famous ballet dancer? “Did you know her?”

She blinked at me, as if returning to the present. Confusion wrinkled her brow.

“What about a woman named Rose? Rosamond Swansea? Perhaps the pianoforte tutor Winston Mourdant?”

Worry creased her face further. Her left arm began to tremble against the chair and her gaze darted about, unable to settle. “Philippe,” was all she said. “Philippe. He’s gone.” A vacant stare stole over her face as she slumped a little, eyes dimming, and the portal swept closed.

“Anna. Anna, won’t you look at me?”

Hands yanked my arms from behind. “You’re up.”

I scrambled to stand as they dragged me to the tub, peeling off my gown the moment I was upright. Soon I was dunked, scrubbed, and doused, and when I emerged, Anna was gone. I sat dripping and shivering on the bench until they led us toward the wards.

Out in the corridor, I caught Dr. Turner’s eye as he passed, and without a word he fell into step beside us. I kept my voice low, shoving wet hair off my face. “She’s a ballet dancer, perhaps called Annika. Speak with Ella Blythe in London. It was her music box, and she may be able to help.”

He dipped his head, looking forward, and I couldn’t tell for certain that he’d heard me before he split from our crowd and turned left down another corridor, files tucked under one arm. My heart pounded as I watched him go, but there was nothing more I could do.

Nurse Duffy poked at my back to keep me moving, standing between me and the retreating doctor. “You go this way. You’ve nothing to do with the chronic ward, you know.”

We turned a corner into the hallway of the room where I slept, and that’s when I heard it. A shrill scream—a voice I knew. I hurried toward it, hair dripping down my back. Bridget cowered in the center of a moving mass of bodies, arms over her head as she screeched like a boiling teapot, rocking forward and back.

Two nurses surged toward her through the crowds, shoving patients aside.

“Bridget!” I dove into the chaos, jamming elbows into flesh to make a way, but I barely got ahead.