He was seated, and when the ivory doors opened again, there stood the regal Ella Blythe, dark silver hair swept back and pinned high and precise on her head. Her lovely slanted eyes, which held a trace of youthful innocence, looked him over before she entered, then she approached and held out a hand. “How do you do, Doctor . . . ?”

“Turner. Mitchell Turner.” He took her dainty hand in his. “I’m an alienist at a small asylum in the north.”

She frowned, one eyebrow arched, and taking a seat on an opposite chair, came directly to the point. “My maid tells me you have word of Annika?”

“I believe so. Might she go by Anna now? Anna Michelson?”

“Perhaps.” Ella perched on the edge of her chair, ringed fingers hanging off the arms. “What made you connect this Anna Michelson person to my Annika?”

“She carried a music box with her everywhere and was quite attached to it. A small box with a spinning dancer, and she told someone that you gave it to her.”

“Have you proof she is truly Annika?” Caution glazed her fresh, almost youthful look.

He rummaged about his brain for some little tidbit, something she’d said . . . “She had her lucid moments, years ago. She once mentioned a story connected to the box. Something about a little dancer throwing her enchanted red shoe to save the one she loved . . . I’m assuming if it was your box, then you too know this tale.”

Long lashes blinked away sudden moisture. “Yes. Yes, it must be her. So few know that story. Annika Freidl was her name.” She paused a moment. “Where is she?”

He relaxed back against the chair, easing tensed muscles. “I’m afraid it isn’t good news. In fact, I was hoping you might help her. Or perhaps direct me to someone who can.” He told her of Hurstwell, and of what Annika had become—but who she still remained in her memory. He was honest about Anna’s condition, but carefully described her gentle nature to assure his listener that the woman had not grown dangerous in her decline. “She doesn’t belong in such a place, even if her mind isn’t what it once was. She’s only in need of some assistance in the day-to-day. Simple care and affection, a little guidance now and again. And who knows what might return to her if she’s taken out of the asylum and given those things?”

The woman’s fingers trembled against the gold chair arm. “An asylum.”

“A pauper lunatic asylum—for lack of any other option, I’m afraid. As I said, there was no one to care for her, but her needs are quite simple.”

Ella Blythe straightened, and Mitchell could see her as nothing other than a dancer, swan-like and quietly commanding, even at her age. “Has she no family left?”