As I braced myself over his desk, clutching the wooden edge, his cologned presence brushed past me and left the room. Two more dizzying breaths and Nurse Branson came and grasped my arm, pulling me into the entryway. That vast, airy entryway that was such a front.

Pianist was not my identity, it seemed, but prisoner. Ever and always. I could not reach freedom, could not help those I longed to rescue. There were always chains, always some man standing over me, forcing my direction.

But I was still me. Somehow, I would have to find Bridget. Despite the rules, the locked doors, the shackles, I must act. She would not die because of this place.

In the daylight of the great hall, I blinked at the sight of a poised, simply dressed lady talking to Thornhill. A veil covered her face, but I could tell by the posture of her petite figure that she spoke with great passion.

Branson slowed her pace, apparently as nosy as I about the conversation occurring before us. I looked the visitor over as we passed, and her accent struck me. It prompted images of Vienna, and the gentle old streets there.

“Please, von’t you look again.” Clipped and German. “I vas told I could find here my husband.”

Chills raced up and down my arms—excitement, nerves.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Schumann, but you must have the wrong institution. There are so many about England now—perhaps your Otto is in another.”

Otto. That was him—the German man in the tower. It must be!

“You are quite certain? Zis is the place from vhat the letter came. It told me to come here. That he vas here.” The veil shook over her face. “I know not vere else to look.”

I stepped boldly forward, clutching my hands together. “You’re Leizel.”

Thornhill spun on me, ready to pounce. “What sort of trouble are you causing now?” He sunk his fingers into my arm, shoving me away. “Branson, take this woman.”

“Vait!” The veiled woman stepped forward, gloved hand out to me.

I dug my heels into the carpet. “He’s here, Mrs. Schumann. I’ve seen him. He’s h—” Branson yanked me off my feet. I stumbled to stay upright.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Schumann,” I heard Thornhill say as I was pulled out of the entryway. “The inmates will say anything for a little attention. You mustn’t pay them any mind. She has no idea what she says.”

Trapped. Ever trapped.

“Did someone check the cemetery?” I leaned close to Lew that night in the wards as the women filed into the room. I stared at Bridget’s unused bed, sheets pulled up to the lumpy pillow. Night one of three was approaching. “The one in her parish, I mean. That’s where I’d have gone first, if my child . . .”