“They’ve not buried the babe yet. I heard them talking, and someone from Hurstwell’s already been to look for her.”

“Her home, then. Did she make it back to her family?”

“They don’t seem to know she’s escaped yet. Haven’t seen her.”

“You’re certain?”

The boy placed a clean pot and stood. “Heard Thornhill talking to some of his men. They don’t want to tip their hand yet about losing her—afraid of the constable being called—but they’ve been asking about. No sign of her with the family or at the cemetery.”

Losing Rose hadn’t seemed to upset anyone. In fact, they pretended it hadn’t happened. Why the concern for Bridget, the pauper?

“Oh, and by the by, I delivered your message. Your Harford bloke didn’t give me anything.”

I waved it off. That could wait—everything could. “Lew . . . where else would she go?”

He stood still so long I wondered if he’d heard me. Then at last, he said, “Nowhere. She wouldn’t go nowhere. That’s the bad news.”

“And the good news?”

He shrugged. “They ain’t found her dead yet.”

I huffed out a breath, smoothing fingers over my hair. She had to be at Hurstwell still. Why risk escape at all if not to be with her family or bury her baby girl? And another thing—she hadn’t wanted to leave. Not especially. For some, there’s no escaping what binds us. Whether here or there.

I heaved a long exhale, shoving long hair off my face.

God Almighty, never before have I needed your help more. Free me, Lord, so I may find her. Please . . . free me. There isn’t much time.

There was no miracle, no response. I was back in the locked larder at my father’s house, but this time I was alone.

30

All I insist on, and nothing else, is that you should show the whole world that you are not afraid. Be silent, if you choose; but when it is necessary, speak—and speak in such a way that people will remember it.

~Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

They formed us into straight lines in Hurstwell’s large entryway, all the able-bodied patients from the acute ward. It was afternoon, with sun beaming through the windows. There was a visitor, they said, so we were lined up like cattle at auction. It was the second full day that Bridget had been missing. I’d hardly lifted my head all day and my shackles hung heavy from my wrists, a symbol of my helplessness.

I lifted my eyes and looked down the line of women, those dull countenances that I now wore too. I had joined them—maybe not in madness, but in total despair. I saw it on all their faces, that look of lifelessness, and I felt it keenly.