I almost felt sorry for him, so vulnerable he seemed. I could see on his face that now, and only now, did he realize who I truly was.

And that it would not go well for me.

No one moved, and I was glad. It would take a few minutes to collect my scattered emotions and pack them away where they belonged.

At last, Harford spoke. He ran an appreciative hand over the polished body of the Broadwood. “I do believe you have underestimated this old instrument, Doctor.”

Dr. Thornhill’s face hardened, and I had the sense of impending doom, for Harford and his influence would eventually depart Hurstwell . . . but I would not. There was no maid to offer me fruit and peace. No Marcel to sweep in to my rescue. No Marcel Beauchene in all the world. For the first time in my life, I was utterly alone. I closed my eyes and tipped my face heavenward. God, I begged. What do I do now? How do I escape this?

But God did not give a response, and my heart dulled in despair.

At last, Dr. Thornhill spoke one sentence in a strained voice before taking his leave. “See that she does not overstep.”

Third Movement

THE LOST TOWER

I was awake. Not just my eyes, but my soul, shuddering with warm awareness of the world around me, outside my head. Someone played the pianoforte. Music swam through my veins like blood warmed up to flow again, flooding my extremities with life and drawing me to wakefulness. I was alive after all.

Mostly.

I blinked, took in the small tower room, and waited, but no one else stirred, all those lumps of forgotten flesh. It meant nothing to them. Nothing. Couldn’t even hear it, most likely. Not like I could. I crawled from the cot and moved toward the music, warm tears pooling in my eyes. The song came from here, the wall closest to my bed. I placed my palm on the stone and felt it, the soft, steady tones that soaked into my flesh and reached my very bones.

At last. Something beautiful. Something alive. I leaned against the wall, my entire body pressed up against its coolness, and my cheek rested there, drinking in life and rhythm, allowing it to invade the prison of my mind.

I’d been trapped for an eternity. The world outside me was dull and quiet. Insulated as a tomb. Nothing able to penetrate—except the music. It came from somewhere outside me, a world that still existed—oh, what unreasonable hope!

Memories unfurled along with the music. I’d had parents once—velvety soft and warm. I touched my cheek. The featherlight caress of my mother, with a voice like wind chimes. “How dear, how precious,” she’d always said of me. Had my mangy self once been dear and precious?