The music of that grand space had shifted. From my own private and richly shadowed nocturne to a silly minuet, the space seemed entirely new. Gaudy, almost. Then, there was Frederick Harford, with his devout mantle of peace and watchful blue-eyed stare that added an invasive little arpeggio.

“I’ve spoken to Dr. Turner and convinced him to let us try our hand with his chronic ward patients. I assume you will not mind.” He paused, watching me. “Quite an interesting man, that Dr. Turner.” His eyes gleamed with the mischief of an old man, but I did not return his smile.

With patients seated in rows to my left, Harford called out song after song—either a stimulating beat or a calming tune, depending on the group. I played the pieces I knew, eyeing the patients as I went. Their faces showed mild enjoyment, and some even hummed or tapped with the beat. But in the end, they all rose in their little group and returned to life at Hurstwell, just as trapped as before. Two became more agitated and had to be removed.

“This is useless,” I mumbled, and shoved stray hairs off my face, scratching at the tickle they’d left.

“You don’t know that.”

“Look,” I hissed. “I had a life of my own. One that would have actually changed lives and bettered circumstances. This is nothing more than some spa treatment for the senses. One that makes little difference. Heals nothing.”

After eyeing me, Harford turned for a private word with one of the scowling nurses. Her frown deepened at whatever he whispered to her. “But Superintendent Thornhill has said—”

He spoke again, his voice infuriatingly soft, but the nurse seemed to hear every word. She nodded, stepping back. “As you wish, sir.” Then she disappeared.

Yes, everyone did Harford’s bidding. Every agenda of his was carried out—he saw to that. Even if it completely ruined other people’s plans. Lives, even. Another wave of panic flooded my being, and I gripped the stool, fingers curling into the fringe.

God. God Almighty, you are stronger. Mightier than my father, than Thornhill, than this odd Harford man and anyone else who seeks to control me. Won’t you intervene, Lord? I have rescuing to do for you, lost people to find, both here and on the outside, and I’m running out of time.

A chair on wheels bumped the doorframe, and my gaze snapped up, half expecting to see the answer to my request already. A new patient was wheeled in, small frame slumped to the side, eyes focused nowhere in particular. Behind her, the frightened women of Hurstwell looked back at me from the edges of the room, internal pain evident in their faces.