I cringed. Yes. Yes, I had women to help in the here and now while I waited. But what could I really do for any of them? What lasting good was mere music when there was so much more to their complex situations? Meanwhile, time slipped away like petals on the wind. What of the more immediate needs—what of the missing Rosamond? What of Bridget?

Then I turned to the aid wheeling in the patient I’d never seen before—a young woman with one arm curled into her chest and dark frizz matted flat on one side of her head. Her vacant stare resembled many at Hurstwell, but her features were so small and delicate, her flesh thin and almost transparent. There was something deeply familiar about her, something in her solemn little face and elfin features, although I couldn’t place it. I knew her, or had at one time, and it made my heart ache all the more to look at her. “Poor dear.” My voice was small, my spirit deflated. “I wonder if there’s anything that can be done for her.”

“Of course there is. For our first focused session, I’ve chosen the patient Turner believes most unreachable, incurable, because I must prove myself—and my methods—before we go any further.”

I stiffened. “Dr. Thornhill is willing to let you have your way. You’ve quite won him over.”

“It’s you I’m hoping to convince, Miss Vivienne Mourdant.” He waved the matron away and wheeled the girl to the side of the great instrument. Her arms, legs, and waist were strapped to the chair to keep her upright, and there was no indication of awareness behind her placid face. “She is unreachable, completely cut off from the world and without hope . . . according to her caretakers.”

I looked away. I was staring. Pitying.

No, feeling. I felt this scene very much, hurting at the sight of those restraints tying her down, at the loss of life within a living body. I saw a piece of my childhood self in that young girl, something vitally broken and cut off and trapped—her bondage was merely more visible than mine had been. “Hello.” I spoke softly. “My name’s Vivienne. What’s yours?”

No change.

“Would you like to hear some music? I’m a pianist and I’d love to play for you. Perhaps you have a favorite song.”

“There’s no use speaking to ’er, miss,” said the aid. “She don’t know a thing anyone says.”

I looked into her eyes, willing her to connect with me, for her mind to register my questions or even my presence, but there wasn’t a flicker.