“Play,” Harford urged quietly, and I turned on the stool, directing my hands to take up position against the weight of my shackles, and my heart to steady its rhythm. With a calming breath, I began a Beethoven piece, picking my way through the sonata as best as I could with a limited reach, and strained against the metal on my wrists. I stole glances at the girl, and my heart sank as she remained unchanged. What had I expected, though?

I paused at the end of the second page of the score and looked at Harford. He frowned, tugging on his pointed beard. “Try Mozart. That piece you played in Salzburg earlier this year.” He flipped through his music but did not seem to have it. “Each patient needs either soothing music or stimulation, and it’s up to us to determine which. Perhaps this one requires the latter.”

Mozart’s Piano Sonata no. 14 in C Minor. I settled my fingers again and began to play from memory.

“Now emphasize the beats.”

I did, stiffening my fingers four times per measure to enunciate the tempo. Harford rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder and tapped his fingers along with the song. I turned my attention to the keys and played on until his whisper broke my concentration. “Look.”

I darted a quick glance at the girl, then a full look. The limp hand curled against her chest had begun flicking, fingers tensing with the beat. I played more, chills prickling my skin. Her head jerked in rhythm with the song, and I felt like crying. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A flicker of life. Hardly noticing my shackles anymore, I poured myself fully into that piece, bringing out the richness of its spread up and down the keyboard, stretching to the full extent of my cuffs and feeling the tones all up my arms.

I finished the song in an easy ride up the keyboard with both hands and a closing chord, then turned and looked directly into the darkest brown eyes fixed intently on me. Meeting my gaze. Asking for something. Begging. She was in there, and she wanted out. The chills prickled all the way to my scalp.

“Hello,” I said again softly.

She continued to stare. Alertness flickered in her features now and again, but she didn’t speak. Perhaps she couldn’t.

Canon Harford’s voice came soft and private. “Her name is Violet, and I believe she liked your playing.”

Violet. Violet! This was Lew’s Violet. I saw traces of his serious little face in hers. She had his dark hair, his countenance, but her features were delicate. Decidedly feminine in a snow-white contrast of light and dark.

I took her cold hand in mine, pressing my thumb into the back of it. “Lovely to meet you, Violet.”