I took a breath, studying her white little face so much like Lew’s, and I knew what to play. Leaning near so our arms touched, I began again—this time, Brahms’ Lullaby. She’d once been active and alert, Lew had said, but as their lives disintegrated, she’d moved further into herself, disconnected from the world. Something had changed her. But childhood . . . she’d been part of the world then.

“What are you doing?” Harford whispered as I began. “This is child’s music.”

“Trust me, won’t you?”

Violet did not move against my arm, did not react to the song, but I forced myself through every note to the conclusion. Still nothing. Just a quiet calm. Maybe that was all I could hope for.

No. There was one other option.

“Da wasn’t English,” Lew had said to me once, “and that’s why he never felt at home there. He was from Connah’s Quay, out along the coast.”

Welsh. The man had been Welsh.

With a glance down at my patient’s dark hair so near my arm, I positioned my fingers and began again—this time, the old Welsh lullaby that had become popular in London.

Sleep my child and peace attend thee,

All through the night.

I barely remembered the melody, but I’d had a Welsh nanny once, and I’d loved the sound of it on her voice. It had seemed impossible to fret with this song in the air. I worked my way through the simple melody, adding a small flourish with my left hand when I could manage it. I pulled it from memory, but every time the shackles rubbed my wrists I wanted to cry. It distracted me, took me out of the song, and I lost my place. I stumbled along, limping toward the ending as discouragement mounted—D-E-F-E . . . No, how did that go? D-E-E. . . . D-E-E. . . .

“Mmmmm.” Violet’s voice ground out a low F as if compelled to bring the song’s resolution. Violet’s eyes remained wide, her hands gripping the chair arms, but she was no longer fighting to be heard. No longer on the verge of outburst. Her rocking had returned but gentled into a steady rhythm as she stared intently at the keyboard, her single note ringing through the open room. She began to hum the tune—an erratic version in a voice clear and deep that came from somewhere in that slender, worn-out body.