Nurse Duffy was hurrying toward us now, clutching her shawl about her shoulders. Thornhill looked up as one beefy arm pinned me to the powdered grass, snow leaking through the back of my cloak and gown. I was panting. Despairing of freedom.

“Let me deal with her, Dr. Thornhill. I was looking for you—you’re needed in epileptic. A bad reaction to the medicine. I’m afraid we’ll lose another one.”

He bared his teeth, huffing as he looked from me to the building just behind. “Wretched mess.” Rearing back, he yanked my arms together and clamped shackles on my wrists. They bit into the wounds that had only begun to heal. “Fine then, get her locked up. And don’t let her out of your sight until she’s secured.” He leaned into her face. “It’ll be your hide if she’s gone.” He dropped a set of keys on the ground and rose, stalking toward the side door.

She remained still until he’d gone, then I edged onto my side and saw she was shaking. Her arm snapped out and she grabbed mine, daring me with a look to run.

I balanced on the edge of trust in God and bitterness toward this woman. “It was you, wasn’t it? You who aided Marcel Beauchene in making me believe I was mad. In convincing them so I’d be locked away.” Ire eclipsed the calm I’d just gained. The delicate trust. Now I felt only trapped and desperate once again. “A lot of trouble to go to over jealousy.”

Her eyes flashed. “You’ve done it to yourself, you addlepated wretch! You’ve made them think it all on your own. You think I wanted you to stay here, around him every day?” She marched us toward the tower, her grip on my arm surprisingly strong. “I was the one on duty last night, and Turner asked me to look away. I agreed wholeheartedly the minute he told me his plan. You . . . gone for good?” She gave a huff of a laugh. “I was only too glad of it.”

“Then why leave me those notes? What of the music in the middle of the night?”

But I sensed the answer even before she paused, turning to look at me with a curious mix of derision and shock. “You truly are touched in the head, ain’t you? I can’t write. Don’t know how. And if I did, I wouldn’t be writin’ you letters.” With a grunt, she shoved me through a door in the long stone fence and marched me toward the tall, ivy-choked tower. “And I can promise you, there ain’t no music at night in that place.”

Chills sent a forceful tremble through me. Where had the notes come from, then? And the song?

Rose. It must be Rose.

No, she was gone. Dead. And ghosts weren’t real.