The nurse folded her arms. “The kind that means she won’t be having no more babies. He thinks she’s gone to hysterics, after her outburst the other day, and that’s the way they deal with it.” Her voice gentled. “Couldn’t see how the girl deserved that. Only a good mother’d carry on the way she did over the loss of her bairn. She needs to go home and care for the others.”

“You likely saved her life, bringing her here.” Duffy’s words of warning from that first night rolled over me. “Of all places to hide her . . . the lost tower. You told me you never go here. Yet you’ve braved it. Every day, if you’re also bringing her medicine.”

She shrugged, dropping her gaze. “Lot of good it does. Saved from the knife, but she won’t eat enough to feed an insect. Don’t like it here.”

I touched Bridget’s bony arm, her cheek where countless tears had dried. “Oh, Bridget.”

She looked down at her hands.

“Now. See if she’ll listen to you and eat something.” Nurse Duffy departed, key clanking in the heavy lock as she left.

I turned back to my friend. “I wish you could see how much this world needs you. How much beauty is contained in you. Please, don’t give up.”

“I don’t have a thing to give.” Her voice was dull. “And I’ll never be free.”

I brushed the hair from her face. “No cell can stop you.”

Her gaze lifted in the narrow streams of light and met mine.

“Just like your dear Paul, with a constant thorn in the flesh. A jail cell and accusers. But with a light that the rest of the world needs to see. And Bridget, the sun doesn’t stop shining just because the clouds are covering it.”

Her eyes glistened, wide and bright, then she wilted against me and wept. I held her, my hand smoothing up and down her bony back, willing her to live.

Something stirred deep in the shadows to the left and I jerked up, blinking to adjust my vision again. Another cellmate. This one looked animalistic, crouched for attack or retreat. Heart pounding a frantic rhythm hard enough to break my ribs, I looked closer, and the creature—a woman—inched out and lifted her face to me. The whites of her eyes showed, big and round, then she moved into the narrow stream of light from the high window, and suddenly the cacophony of Hurstwell’s song reached a fever pitch. A blinding blur of notes twisting into a stunning symphony of clear order and brilliance and it was . . . the lost melody. Soft, satin tones with bright eyes and a complexion to match her name.

Rose.

I could scarcely believe the sight of her—the true flesh-and-blood melody that had been lost . . . and found again.