She was older, of course. How many years had this melody been missing from the world? Her smooth hair was a wild mess hanging around that dear heart-shaped face . . . and the little birthmark. The one on the edge of her lip. It spread a bit now as that ghostly face framed by wilted hair smiled at me, the song turning in smooth, rounded edges and gentle climbs up the keyboard to higher, sweeter notes I’d never before imagined. Never could have written.

This couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t.

Yet how very real she was, how warm her hand touching mine.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Bridget edged closer to me, looking into my face.

“Bridget.” My voice was a breathy whisper as I stared at that face. Could Bridget hear it? Could she hear the haunting melody that swept this dark cell? “You see her, don’t you?”

She looked in the direction of the woman, then back at me. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

I shook my head. “A ghost. This woman is supposed to be a ghost. She had a baby, and was married to Thornhill and—”

“Have you lost your mind? This isn’t Thornhill’s wife, and she’s no ghost.”

“But Clara told me everything—about the child, and Rose’s death . . .”

“Clara?” Bridget’s puckered brow smoothed. “Then you can rest assured none of it’s true.”

I clutched my skirt. “But there were notes. From Rose. Several of them. And she’s been seen around . . .”

Bridget crossed her arms, looking more herself than ever. “If that don’t beat all. She really had you going, didn’t she? Clara was pulling your leg.”

“You mean . . . she made it all up?”

“Why, don’t you know? She’s the grandest storyteller in all of Hurstwell. Except we all know what she is, and no one listens to her stories anymore. No one but you.”

And I had tried to leave. The moth pulling away from the gaslight, a false glow meant to draw and ensnare. “The notes. They were from her?”

Bridget shrugged. “Saw her writing something a few times on them pages of music. Couldn’t make out what, though.”

“And does she play the pianoforte?”

“A little. They don’t let her no more though.”

But she had. She had been the one playing Rose’s song that night, which meant she must have met Rose—heard her playing it long ago. My mind tipped and spun on a new axis, struggling to right itself. “But why would she do all that?” I’d been drawn to her, to that wonderful, cheerful spirit—she’d had light in her too. Or so I’d thought.