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Epigraph

The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.

John 1:5 NIV

Dedication

This story is for my wonderful grandfather,
the musician who “saw” everyone and loved them well.
Miss you, Grandpa.

First Movement

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who did not hear the music.

~Friedrich Nietzsche

HURSTWELL ASYLUM

One day in late May of the year 1886, I found myself imprisoned in the Hurstwell Pauper Lunatic Asylum. This was unconscionable—I had never been a pauper.

I woke in a damp little room, and the music of the place was entirely wrong. I’d fallen asleep in a Beethoven sonata, white and airy, wrapped up with silky delight, and woken in the dark heart of Berlioz’s eerie Symphonie Fantastique, my head thudding with deep bassoon, the echoing rhythm of rain hitting stone. As my mind surfaced, I scrambled to collect the memories of the place, the bassoon solidified into a voice—one quite near the foot of my bed. I did not open my eyes to check.

“Don’t go too near. She’s moving.”

“Waking?”

“Not for several hours. Involuntary muscle spasms, most likely.”

Indeed. They’d overestimated whatever drug they’d injected into me. Or they had, as people often did, underestimated me. An odd thing happened when one carried a giant weight of troubles all her life—she built up a great deal of strength.

“Will we keep her?” A light timpani voice contrasted with the first.

“I’m not certain yet. It’s a rather odd case, and she’s already proved volatile. We cannot let her go free.”

I had fought, hadn’t I? My mind swirled with memories—an urgent need to escape. The failure to do so. Yes, I remembered. This is what came of trusting one’s best friend. I may not even marry him now.

“Has she a name?”

“Cora . . . Cora something.”

No. No, that wasn’t right. I wasn’t Cora.

“I’ve forgotten. Her last name is of no consequence. She doesn’t belong to anyone.”

Ouch. A pin into a live pincushion.

Scribbles on paper. “What is her condition?”

“Delusions,” came the deeper voice. The bassoon. “She hears music.”

“Rather a nice malady to have, isn’t it? Hearing music?”

“Not when there isn’t any.”

“Right, of course. Any other details?”

“We’ve only to decide if she’s acute or chronic—and that depends on her.”

“Well, her committal was . . . oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

What? “Oh” what? my mind cried out. I recalled my childhood, my father, my home. Pianofortes. Performances. But the recent events, the details of this place, eluded me. Shrouded in the thick mist of the moors.

“Well, well. Look at this,” said the lighter voice.

Papers rustled. I wanted to snatch them and see for myself.