A lump lodged in his throat as he led the man forward, toward the wife Philippe adored. Mitchell refused to glance toward the cemetery this night.

They sat on either side of Anna on that stone bench, and she relaxed, a mild smile crossing her face as she settled between them.

He wasn’t looking at the cemetery, but he shook. Leaving felt so foreign. So impossible. Yet the notion tugged at him. Guilt fought back.

He passed his hand through his hair.

A gnarled old hand grabbed his, patting the top, then tracing the thick veins, the knuckles. Then music rustled from deep inside her chest, wavering through the quiet night as it had those stormy nights when she’d been the one afraid and he’d sung to her. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.

He stilled, focusing on his breathing.

That saved a wretch like me.

Mitchell glanced up at the rambling old structure that held so much pain.

I once was lost . . . but now I’m found.

Was blind, but now I see.

Just beyond the trees, a full moon shone round and bright against the inky sky. A light amidst the darkness. Amazing grace.

“Come, it’s time to go.” He rose, stretching his tense back and helping the couple rise. “You’ll be to London in a few hours, and life will be far brighter for you. I’m sure of it.”

Philippe laid his hand on Mitchell’s arm, tired old eyes looking up into his. “You wouldn’t have us go alone, would you? Escaped patients of a mental ward . . . and at our age. Won’t you escort us, Dr. Turner?”

The man knew not what he even said. What those words did to him.

Mitchell took a breath and released it. “Yes. Yes, I will go with you.” One final giant band released from around his chest, and he took a deep, fresh breath, turning his back on Hurstwell. Perhaps for the last time.

39

Music comes to me more readily than words.

~Ludwig van Beethoven

The low notes of that rapturous lost melody climbed in pitch, in intensity, driving toward some unseen climax but always dancing around it. I touched Rose’s face, her hair, and she did not pull back—she only kept smiling at me. The moment was breathless—surreal. “Who are you?” It seemed ridiculous to ask when I knew the answer, had seen her portrait, but I wanted her to say it.

She didn’t, though. She only continued looking at me as I withdrew my hand, her head tilted with the same sweet affection I remembered. Then she reached out and caressed my arm, thin fingers running down the length of it, grasping my hand and turning it over to trace the length of my piano-playing fingers. Her smile broadened.

“What is she doing to you?” Bridget asked.