No record. There was more to this story. No mention was made of the payments received over the years for this ward, but the solicitor assured me no more would be requested of me. Not to be put off, I’d written a second time, and they’d promptly and firmly replied that I was to stop inquiring. They’d done a careful look and found no evidence of such a patient ever having been at Hurstwell. They declared the past payments a mistake, or a possible case of fraud from a third party, for truly, no such patient had ever been there.

Now, looking up at the place, I could see any number of things being lost in the great old rambling dungeon. How could they possibly know she wasn’t there somewhere?

I shivered, slowing my step as we approached, realizing I would be expected to go inside. This was probably a terrible idea. There was a simple explanation that would make me feel foolish in the end. Yet every time I’d spoken to God about Rosamond Swansea, expecting a release from the odd tangle of curiosity, it had only intensified.

I’d felt prompted to dig. To find truth. A sense of going after a single lost sheep, as he had once done for me in the dark larder of my childhood. God had filled my heart with a nearly tangible longing to work out the secrets surrounding this mysterious woman and to honor her with the truth.

My time was suddenly quite free too. All my scheduled performances had been canceled. Word had spread of my father’s death, my manager had refused to book engagements during mourning, and life had ground to a halt—all except the debts I must pay and their deadlines. While every other rescue I wished to do would cost me money, this one would earn me a small income. So now, weeks after my release from darkness and shadows, I was tramping right back into them. Only this time, it wasn’t a larder and there was no Father locking me in. I had come by choice, and I could leave the same way, whenever it suited.

Truly I could.

I clamped my hat onto my head and hurried to follow the dough-faced nurse up to the front steps that were covered in petals. The last cherry blossoms swirled around our feet, blowing in a gentle pink cyclone against stone. Nurse Branson’s flaccid skin, however, told the story of what lay inside. It was a black hole, this place, wasn’t it? A cave without sunshine. A person rarely left once they set foot in it. Even the staff.