“There’s the acute on floor one, infirmary and epileptics on two, chronic on three. You’ll get used to it. Here, we’ll start you out easy, with the acute ward.” She stopped me in the open doorway of a long chamber with green-glass windows at one end and two dozen beds bolted to the floor, occupants milling about in various stages of undress as they readied for bed.

I walked in to the sound of their voices, all tuned to the different melodies locked within each individual and creating a cacophony of noise. It was like no symphony I’d ever heard, but it was, oddly enough, exactly like the orchestra tuning before a performance, each musician preparing fingers and minds for what was coming.

Only for these people, there was nothing coming. No beautiful performance, only the endless noise of preparation. I let my gaze pass over the women—scowling, staring, whimpering, drooping, shaking.

I shut my eyes to the sight. Two or three days, a week at most, and I’d be away from here. Hopefully with some answers. Then a door opened and a soft melody struck my senses, distant and echoey as if from the heavens, slipping through the oddness and shadows. I blinked the illusion away, breathed deep, but it remained—high, pinging notes bouncing off the walls.

I looked to another nurse as she jammed a corner of the sheet under a thin mattress nearby. Do you hear it? I stopped just short of voicing it. I’d often heard music at night in my childhood, but I’d stopped asking the maids about it when their odd looks made me feel odd. Yet it always came when I needed it most, this music that softened the darkness, and apparently I needed it again.

Nurse Branson hurried across the room to us. With a grunt, she tripped over a small figure bent near one of the beds, and a dark-haired lad of maybe eight or nine shot straight up. Laughter and giggles sounded as the women turned to gape at the stumbling nurse.

“Away with you, clumsy sod!” She rose and lifted her hand to box his ears, but I was after her like a hawk, spinning the boy away to shield him from her hand.

“What are you doing?” She hissed. “Know your place, girl. You ain’t in charge.”

She shoved me aside and smacked the boy on the shoulder. “Go on, get on with you, Lew Wiggins. You should be long done with the pots.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He scrambled, grabbing for an empty bucket on the way out. But when she moved deeper into the room, he slipped back in, looking me over with concern. “You’re not hurt, are you, miss?”