The man’s expression was strained, but he gave a single nod and turned to the patient. “Mary Jo, I’ve a friend I’d like you to meet. She loves music too. Perhaps you could move to a bed closer to hers.”

Something jiggled in Mary Jo’s neck, then she swallowed and stepped forward, head bowed. “Long as she don’t mind fiddle playin’.”

“She’d like nothing better.”

“Come along.” Nurse Duffy stepped forward, reaching for Mary Jo, but the woman pulled away.

“Perhaps we’ll have our new friend go with us instead this time.” Dr. Turner looked directly at me as he lifted his candle. “If she’s willing, that is.”

I blinked. “Me? Of course.”

6

Music expresses that which cannot be put into words.

~Victor Hugo

We stood on either side of a trembling Mary Jo and led her right past those nurses, who stared with wide eyes. Nurse Duffy’s gaze was aimed directly at me, shooting fire and metal, as if we’d been battling and I’d won.

“Doctor, this is highly unusual,” she said at last.

“Good.”

“I’ll be forced to report this to Dr. Thornhill.”

“Please do.”

Thornhill—that was the superintendent. The head of Hurstwell.

Nothing stopped us, though, and soon we were moving out the door, into the gaslit corridors, and toward another set of stairs where the pinging music I’d thought I’d imagined came again, echoing even louder. I looked at the doctor’s silent face, that pale countenance that was tired and worn into gentleness. Do you hear it? Please tell me you do. But I swallowed my question and breathed in the fresh air outside of that overfull room.

Then the doctor turned to me with a smile. “I’m deeply in your debt, Miss—”

“Fletcher. Cora Fletcher.” I smiled. “And think nothing of it.”

His return smile was deep and genuine as he guided us down the hall. Mary Jo seemed subdued now, even compliant, as she followed along, looking about at the corridor with grave curiosity.

“How are you getting on here? It’s quite a place.”

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Whatever I expected . . . it is more.” We stepped in echoey silence for a moment before I braved the next question. “Dr. Turner, might I ask what is kept in the lost tower? There seems to be a person up there. A patient.”

His shoulders hitched, his step hesitating. “Yes, patients. The ones who are considered beyond help—the lost causes.”

Hence the name “lost tower.”

We walked several steps in silence. “I’m not certain anyone deserves to live out his days in such a place. Surely there must be something you can do, if a person still breathes. At least to make him fit to live among the other patients.”

His face remained grim, and he did not answer.