I had. I had looked, every day. Every face. No one resembled the flower-like creature with the endearing head tilt who’d played Mother’s pianoforte in my dreams.

“It’s easy to live in this place for years and never meet half the women here.”

“You’ve been here that long?”

“Long enough.”

I shifted on the chair, looking her over again as my mind settled onto solid ground. “Forgive me, but you don’t seem to . . . belong. Here, I mean. Especially for so long.” Awkwardness clogged my throat. “The others seem sickly and quiet and terribly . . .”

“Melancholy? Yes, I suppose they are.” She sat upright, eyes shining in the dark. “There’s no sense in joining them now, is there? Especially when one can bring life and sparkle to a place with a bit of good humor, and it doesn’t cost a farthing.” Her voice seemed to bounce from word to word, even at a whisper.

I smiled in spite of myself, feeling the tension melt from my body. “How right you are. I admit I’m not keen on being here myself, but perhaps I shouldn’t show it so much.”

“Not a bit of it, love. None of us wants to be here, staff or inmate. We’re all of us flotsam floating downriver, caught in the rocks and stuck there unless some kind soul pulls us loose.”

“If it’s not too bold, how does a body end up here?”

She giggled. “There are as many stories as there are faces about the place.” And like a flower unfurling colorful petals, Clara began to tell me of the various women in the ward, and how they’d come to Hurstwell. The stories were sad, terrifying, sometimes humorous—but all so unique.

I began to picture individual faces—a young, overworked newlywed; a woman whose children—and purpose—had left; an outspoken vicar’s wife with ideas that didn’t align with his; a great-grandmother who couldn’t recall the names of those she’d raised, and then Clara slowed. “I ought to save a few stories for the other sleepless nights, I suppose. You’ll be awake much as I will when you’re on duty, and we might as well keep ourselves entertained.” She shifted again and her smile widened, until I couldn’t be certain of what I thought I’d seen there before. “So you don’t sing. Can you play a fiddle?”

“I play the pianoforte. My father was a music tutor.”

“How grand! Say, we had another one who played. What a lovely way she had with music.”

I straightened. “Where is she? What’s her name?”

“Wouldn’t you know, I don’t recall her name.” A flicker of fear shadowed her face, but then it melted into her chummy smile until I wasn’t certain I’d even seen it.