I accepted the basket and propped it on my shoulder—which ached a surprising amount—and wove through the women toward the doors.

Up in the empty wards, I sank into a muffled quiet. The dim glow of gaslights hid everything except the small circle around me, giving the gentle sense of being alone at last. In these moments of quiet, with daylight streaming through high windows, I didn’t mind this place. Not at all. Dropping the basket before the closet, I stretched my arms, circling my shoulders, then began stuffing the tied bundles onto the shelves, along with the other white-gray linens already there.

But a closed door across the way caught my eye. It was on the left side and it led to an office of some kind. I could see the edge of a desk through the window. Pulse pounding, I finished the bundles quickly and slipped over to it, peering inside. It was the men’s ward, though. I’d find nothing on Rosamond here, but I couldn’t resist. Couldn’t turn off my curiosity.

Very little daylight streamed through the barred windows, but I could make out a small kidney-shaped desk and two cabinets for paperwork. I stepped in and peered around, then slid open the cabinet drawer that was eye level to me. A mess of papers. Letters. Little notes. I dug through, my eyes scanning the variety of handwriting.

A bang in the corridor shot panic through me.

I darted out and nearly collided with a small, dark-haired boy toting a bucket. One glance up at me and he dumped the liquid contents on the floor between us.

“Aye, now see what you’ve done!” he called out loudly, dropping the bucket on the mess and raising his hands. “Watch where you’re going, why don’t you?”

That little face—it was the slop boy from my first night. “What are you doing?” I hissed. Ungrateful wretch.

“Ho now, what’s the problem here?” A tall doctor in a suitcoat emerged from the shadows just down the corridor and stood before us, arms folded.

I froze. How had I not seen him?

“Taking care of slops, Doc Carpenter, and this here lady knocked me bucket over.”

“You’re new.” The alienist eyed me from his great height, without welcome or malice. “Well then, help him clean it up. You’ll be on slop duty with the boy until he’s done, and maybe next time you’ll remember to look where you’re going.”

“I didn’t—”

“What part of those instructions weren’t clear, Miss . . . ?”

“Fletcher. Cora Fletcher.” I clenched my jaw.

“Very good, Miss Fletcher. I appreciate your cooperation.” His gaze snapped between us. “I shall inform your charge nurse. Branson, I assume?” He sidestepped the putrid mess that was beginning to consume the air before I could confirm and continued down the hall.