Heart hammering under her stare, I skimmed over the names as I hovered the candle over the tabs. There near the back was the name that made my blood pulse—Swansea. I reached for the file but pulled back without touching it. I didn’t dare reveal so much to the woman watching me from the chair. It was enough to know it was here, that I had the right asylum—and that Rosamond did exist.

Just before I closed the drawer, I caught sight of the file behind “Swansea” that stopped me cold. It read “Thornhill, Thomas.” I stared at the dark ink on that tab, hardly daring to breathe. There was a hole in my lungs, and the air was escaping. My head felt light.

“Well?”

I shook my head, firmly closing the drawer. The less she thought I knew, the better. “I suppose I was mistaken. The file . . .” What, doesn’t exist? Is too revealing? “I should go. I’m needed in the wards for bedtime.”

I turned to leave, keeping my poise, but she grabbed my skirt, yanking me back so hard my hip hit the desk. “Either you’re here for good or evil, but it isn’t merely for the work.” She hissed in my ear from behind. “Don’t think I’m ignorant. Don’t lie to me.” She let go and I fell forward, stumbling into the wall. Without a glance back at her, I darted out the door, slipping around the dark corner and down along the corridor and away from that office, my mind a whirl of confusion. I ran aimlessly through the dark until I nearly collided with a man.

“Whoa there.”

I threw out my arms, forcing myself to a stop, and looked up at the stranger emerging from the shadows. A tall, suited gentleman, solid and craggy with a face not unkind, held out a hand between us to keep us from collision. His voice had the deep intentional tone of one in charge, and my immediate thought was, Thornhill.

He lifted one eyebrow. “Are you lost?”

“Yes.” I dared not glance back in the direction of the office. “Yes, I believe I’m in entirely the wrong place.” I looked up into his face for a longer look, and I felt certain it was him. “I’m Cora. Cora Fletcher, new aid at Hurstwell.”

I was all too aware of how alone we were. I’d heard no trace of Nurse Duffy since I’d left her.

How he towered over me.

“Welcome.” He gave a nod. “Superintendent Thornhill.” There was gravity in his face—solemnity mixed with the tiredness that comes with age. “Might I direct you somewhere?”

“Slops. That is, slop duty. With Lew Wiggins.”