When he’d gone, I moved through the quiet house, with only the hushed footsteps of servants as company. It was rather nice, visiting when no one was about. Perhaps I ought to give up the position and stay in my own quiet home, as Richard had suggested. Only, I soon wouldn’t be able to keep it.

I ambled up the stairs and through a gallery, hardly looking at anything, until one small portrait caught my eye and made me freeze—it was her. Rosamond. Several years aged from what I remembered, but it was that same familiar countenance, head tilted with a secret smile on a sweet face. Had it been hanging here all along? Or had I never ventured into the gallery before now?

I stood before the painting, studying her every gesture and feature, running my fingertip along the colors. She posed looking back over her shoulder, long brown hair piled loosely, with curls about her face. I touched the oil paints of her face, those laughing eyes. I hadn’t ever seen them this way—she’d always been so shy and wistful.

I’d begun to believe she didn’t exist—that was why I’d wavered about returning, wasn’t it? But now her eyes held me captive, even when I looked away from them. The memories, the familiarity, were undeniable. She was there, somewhere. Here was her portrait in my family’s gallery. There was a file at Hurstwell with her name on it.

I thought of that face on the whole carriage ride back to Manchester. Once, a long time ago, those lovely dreams of her and her music were all the beauty I had in a very dark childhood. They saved me, in a way. Now, the tables had turned, and I was meant to help her. And considering the limited options for one as poor as myself, I was the only one who could. My other plans paled every time I saw that face again, thought about her missing in that wretched place.

Words from the Gospel of Luke floated through my mind, nudging me. Convicting. What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?

People didn’t simply disappear, and there was much more to her story. To Hurstwell, and everyone who came within its grasp.