Then I saw it, clear as day. She had been this way toward me ever since the run-in. The one with Dr. Turner in the hall. What I didn’t understand is why she cared so deeply.

But I suppose I should have known that too.

I looked her over, wondering how long she’d been taken with Dr. Turner, and to what lengths she’d already gone to catch his attention.

The second round of night shift in a row was tolerable, but after a week of erratic sleep on top of it, the third night left my head buzzing and my legs twitching. After a second cup of tea that I had made extra dark to startle my senses awake, I strained to see into the distance as the hour neared four, but no one came to relieve me. At five, I walked the wards again to keep awake, to avoid a fitful dream in these echoing halls, but I heard no footsteps, saw no other staff member.

The gaslit corridor of the third floor seemed alive. Lights pointed up toward the ceiling, casting shadows over the walls, giving them a life of their own. Creating movement and dancing figures that were not there.

Warm calm washed over me as I lowered my tired body into a chair, but after a few bleary moments I realized the reason for the calm—music. Not the tinny sounds of the old woman’s music box in the long-stay ward, but a languid, beautiful sound that could come only from a pianoforte.

I sank into it with a smile, nearly giving in to sleep—but wait. This was not home. I was not above the shop with Father belowstairs, trying to drown his disappointments in Beethoven. There was no Father here, no pianoforte.

And there should be no music.

The sound wove through my foggy senses, muffled and distant. Another vivid dream? I forced myself to rise, shaking my senses alert and moving down the hallway. I peeked in each ward, scanning for empty beds. I reached the stairs—the music had stopped. Just now? or minutes ago? I descended the stairs on shaky legs, again looking for empty beds. For anyone moving about. After a walk down the corridors of the second floor, I moved to acute on the first and paused in the familiar room where I always sat, willing it to ground me in reality.

“You’re still here.” Clara’s voice reached me with a rustle of covers.

My gaze snapped in her direction. “The music. What is it? Where?”

She blinked at me in the darkness, and again I felt the leaden pressure of my oddness before she even spoke. “What music?”