The line between truth and imagination, laced with exhaustion, grew fuzzy. I’d flown like a bird from the tall clock tower of this place when I’d dozed the night before—that had been a dream. But the music—that seemed real. So very real. I still heard it when I stood still enough.

I swayed. It was time to force their hand, to make someone stand in for me. At least for a few hours. Climbing up to the second floor, I was surprised to find the corridors empty. But there was always someone on second, right? Epileptics needed extra attention. Even at night. Shoving the note into my apron pocket, I curled into a night shift chair against the wall and forced my thoughts to march in a straight line. The woman. The note. She needed help. So did I. Someone should be coming. I’d wait here, just rest my eyes.

Rose. The ghost.

Music.

Her music.

No, stay awake. No dreaming. Awake.

Awaaaaake.

12

My heart pounds sickeningly and I turn pale . . . I seem to be losing my mind.

~Robert Schumann

I jerked awake as dawn was about to crest the horizon. I’d lost the battle over sleep sometime between six and seven. I exhaled and forced my stiff limbs into motion, sitting upright and looking over the rows of beds. My head had settled back onto my body, but fog still thickened my thoughts. I blinked at the lumpy form of Clara on the bed, and everything seemed to normalize.

Wait. The epileptic ward. Second floor. Hadn’t I sat down to wait up there?

“Wash and come help with breakfast,” said a voice to my left, jerking away the last of clinging slumber.

I twitched and blinked at Nurse Branson, who looked even paler in the cool light of dawn. “No one came to relieve me. I’ve been on rounds all night. And the two nights before.”

She yanked sheets off a bed and balled them up before moving to the next. “There’s nothing for it, I’m afraid. We’ve had another orderly quit, and we’re all down there making gruel and slicing bread.” She tossed a bundle at my lap. “At least you caught a bit of sleep, it would seem.” Her stare was hard. Accusing.

“Nurse Branson,” I said. She turned, fist on her hip, and I grabbed for a sense of grounding. Of sanity. Someone had left me that note, had played that music, and it hadn’t been a ghost. I had one guess who. “Where is Nurse Duffy?”

Branson sloshed water into the washbasin. “How should I know? I’m not her keeper, am I? Now get on with you.”