He raised one thick eyebrow. “And that is?”

“It’s Vivienne. Vivienne Mourdant.”

The eyebrow lifted higher. “The pianist?”

“Yes, I play the pianoforte. For the theaters.” My brain slogged along, pulling words out of the mud still filling my head. “I’ve played the Alexandria. Here in town. Also on the Continent. Mozart, Haydn, Chopin is my favorite.” My mind spun.

“It appears you’ve been this way since the death of your mother and brothers.”

“Oh but—”

“They are dead, are they not?”

“Yes, but—well no, I don’t have—”

“Well then.” He frowned and dipped his pen, then wrote on the paper before him. “We’ll place you on light duty for now, day shift only in the laundry, but under the circumstances we cannot permit you to leave.” He looked up to me with a sigh. “You’ll still be expected to work, but you’ll be under our care for the next few days until your . . . condition improves.”

“But Cora Fletcher is completely fabricated. She’s not—”

“She’s quite real, and so is her reputation about Liverpool. Now, I’ll have to ask you a few questions, Miss Fletcher.”

I stood, back stiff and legs shaking. My body ached from prolonged tension. “No, you must listen. I’m not Cora Fletcher. I truly am Vivienne Mourdant. Whatever you found on this Cora woman is about someone else entirely. Let me bring someone here to vouch for me.”

His bland look told me how useless my suggestion was to him.

“This Cora. It’s just a name I made up. I tell you, I’m Vivienne Mourdant.”

“Very well then, Miss Mourdant.” He rose, waving me toward the door. “Come this way and we’ll let you have a rest. Then we’ll talk again and see what’s to be done. First, a little tea.”

“I don’t want tea.”

He paused, eyes like steel. “I don’t recall asking a question.”

Father had said similar words. So often. I clung to the back of the chair, heart pounding in my chest, then followed the man out of the room. I needed air. Space. My heart drummed out a rhythm of fear, a desperate sonata.

I didn’t belong here. I was a pianist, with a heart for hurting women. I had a mission and a purpose. Freedom. I wasn’t one of them, the patients here.

“We’ve a nice quiet space where you can rest. They’re making up some tea, and you’ll get all the sleep you need.”

Alarms rang in my fuzzy head.

“A handy little cot in the larder should do nicely.”

“Larder?” I breathed out the words as dread set its weight on me.

“Dark and quiet, with not a soul to bother you. We’ll have to lock it, though—you understand.”