Sweat moistened my skin, gathering in every ridge and crevice. We rounded the corner into that opulent front hall, and he passed me off to a nurse. Panic buzzed with each step, and all I saw were the front doors standing open to the wide outdoors beyond. A man—a large guard of some sort—frowned at the looming storm as he held the doors open for another man struggling under the burden of several crates. Lanterns hung along the drive like arrows lighting the path to freedom, but the rest of the world was dark.

I didn’t mind. Let the dark swallow me. It couldn’t be worse than this place.

Walking behind the nurse, I reached for a heavy candlestick, the only object around that would make a nice distracting clunk when I threw it down the hall, and let it hang in the folds of my uniform. I gripped it tight, watching the door, watching that oblivious footman. There were ten paces between me and the outside world. Eight. Now six. Time slowed, focus narrowed. I held that candlestick tighter and wondered, in a tilt of vertigo, if I’d be desperate enough to use it as a weapon.

With only two steps between me and freedom, fear lifted in the breeze of the storm, and I saw only hope and necessity.

13

An unmarried man, in my opinion, enjoys only half a life.

~Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Dr. Mitchell Turner blinked in the dim recesses of his dungeon-level quarters, forcing his eyes to concentrate on the paperwork spread before him. It was likely just the storm, but something felt off tonight. Lightning popped bright through the high, narrow window, and he covered his eyes, then a crack tore through the night. A banging echoed down along the pipes, followed by a low wail. That would be Anna—third floor, second block—afraid of the thunder.

Turner blinked again, tried to focus, but the wailing grew urgent. He shoved his hands through hair that was badly in need of a cut and sprang up with a sigh. Not bothering with the outdated frock coat hanging on his chair, he blew out his little oil lamp. He’d be spending the better part of an hour up there, if it was anything like the last storm.

Half the patients in this asylum looked to him for hope, for wisdom in the midst of their confusion, but often it seemed he didn’t have much to give. Some days, like today, he had little more than an empty body to stand with them through a storm, and he felt like a fraud.