He heaved a sigh. “You’re not the first, you know. Life deals in bitter blows. Every one of us reaches some sharp point in life, like a painful nail stuck in the thread of our story, pivoting everything that comes after it. See that you manage the direction it pivots you, yes?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Tomorrow, then? Meeting in my office?”

“Nine o’clock.”

He gave a stiff bow and turned toward the passageway that would take him back into the bowels of this place, a tomb-like darkness where he might find a fitful bit of rest. Yet those wild eyes, the lips half parted over white teeth, glorious hair flowing over her shoulders, the whole untamed look of the captive lingered around his senses and made him anxious to do something. To at least see what became of her.

Perhaps her remarkable face would be the reason he’d toss and turn tonight, rather than the usual. Yet when he entered the dead-end darkness of his room, his head hit the pillow and he only thought, with aching bitterness, of Dahlia.

Second Movement

So it was that I woke in a cell after a drug-induced sleep with two doctors, the bassoon voice and the timpani, talking over me, and I officially became a patient at Hurstwell Pauper Lunatic Asylum. I’d tried to escape, but who wouldn’t? It was akin to kidnapping, what they’d done to me—how could I not fight back?

Dr. Thornhill looked me over after completing his examination and snapping his bag shut. “Now, Miss Fletcher.”

I didn’t correct him this time.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to put you through the normal routine of a new patient, even though your case is somewhat extraordinary, having been on staff here. You’ll start with constant supervision—you understand, of course—in scullery duties or perhaps the laundry.”

“How long until I’m evaluated again? I’d like a chance to prove my sanity.”

He straightened the cravat straining to encircle his neck. “There are hundreds of patients in this institution, and we are painfully understaffed. You cannot expect me to personally attend you on a regular basis.”

My eyes were dry. Fixed. “When?”

He looked at me directly. “I aim for an annual consult with each patient.”

Annual. A year. I swallowed the bitter news, shaky hand brushing hair off my face, and tried not to weep. A year without Richard, without music, without freedom.

It was all starting over again, wasn’t it? Father was gone, but I was still trapped. This man was my captor now. Thornhill—the sight of his name in thick, dark letters on a file came to mind. Think . . . think. Where had I—

Patient file. He had a patient file.

The fear came surging back.