He said nothing of my being in a madhouse, my logic being unreliable. With a firm look my direction, he took my hand back, guiding it toward him with gentle tugs and turning it, palm up, to touch indents on my fingertips. “Callouses. Signs of hard, physical work. Not signs of a concert pianist. If I were to guess, I’d say you are employed at a loom. I’ve seen similar indentations on other patients. And there has been a girl missing from the looms over Menston way.” The doctor set my limp hand back on my thigh and his face folded in gentle pity. “We’re here to help you, Miss Fletcher. Institutions aren’t what they used to be, and I’m not your enemy. Just remember that.”

I tucked my cold hand against my body. The gentle pity—it was anything but comforting.

He peered into my eyes with another tool, his fingers so close I caught the scent of lye and talcum, but his touch was not harsh. “Well, now that you’ve given up your hope of leaving . . .”

Had I? Would I ever?

“I’ll have a nurse show you to the wards.”

As he ushered me into the hall, my lungs filling with fresh air, my reason returned in cool waves, and the details of recent days—the ones at Hurstwell—began to take shape. Most of them, anyway. The long stone corridor glowing with oddly distorting gaslights . . . this was familiar. I’d walked here, had conversations here, felt frustration and ire in these shadowy halls.

But Cora. Cora Fletcher. Where did that name—

Oh. Yes. With a shock of awareness, I recalled why I was actually here, how I’d come . . . and who, of all people, had been behind it all.

It had been me.

3

Music is like a dream. One that I cannot hear.

~Ludwig van Beethoven

THREE MONTHS EARLIER, MANCHESTER

Richard remained all day on that first morning without Father, and I had not rushed him out. Especially since he still had not kissed me.

After the undertaker had come and gone, we sat side by side on the rickety bench of an old pianoforte I was restoring for a client, my fingers tripping lightly over the keys along with our conversation. The door opened and we jumped apart, an instinct born of many years.

“Pardon, miss, but your father’s solicitor is here to see you.” Sarah, our upstairs maid, stood in the doorway, her cool face surveying the scene.

“So soon? Can he not wait a few days?”

“He was quite insistent you meet with him today, so I’ve put him in the study.” She offered a quick curtsy and left.

I rose and excused myself, going to meet the man.