How easy it was to sense music now, as if home was close enough that I might hear my pianoforte from time to time. Squeezed between several women on a long bench in the dining hall, I looked over the great open space of peeling green paper and heard the symphonie de la dine, a collection of voices mingled with the aroma of meat, a most unusual concerto.

And I wasn’t sorry to leave it. Tonight was the night, and I’d been watching every clock I passed, counting down the minutes as the small hand neared eight. It was a quarter after seven now, and the tension built in my chest toward the grand crescendo. I hadn’t seen Bridget yet, but I focused on the memory of Richard’s tender smile over me. That was my rainbow at the end of this storm.

“How fast did your fingers move?” Clara’s high voice was jarring. “Could you play any song you wanted?”

“As fast as the song required. There’s nothing like letting one’s mind and fingers take over and sinking into the melody.”

“Who taught you to play?”

“My father, I suppose. He was a sought-after tutor who gave lessons out of our home.” I grew antsy. Could I handle the escape, fuzzy as my mind still seemed to be at times? I was weak. Malnourished. I hardly slept, with a lumpy bed to cradle me and that consuming darkness all around. Over the weeks as both aid and patient, the glowing gaslights and pitch-black shadows had dulled the edges of my reason.

“Do your fingers ever grow tired?”

I took a deep breath as the soles of the aids’ shoes pounded the wood floor, scurrying about to drop tin plates before us. My stomach lurched at the aroma of solid food—meat. “Not often. In fact, they’re energized by playing.” I curved my fingers in my lap. Soon. Very soon. And my soul began to calm. “My hand cramps at times, though. That’s when I know it’s time to stop.”

The meat was dropped before me and the aroma, the very sight, interrupted my thoughts. I cut into it and was daunted to find it tough and slightly spoiled. Yet I wasted no time tucking into it, for if I didn’t, someone else would.

“It must be quite lovely, to surround yourself with music any time you want.”

I slowed my eating as I neared the end of the small slab of broiled beef. “It’s the most glorious taste of eternity. It brings the chaos of the world into order and rhythm and harmony. It’s calming and exciting, quiet and loud at the same time.”

My head swam with desire, my fingers longing for the silk of ivory keys—then I surfaced and realized my supper companions had fallen silent. I smiled at them.