They moved closer, opening and closing doors. I moved farther into the shadows of the room and looked about for a place to hide. The sound of doors grew nearer. There was nothing to hide me—a narrow bookcase, a tabletop on a stand. I stood frozen in the center, waiting for light to penetrate my hiding spot and for them to pounce. I held my breath, rooted to the rug. I was a fox, cornered by the hounds, too terrified to run. I clapped a hand over my mouth and forced myself to remain still and silent. God save me.

“Doctor, this way. In the kitchen—it’s her shoes. She must have escaped out the back.”

I bit my knuckles. My shoes. Those blessed, horrible shoes.

Three sets of footsteps thumped over the tiles and grew fainter. Crescendo, finale, and then . . . stillness. I pushed out my chest and breathed again, forcing steadiness into my body.

Sliding out into the shadows of the corridor again, I looked both ways and moved toward the end along a thin red runner. Down one hall and up another—I’d never find my way out of the maze. I happened upon a series of doors, the last of which opened into the cellar steps. With a small cry of glee, I plunged down into the dark, feeling along the chilly walls to keep my bearings. For once, darkness equaled freedom.

A never-ending climb down, and I was there. Free. In the same part of the asylum as Richard. And I had only to find him.

He’d rescued me from a roof once, where I’d climbed onto an enticing-looking gable to write some dreary correspondence. What an inspired view it had been . . . and terribly hard to leave, especially in long skirts. I’d looked behind me and, lo, there was Richard, climbing the angled roof, hand outstretched to me. I could still see his face, earnest and good, and feel the relief rush through me.

Soon I’d clasp that hand again and be ushered back to freedom. Tears warmed my eyes.

Yet as I slid along the torchlit passageway, oppression hung heavy in the air, and I could scarcely breathe. I slowed and blinked to focus. There were bars down here in long rows, cast-iron and cold. They moved. No—just the creatures trapped behind them did.

People.

A giant of a man with long, ropy hair sat hunched on something, staring out at me. Another was a younger lad with open flesh sores, watching me with gaunt eyes.

“Which way to the morgue?” My voice jumped about the emptiness, echoing back louder than I’d meant it to be.

No one answered. They looked at each other, then at me. Silence carried on endlessly until a scratchy voice a little ways down called out a reply. “Never heard of anyone wanting to get there.”

“Please, it’s important.”