I heaved a sigh and crawled back under the sheets. “I have no regrets about disappointing Florian Unger.” Marcel was the world’s most catastrophic matchmaker. With the brain of a mad scientist, his dearest pastime was shoving two things—any two things—together to see what sort of reaction he could achieve. The more explosive the reaction, the more delighted he was with his experiment. Self-indulgent yet agreeable, he often managed to have his way.

Except this time. Poor Florian. His company was almost desirable compared to the apparently drink-induced nightmare I’d endured instead, though. Feeling the chill of it again, a shiver overtook me that made Marcel blink. It had seemed so real. Too real.

“You are well, I hope? You’re scheduled to play.”

“Quite.” Not that he cared terribly how I fared. I was his machine that he must keep well-oiled so I could continue to bring the world what was of most value to him—music.

“Come, get yourself dressed and we’ll think no more of it. They’re sure to have food waiting for us on the veranda. I hear the lilacs are out.”

Lilacs. My favorite. A minuet for the senses. “Very well. And Marcel, you’d better select the gloves for tonight.”

I looked at the man’s back as he rummaged through my box. I fought him on nearly every decision as my manager, for I hated to be controlled, but I did allow him this.

“How about these, with the little pearl button? You’ve not worn these since Florence.”

“Marcel.” I sat up and clasped my arms around myself, glad to feel the worst of the headache receding. “I had a terribly strange dream last night.” I fumbled about in my mind for the name of the fictitious asylum. Something with an H.

He spun, grasping the pearl-buttoned gloves. “Do leave off talk of that ghostly music woman today, will you? I cannot bear it.”

I stiffened. “How did you know of that dream? I’ve never told anyone.”

“Of course you have,” said another, deeper voice from the shadows of the open doorway. Who was there? “Don’t you remember? You told me.”

I strained to see the tall brown-tweed figure in the shadows. Such a familiar angle to his frame. Familiar stance. “Who’s there? Who are you?”

But the new man didn’t step into the light. I couldn’t quite see his face.

I rose to go to him and felt rough fabric against my skin. I looked down, and it was not my silk wrapper around me but the odd-fitting asylum gown tied with a rope. I scrambled back into the bed to stop my head from spinning and lifted my fingers to ensure they were real. I was real.