The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted.

~William Shakespeare

One week after my release from solitary, I once again saw the face of my would-be rescuer, Richard Cartwright. The nurses were herding the yellow gowns—and me—on an outdoor constitutional, one big mass of circling cattle, when Lew Wiggins appeared, his clean-scrubbed little face popping into my vision on the left.

“Where you been?” His voice was the merest whisper.

I nearly lunged at him with days’ worth of pent-up nerves. “What’s happened? What have you done?”

“Ain’t done nothing.” He backed away, frowning. “Your friend’s here. That Cartwright fellow.”

I blinked. “Richard? Where?”

“Gots to go. Working out in the cemetery today.”

“Wait, Lew!”

But the boy was gone, sucked back behind the moving mass of bodies.

Soon, as we filed back inside, Nurse Duffy clamped a hand on my shoulder. “Visitor. Come along.”

The simple words electrified me, hastened my steps. I moved toward the main double doors, and that’s when I saw it. How had I not noticed before? Richard’s trap parked there in the drive. My knees weakened as I stepped over the threshold, but I forced myself forward, chin up, and into a little office. The door closed promptly behind me and Richard’s familiar voice was arresting. “Vivvi.”

“Oh, Richard.” I turned and crossed the room and sank into the chair opposite his, before a big desk.

“I’m sorry I missed you a few days ago. I—”

“Perfectly all right, Richard.” I reached for his hand. “It was I who was late, anyway. You’re here now. And I’m here. We—”

“You know me, Vivvi. I never go back on my word—not usually.”

I pulled my hand back to my lap, looking up into his face. So familiar, that perfectly waved hair over his forehead, the smooth jaw that jutted forward with confidence. Light glinted off a few stray hairs along his jawline. His valet had missed a spot while shaving. I even knew his porter’s name was Raoul and that they sometimes argued. Yet I sensed this man, my dearest friend, was suddenly foreign to me. Removed, even though present. My stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

“I tried to send word, but the boy said he couldn’t find you. I’m relieved to come here and find you well.”

“I’m not well.” I began to shake. “They’ve—”