“Sally will have to wait a moment, dear,” the mother said, bending over the pram to adjust the baby’s blanket. “We’ll head back home after this turn; Brother needs his nap.”

“Brother always needs something,” the little girl said, pulling a face.

“Babies are work, sweetheart,” the mother said, looking up from the pram. “Excuse me, I—”

She broke off, her words lost at the sight of Grace kneeling next to the little girl, hands brimming with lake water.

The girl looked at Grace suspiciously, then down at the water dripping from her hands. “For my Sally?”

Grace nodded, her gaze devouring every detail of the child’s face and comparing it to Alice, measuring the bones of their cheeks and the curls of their hair in her mind. They were not twins by any means, nor could they be confused for sisters. But the spark in this little girl’s eyes matched the one in Alice’s, a testament to the spirit inside that had just begun to know itself. The girl dipped the doll’s porcelain mouth in Grace’s hands, unconcerned with the scrutiny.

“Better,” the little girl declared, then peered at Grace closely. “You’ve got a chip in you,” she said, cool fingers reaching up to touch Grace’s scars. “You’re broken just like my Sally.”

“Mary!” the mother chided, and her small hands dropped from Grace’s temples. “I’m sorry,” the mother said, pushing the pram off the path over to them. “I hope she’s not bothering you, and she didn’t mean any offense about your . . . about . . . that.”

Grace waved off the apology and smiled at the mother, not missing the fact that this woman was only a few years older than herself. Her clothes were fine, the pram expensive, the spark in little Mary’s eyes evident in her own. She wore the trappings of what Grace’s life should have been, and Grace felt the hollow echo of disappointment for the first time since coming to the asylum.

The mother looked back at Grace, taking her measure, gaze resting briefly on her scars. She glanced around furtively. “Am I allowed to talk to you?”

Grace shrugged, unsure.

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Mary asked, her little hand slipping into Grace’s and sending a streak of warmth through her heart. “She’s a nice lady. And she’s pretty except for being cracked.”

The mother’s mouth fought against a laugh at Mary’s unintended joke, but it erupted when she saw that Grace was smiling. “Except for being cracked . . . ,” she repeated. “Oh, Mary, what am I going to do with you?”

“Why should you do anything with me?” Mary asked, now swinging Grace’s arm with her own.

The mother glanced around once more. “Would you . . . would you like to see my baby?” she asked. Grace nodded, leaning over the pram as the mother pushed the cover back.

“Hello there,” the mother said to her baby. “Hello, my beautiful boy.”

Grace watched his tiny hands come up against the rays of the sun, face squished in irritation. She shaded his eyes with her hand, eyes drinking in the sight of him.

“He’s just six months,” the mother said. “Healthy as a horse. Watch his hands. If he gets ahold of you, your fingers will be in his mouth.”

A tiny fist reached up, latching on to Grace’s pinkie with a strength she hadn’t expected, his skin as soft as velvet. A breath escaped her in a rush as he pulled her down to him, and Mary squeezed her other palm.

“He’s not so great,” Mary assured her. “Smells something awful.”

“Mary,” the mother chided her again.

Grace disentangled herself from the baby, pulling the pram cover back and over to shut out the sun. Mary tugged on her hand and when Grace leaned down to her, she found the little girl bounding into her for a hug. The pressure of the little body against her own brought back a wave of memories, and she fought to keep her balance as Mary leaned into her.

“We best be going, Mary,” her mother said, and Grace pushed herself to her feet, hastily wiping tears from her eyes.

“’Bye, lady,” Mary said, waving to Grace as they walked away. “I hope I see you again.”

“Me too,” Grace said once they were out of earshot. Her fingers played with a frayed corner of Alice’s letter, her eyes still on Mary’s golden crown of hair. “I’ll not stop writing.”

“Grace? Grace?” Her name sailed over the green hills, calling her out of her reverie and resurrecting the blank eyes the asylum staff expected to see. Letter shoved safely in the folds of her dress, she stood and waved to gain Janey’s attention.

The nurse spotted her and crossed the space between them, hair flying loose from the tightly coiled bun she usually wore. “There you are. Someone is wishing to speak with you.”

Grace’s stomach rolled. She’d thought Thornhollow would give her more time to collect herself before tracking her down. Janey groaned in irritation as the ends of her hair whipped around her face. “The wind today,” she complained, beckoning Grace to come out from under the shelter of the willow branches. “It’ll pull my hair whichever way it pleases, comb and brush notwithstanding. And you with a gentleman come to see you and your own head a sight indeed.”

Grace’s head jerked up at Janey’s words, confusion in her glance.

“It’s a policeman, name of Davey,” Janey explained. “Said he wanted to speak with Dr. Thornhollow but nobody could find him. So then he asked for you and wouldn’t leave until we produced you. I don’t know what it is you and the doctor are up to, but if it brings the like of him around here every now and then I don’t think I dislike it.”

Grace smiled to herself, aware that Janey was madly trying to tame her hair for more reasons than one as they came around to the front of the asylum. Davey was waiting on the gravel path beside his mount, his hat in his hands so that it wouldn’t be blown from his head.

“Here she is, Officer,” Janey said, voice brighter than usual.

“Thank you, miss,” Davey said, hands turning the brim of his hat in a circle as he spoke, eyes everywhere except the women’s faces. “I appreciate you finding her for me.”

“It’s no problem, no problem,” Janey said quickly, then looked back and forth between the two of them. “Well, I’ll just be out of your way, then, let you go about your business.”

Davey waited until Janey had gone into the asylum. He approached Grace cautiously, hands still buried in his hat and his eyes never quite able to settle on her own.

“Thank you for . . . for seeing me, I suppose,” he began slowly. “I have something to say to the doctor, but he don’t seem to be here and I got to say this thing before I lose the nerve to get it out.”

Grace raised an eyebrow to invite him to continue, breaking the usual dead stare she reserved for strangers.

“You see, when you’re a new man on the job you’re supposed to learn from the ones above you. But George . . . don’t get me wrong, he knows his trade. He can handle the drunks and the men going after their wives and the other way around better than any of ’em. But that girl, the other night, the one who . . . well, you’re well enough aware of what I’m saying, I suppose. Anyway, he’s got it in his head that she was just a drunkard, and he don’t want to hear nothing about what the doctor thinks, though I tell you right now if it was drink on her breath, it wasn’t no spirit I’ve ever smelled before, and I’ve had my nose in a few.” He chuckled, then glanced back at her. “Sorry, ma’am, if I shouldn’t be saying so.”

Grace shrugged.

Davey ran one hand through his hair, tapping his hat against his hip with the other. “What I’m here for is to say that I was on late shift the other night when we found a whor—when we got a call about a woman who had died in her bed. That bed being located above a brothel, if you take my meaning. She was dead as a doornail and laid out the same way, with her eyes open and looking every second like she’d sit up and tell us to pay up or get out of her room.” He laughed again, then blushed when he realized what he’d said.