“Yes,” Grace said slowly, her own eyes now focused on the whirling snow. “I think I will. I’ll have to wash this plaster out of my hair first, though.”

“You deserve it,” Lizzie said as she sat on Grace’s bed, watching her pin her hat on. “Whenever you put on your street clothes and cover the scars you look like such a lady, Grace.”

Grace made a face as she bent to button her shoes, pointing at her friend.

“You’re thinking you’re not the only one who deserves it,” Lizzie interpreted. “But there’s something more to it than the difference between the sane and insane. You’ve got a high quality about you, right down to the way you walk. Me, if I left the asylum . . .” She shivered even at the thought. “I’ve been here too long, Grace. I may not be mad but if you dragged me out of these walls you’d think I was. I wouldn’t even know how to buy a pound of flour, or refill my favorite perfume bottle anymore.”

The other girl’s voice drifted off sadly, her fingers toying with the ends of Nell’s ribbon, the edges frayed with her endless worrying. Grace captured the fretting fingers with her own, pressing them down tight in her hand.

“You go,” Lizzie said. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Ned was waiting outside, the horse’s breath making warm clouds around its nose. “The doctor said I was to take you to the hotel. Also to tell you the number two hundred and eight,” he said, and she nodded. He handed her into the carriage, his usually calm face twisted into a grimace. Grace touched her hand to his, eyebrows raised in a question.

“I don’t . . .” Ned’s brow wrinkled as he concentrated, weighing each word. “Your friend, the girl that died with ice. I’m sorry about her. She had nice hair, like a pony’s, but almost better.” He stuck a finger into the air to clarify. “Almost.”

Grace squeezed his hand, and he shut the carriage door, her thoughts straying from the evening she was supposed to enjoy to the image of Nell’s braid, black against the ice. The gravel drive gave way to the bricks of town, and Grace focused on maintaining a mask of sanity, her back straight, her face resisting the slack muscles she usually adopted.

They stopped in front of a brick hotel, well lit from inside against the already failing light of the day. Ned helped her out of the carriage, then leaned over her before leaving. “Three hours,” he said sternly, pointing at the stone steps. “The doctor said to be back for you in three hours. So you be here.”

“I will, Ned, thank you,” Grace said, so deeply fastened on to the image of a healthy young woman out for the evening that she forgot to be mute. Her eyes widened for a moment, but Ned only nodded. “Three hours,” he reminded her before he drove off, and she nodded.

Grace shook off her nerves at the slip, mounting the stone steps as if she belonged there. She swept into the lobby, pulling her gloves off and cutting a quick turn to the right staircase before anyone could ask her what she was doing. Remembering Ned’s broken instructions, she found room 208 and knocked. The door was flung open, and Thornhollow motioned her in without a word of greeting, his hair standing up in red spikes all over his head.

“I’ve stabbed myself with the tie tack twice; never have managed to tie an ascot without a little blood spilled. Janey had to do mine for the reception at the asylum, and I swear she was giggling when she left my office. I’m sorry, Grace, everything is a bit of a mess, and Adelaide hasn’t arrived yet.” He waved around the sitting room, where she could see at least three jackets that had been dismissed as unsuitable for dinner. “Have a seat, I’ll just . . . it shouldn’t be more than a minute or two,” he said, running into the bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

Grace sighed, moved a jacket, and sat down only to crush a hat. She was standing in the middle of the room, trying to punch it back into form, when there was a sharp rap at the door. She glanced up, frozen in place. From the bedroom came a muffled thump and a “Damn.” She could only guess that Thornhollow was nowhere near being ready to answer the door. Another sharp rap, this one conveying impatience, sent Grace’s nerves soaring, and she was reminded of Lizzie’s certainty that she’d been institutionalized so long she could never function outside of it.

Her indecision was short-lived, for the door was flung open unceremoniously and a tall, dark woman soared into the room, irritation stamped firmly on her features. “Really, Brother,” she was saying, “a two-line letter with an address and a room number isn’t exactly inviting.” She flung her wrap across a chair, words still flowing. “And not being bothered to answer the door yourself is downright rude. If Father were still alive—oh . . .” The words died on her lips when she saw Grace.

“There’s one mystery solved,” she said. “No wonder he’s not exactly brimming with excitement at my arrival. He leave you out here to greet me? Still wrestling with the inconvenience of proper dress, is he?”

Grace knew her mouth was open and that no words were coming out. The crushed hat was still in her hands, her fingers working the brim in their anxiety. Thornhollow’s sister circled her, skirts swishing as she made the inspection.

“No wonder he’s mystified by his own dinner clothes. He’s never been one to worry much about what is proper. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Grace flushed bright red at the implication.

“You’re smaller than what he usually goes in for,” the woman went on. “By the cut of your dress, a little more refined as well. I’m a bit surprised, to be honest, but maybe you’re simply another experiment.” She finished her turn around Grace, who still stood stupefied.

The women came face-to-face, and Grace raised her eyes, locking them with Adelaide’s. Even if she couldn’t force words, she could wear the face she had so often presented to her mother, silent yet defiant.

“I hardly need to tell you . . .” The doctor’s sister trailed off, confusion clouding her face as she met Grace’s gaze. “Wait, what’s this? No, you’re far too intelligent. He doesn’t want a challenge.”

She was still trying to compute the intelligence she saw in Grace’s eyes with her assumptions when the bedroom door blew open, and Thornhollow—still not finished dressing—burst out. “Adelaide,” he cried, the moment he saw her. “What are you doing?”

“I was performing my usual chore of running off whatever unacceptable woman you’d attached yourself to this time, but I’ve come to an impasse. She’s not one of your chippies, is she?”

“No,” Grace said, voice suddenly found. “I’m a mental patient.”

“Melancthon!” Her confusion was swept away in outrage, her nettling attitude toward Grace morphing into protection as she bodily put herself between them. “This is a new low, little brother. She’s a pretty girl, but I never thought you would—”

“Adelaide!” Thornhollow bellowed, his temper flaring. “You have completely misread this entire situation, as usual assuming the worst of myself without bothering to—”

“Misread?” the woman fired back. “What conclusions should I come to with a pretty woman in your room, clothing flung everywhere, and you half-dressed?”

The doctor drew himself up to his full height in an attempt to regain composure. “I am merely struggling with my ascot.”

“And no wonder, I doubt you’ve had to dress properly for anything since coming to this backwoods river town, pouring your prodigious talents into the mad when you could be—”

Thornhollow tore off the offending ascot, throwing it to the ground. “I did not invite you here to have my profession belittled yet again.”

“You didn’t invite me at all! I had to tell you I was coming in order to force you to acknowledge that you have a sister in the first place.”

Grace, aware that she was not necessary to the conversation, sat down and finished reshaping the hat she’d sat on.