Grace nodded. “Leading one to assume that the mother is rather demanding.”

“And”—Thornhollow held one finger in the air—“also confirming that he’s an only child, as I said.”

“Only possibly confirming that,” Grace said, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask.”

“No man would weaken his livelihood to care for a parent if there were other siblings capable of taking on that load,” Thornhollow insisted.

“He very well could have a sibling who lives farther away than Pomeroy and can’t offer assistance,” Grace said, irritation heating her words.

“Now you’re arguing for the sake of argument.”

“As are you.”

“Nonsense. How does Pomeroy come into it?”

“That’s where the mother lives,” Grace said, moving to his desk and a map she had spread out before his arrival. “I checked, and the road—”

“To Pomeroy passes right through where the kitchen girl was found,” Thornhollow interrupted.

“Where Jenny Cantor was found,” Grace amended.

“Regardless, I’ll make a trip to Pomeroy over the weekend, ask a few questions. I think it’s safe to say that they’ve seen at least one body like ours, no doubt their deaths occurring during our lulls.”

“I’ll come with you,” Grace said, still leaning over the map.

“You won’t.”

She looked up. “Excuse me?”

Thornhollow sighed heavily. “Grace, there’s no plausible reason for you coming with me, beyond some base conclusions that the staff would readily jump to for the sake of gossip.”

“Then let people think base things,” Grace said. “I’m past the point of caring what others think.”

“I do,” Thornhollow snapped back. “How would it reflect on me, on my career, if the staff believes that I’m . . . I’m . . .”

“Having sex with your patient?”

“Yes!” he burst out. “That kind of thing can end a man, you know.”

Grace closed her eyes, hands flat on the map. “You’re right,” she said. “I can’t help but be upset, though. I’ve been unable to accomplish anything at all these last few months, and now I’m being left behind.”

“Left behind?” Thornhollow nearly laughed. “You’re traipsing about in the snow at the crack of dawn and smiling at killers across counters while I’m dead to the world in my bed. Who’s the one left behind?”

Grace rolled up the map, her heart still low. “So what now? When will you inform the police?”

“Inform them of what?”

“That we’ve found the man guilty of three murders here and who knows how many in Pomeroy.”

“Guilty is a very strong word, one that we have no plausibility for.”

“What are you saying?” Grace asked, confusion furrowing her brow and a familiar defeat brewing in her chest.

“What shall I show the police, Grace? Our blackboard? It’s a sheer mess that only you and I can read. If I were to march George in here, he’d laugh and say I belong in the men’s ward, not an office.”

“Davey would believe you.”

“Excellent, a patrolman who can barely grow whiskers on my side. I’m sure the arrest will be forthcoming. Grace . . .” The doctor broke off, his tone losing all sarcasm. “Grace, I’m sorry. We’ve never pursued anything so far, and I haven’t prepared you for this part.”

“What is this part?”

He sighed, eyes on the labyrinth of their shared writing that covered the blackboard. “This is when we know we’re right, and have nothing in the way of proof.”

Grace came to his side, the weight of futility resting heavily upon her once again. “What can be done?”

The doctor shrugged. “Nothing, I’m afraid. If I were in Boston I’d have the same men I trust to watch your sister tailing this man, but I have no contacts here that I know are discreet. If this chemist—did you get his name?”

“Beaton.”

“If this Beaton hears that the killings have been linked or suspects he’s being followed, he’ll be gone in an instant. A man with his intelligence and a trade as well can go anywhere, set up under a false name, and begin anew. Go to a fresh town with women who won’t meet the gaze of men and whose disappearances matter little to skulk among. No, Grace, we must be very careful now. I’ll go to Pomeroy this weekend. You must promise me that you’ll behave yourself while I’m gone.”

“I will,” Grace said.

“Good. When will he have the scent ready for you to pick up?”

“Tuesday,” she lied.

The snow fell steadily all weekend, giving the grounds a pristine covering that Grace despised. She wanted to maul it with her footsteps, hook up an asylum carriage, and beat a path to Pomeroy, where she would watch over Beaton from a distance, protecting other women like a vengeful dark angel.

Instead, she played checkers with Elizabeth, who seemed depressed by the weather. Her head kept pulling to the right, String whispering things to her that she wouldn’t share as her countenance became more troubled. Grace won every match easily, despite starting at a disadvantage with three fewer pieces.

She knocked the table to gain Lizzie’s attention and raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the board.

“No, I don’t think I’ll play again,” her friend said. “I may go and have a lie-down, actually.”

Grace watched her go, then packed up the board. Time stretched before her, and she returned to the west turret, where the quiet was so intense she could hear the snow falling. She pushed inches of snow from the three chairs and sat watching the flakes reclaim them. The sun sank and lights in town appeared one by one. Grace sat alone in the dim until night fell completely, the two empty chairs sentinels on either side of her.

Janey intercepted her in the hall, and she curled her fist around the key for the turret, eyes wide with innocence.

“Don’t you look at me like a babe in the woods.” Janey shook a finger at her good-naturedly. “I know you didn’t take any dinner. This weather’s got us all in a bit of a mood, but not eating won’t do you a lick of good.”

Grace nodded and Janey went on. “Dr. Thornhollow’s sent a telegram, says Ned won’t take the horses out in this weather and he’s stranded in Pomeroy until sense returns to the man. Which, we may never see the good doctor again if that’s what we’re waiting on.”

Janey handed a telegram to Grace. “This one’s meant for you. I can’t make head or tail of it.”

Have found at least two STOP Am delayed by Ned’s sentimentalism STOP will return whenever possible STOP Elizabeth smells fine without improvements END

Janey watched Grace’s eyes flick over the message. “I guess you know well enough what he’s saying?”

Grace nodded, thanking Janey with a pat on the shoulder.

“All right,” the nurse said. “Now I want to see you head to the kitchens instead of to your room, you hear? Joanna’s chewed the laces through on one of her mitts, and I’ve got to see if I can’t mend it before she tears into someone. But the kitchens may have a bite or two left, if you get down there.”

Grace moved as if in a fog, the familiar veil dropping between herself and reality as she walked, body in the present, mind working furiously toward a point in the future and all the elements required to make it her own.

He was startled when he saw her, as she opened the shop door just as he’d been about to lock up for the evening.

“Miss Baxter,” Beaton said, nearly dropping his keys. “I had thought perhaps the weather delayed you.”

“Not the weather, but my own disarray,” Grace said, raising the carpetbag she’d pulled from under Lizzie’s bed, her asylum clothing inside. “Packing for a journey always leaves me in a fuddle. I’d hoped to catch you on my way to the depot. Is the scent ready?”

“It is,” he said, returning to the counter with his head down. “If you’d like I can deliver it to your friend’s mother with your compliments, since you are leaving town.”

“That’s very nice, but I’d rather send it along myself with a thank-you note for their hospitality.”

Beaton produced the bottle and Grace took a whiff, the familiar scent of Lizzie’s perfume reinvigorated with the bloom of freshness. “That’s . . . really quite extraordinary. It will mean a lot. Thank you,” she said honestly.