“I know that, sir,” Elizabeth said. “And I’m not.”

“Where is it that you live again?” Atkinson asked, brow knit in mock confusion.

“I live up at the insane asylum, sir.”

“Ah, up at the insane asylum. Thank you for repeating that. Now, why, may I ask, do you live there?”

Elizabeth’s lips thinned. “I suppose I live there because I am insane.”

“A simple enough assumption,” Atkinson agreed. “Yet somehow we’re still here today, listening to you slander a well-respected man. I can’t help but wonder if you’re saying these things not because they happened but because you were told to say them.”

“Objection. Unless the defense would like to actually ask a question to the witness?” Pickering said from his seat.

“Sustained,” the judge said.

“Very well,” Atkinson said. “Miss Martin, did Senator Mae rape you?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, nodding her head along with the word.

“Did Senator Mae imply to you that he had raped and killed Jenny Cantor?”

“Yes,” she said again, seeming almost pleased that the questions were so easy.

“And why should the jury believe the word of an insane girl?”

“Because String would never let me tell a lie, sir,” Elizabeth said quickly, invoking the most powerful reference she knew.

A bewildered hum swept through the courtroom, and Grace’s heart fell as a blackness that was not her veil seeped into the edges of her vision.

“String?” Atkinson asked. “Who might that be?”

“Objection,” Pickering said, rising to his feet.

“Surely he can’t object to my questioning the sanity of an insane asylum inmate?” Atkinson said, eyes never leaving Elizabeth’s bewildered ones.

“Sustained,” the judge said. “You’ll have to answer the question, Miss Martin.”

Grace leaned against Adelaide, the hollowness that she’d invited willingly inside of her being burned away by the rage Falsteed had smelled out long ago, the familiar crush of helplessness and defeat following close behind.

“Grace,” Adelaide whispered to her. “Do you need to leave?”

“Yes, tell us, Miss Martin,” Atkinson pushed on. “Tell us about this String? Who is he?”

Elizabeth was on her feet in a second, small hands curled into fists. “String is not male! String resents the assumption.”

An expectant quiet fell over the court. “Your Honor,” Pickering said in a tired voice, “I request a recess until tomorrow morning.”

“I’m so sorry, Grace,” Elizabeth said, her face still streaked with tears, though they were in the safety of Thornhollow’s office. “That man, he came after me so, I didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s all right, Lizzie,” Grace said, handing her friend a glass of water. “You did wonderfully.”

“Yes, Adelaide said you were really something,” Thornhollow said, though his eyes lacked enthusiasm. “I can’t be in court myself as a fellow witness, but she said you may have turned the jury.”

“And then turned them back,” Lizzie said, shaking her head. “You’re all very nice, but I know I made a mistake by mentioning String.” Her hand went up to her ear protectively. “I’m not ashamed, but I do wish String needn’t have come into it.”

“You need sleep, Lizzie,” Thornhollow said. “They’ll finish your cross-examination tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Grace said. “I told Adelaide I’m sleeping here tonight, if I can be some comfort to you.”

Elizabeth sniffed. “The whole idea was for me to help you, Grace.” She went meekly to her room, hand curled in a fist near her ear.

“Tell me honestly,” Grace said after the door shut behind Lizzie. “How badly did that hurt us?”

“Badly,” he admitted. “The whole case hinged on Lizzie’s testimony being convincing. Which it was.”

“Unfortunately, she’s also convincingly insane,” Grace added.

“Yes.” Thornhollow looked at his drink, nearly finished. “I can testify as an expert as to what I believe your father is capable of, but Elizabeth is the only one who can testify that he specifically did something.”

“He did,” Grace said, her voice thick. “Only not to her.”

Grace went to bed with the same dread that she’d felt long ago, her footsteps dogged now not by a man but a memory. She lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling. Then took a deep breath and remembered. She let them come up from her center, the pictures she’d stowed away for so long in the darkness so that their details would never plague her again. They’d been jammed beside her emotions, each losing importance as they rotted away inside her. And now she needed them both to deliver herself. She let them come.

Hands and sounds. Pressure and pain. Flash of flesh and her throat closing against the words as his eyes stared down at her, blank as the ones she saw in the mirror. She covered her eyes, even though Grace knew it would bring no relief. The scenes played out, each one to the end until she had known every terror again, each fresh memory of a new night revisited upon her as she caressed her scars for comfort.

Air rushed into her lungs as she let all the feelings flow, face twisted in agony. Rage came first, an impotent cry against the unfairness of the world, followed by a broken sadness and the black guilt of Beaton, staining her soul forever.

She knocked on Lizzie’s door and was met with likewise tearstained eyes. “Lizzie, I need to tell you something.”

“You’re sure you want to do this again?” Adelaide asked as they took their seats the next day. “I thought for sure you would faint.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Grace said, squeezing her friend’s hand.

Adelaide’s eyes narrowed. “You almost sound it,” she said.

The defense and prosecution entered, Grace’s father looking well rested and perfectly groomed, assured in his acquittal. Grace bit on her lip at the thought of him spending the previous night in premature celebration while she had writhed through her memories. The judge entered and banged his gavel, bringing the second day to its beginning. Lizzie took the stand again and Atkinson approached her like a hawk spotting a timid mouse.

“Now then, Miss Martin,” he said. “Your testimony as to being raped by Senator Mae was rather memorable, but I’d also remind the jury that you’re a ward of the state who lives in an asylum.”

“Just because I’m insane doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Elizabeth said.

“I didn’t ask you a question,” Atkinson snapped at her, and Elizabeth pulled back as if bitten.

“Objection.” Pickering jumped to his feet. “Defense is intimidating my witness, who is in a delicate state as it is.”

“Sustained,” the judge barely had time to say before Atkinson rolled on.

“Delicate state? I can’t blame her. She’s brought people from all over the country here to listen to lies and vulgarity, to tell an alluring story that took place only in her perverted little mind. She has no proof!”

“But I do,” Elizabeth said, her voice unsteady after being attacked.

“What was that?” The judge leaned in as Atkinson pulled in another breath to continue.

“I said she has no proof!” he repeated.

“I do!” Elizabeth cried, pounding her tiny fist on the rail. “I do have proof, Mr. Judge, sir. Senator Mae, he’s got a birthmark right above his—” She broke off, her face a picture of perfect misery.

“Where, child?” the judge asked gently while Atkinson struggled for words.

“It’s right above his privates. A port wine stain, in the shape of a heart.”

“Bailiff,” the judge said, rising to his feet, “if you would please escort Mr. Mae to his holding cell, where I will determine whether he does or does not have this mark.”

“I . . . I object,” Atkinson said.

“To what?” the judge asked. “You can take his pants down yourself if you like, but I will know.”

Grace watched as her father was escorted through a door, his head held high, but tension keeping it unnaturally still as his defense team and the judge exited with him. Adelaide reached over and wordlessly squeezed her hands. Alone on the stand, Elizabeth wiped her face, head inclined ever so slightly to the right.