The courtroom was silent when the men reentered, everyone filing back to their places. The judge placed a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder as he passed behind her. He settled himself in his chair, and Pickering took the floor before him.

“Prosecution would like to enter into evidence that the defendant does indeed have a port wine stain in the shape of a heart above his privates.”

The courtroom erupted and Grace’s heart flew into her throat as the rage that had belonged to only her poured from their mouths. She caught the barest glimpse of her father’s face, pale and peaked, before the man in front of her rose to his feet shouting that he should hang.

“How is Lizzie?” Thornhollow asked that evening in Adelaide and Grace’s shared room at the inn.

“Janey sent a note, said she’s resting,” Grace said, accepting the cup of tea that Adelaide handed her.

“As should you,” Adelaide said. “This trial must be taxing for you.”

“Which is why I didn’t want her there,” Thornhollow reminded them both.

“She wants to be there, and that’s what matters,” his sister said. “I feel as if the two of you could jaw over the whole thing all night, each of your morbid brains imagining each pitfall through to the end rather than just seeing it out. I’ll take myself to bed, thank you very much.”

Grace and the doctor sat together quietly for a moment after the door shut behind her. “Do you still want to be there?” he finally asked.

“It’s not been easy,” Grace admitted. “But yes, I want to come tomorrow. You’re testifying for my sake. Not being there would be an abandonment of sorts.”

Thornhollow sighed. “It’s clear I can’t stop you, but the courtroom was a circus for the notoriety of the thing. Now that there’s a true scandal involved, it will only escalate.”

“Doctor, I—” Grace broke off, searching for words that wouldn’t come.

“I know that face,” Thornhollow said. “It usually comes before you admit you were wrong about something.”

“Then you can’t know it very well,” Grace shot back, and the doctor threw back his head, laughing.

“It’s good to see you riled,” he said. “I much prefer it to this cold, thoughtful thing that used to be Grace.”

“I know,” she said, eyes on the floor. “I had to remove myself when we went through Nell’s room with the policemen, and there was a comfort to the emptiness. I held on to it too long. It was all I had when I killed Beaton and I didn’t feel it, Doctor, I swear. I didn’t feel a thing when I cut his throat.”

“I believe you,” Thornhollow said.

“And that was so frightening,” she gasped, her voice cracking. “But it gave me power, to feel nothing. Me, who was so powerless. And I reveled in it for a time, but last night I knew I had to give Elizabeth something for the jury in the way of proof. So I let myself see. I saw my father, and I saw it all, right into the depths of his eyes, where there was that same nothing. I won’t do that. I won’t become him.”

Thornhollow leaned forward. “Good. I would have you be Grace, whichever side of her you’re using in the moment. But, Grace.”

Grace’s tea sat in her hands, untouched and cold. “I know you have reservations, Doctor,” she said quietly. “I know you don’t want to dirty your theories by using them to falsely accuse my father. Everything you’ve done for me culminates in this. It’s the right thing to do, and I thank you for it.”

“Wait until tomorrow to thank me,” he said, resting back into his chair again. “Much like Jenny Cantor at Christmastime, we’re not out of the woods yet.”

Grace resumed her seat the next day with Adelaide and Mr. Turner, rising with the sun in order to make sure they were assured a place in the courtroom. Dr. Thornhollow was right; now that Elizabeth’s testimony had brought a senator that much closer to the gallows, everyone wanted to be there when it was decided whether he would hang. The closeness of bodies was worse than the day before, those in the balcony pressed up against the railing, those in the back leaning against the walls when it became standing room only.

Dr. Thornhollow took the stand, his gaze never once going to Grace or his sister.

“I understand, Doctor, that you are formally trained in the science of phrenology, is that correct?” Pickering asked.

“Yes,” Thornhollow said, though Grace knew he was dying to correct the terminology to pseudoscience.

“If you would take a moment to explain to the jury in layman’s terms, please, what phrenology is, and how it works.”

Thornhollow turned to the jury, his speech precise as if teaching a class of toddlers. “The concept behind phrenology is that the human brain is divided into seven main sections, each with a broad scope such as domestic or intellectual. These sections are further divided into areas that represent different specific functions, like hope or friendship. The more each of these sections is used, the more it grows. Likewise, if a section is not used often, it can shrivel. These undulations of the brain cause the skull itself to change form, allowing a trained phrenologist such as myself to read the bumps on a person’s head to determine their emotional or intellectual leanings.”

“Very good,” Pickering said. “And you have had a chance to examine Mr. Mae, is that correct?”

“I have.”

“And what were your findings?”

“Mr. Mae had pronounced bumps in the areas associated with combativeness, destructiveness, and suavity.”

Adelaide leaned into Grace. “I bet he added that last bit for Elizabeth. If she couldn’t get it on record that your father is a sly son of a bitch, by God, he will.”

“Likewise,” Thornhollow continued, “there were definite concavities in the areas represented by benevolence and conscientiousness.”

“And in your professional opinion,” Pickering asked, “does this indicate that Mr. Mae would be capable of raping Elizabeth Martin and doing the same to Jenny Cantor, asphyxiating her, and blithely leaving her body in the snow?”

“Oh yes,” Thornhollow said, his voice heavy with conviction that hadn’t existed until then. “He’s capable of that and more.”

“Objection,” Atkinson said from his chair. “Unless Dr. Thornhollow would like to widen the umbrella of crimes my client has been pushed under by defining what he means by ‘and more’?”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

“Dr. Thornhollow,” Pickering tried again. “In your opinion is Mr. Mae capable of the crimes he is accused of?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve irritated him,” Grace whispered to Adelaide. “His jaw muscle is ticking.”

“I saw,” her friend agreed. “He’ll never make a living at the poker tables, will he?”

“Furthermore,” Pickering continued, “in all your studies of the human brain, have you found that someone with proclivities such as Mr. Mae’s can ever be rehabilitated?”

Grace’s brow furrowed. “Why is he asking that?”

“He’s trying to tie up his argument for the death penalty,” Adelaide whispered. “If Melancthon says that not only did your father commit this crime but that he’s likely to do it again, the jury will almost have to recommend the gallows, senator or not.”

“Dr. Thornhollow, did you hear the question?” Pickering asked.

“Why is he not answering?” Grace asked, a lump of fear forming in her stomach.

Adelaide only shook her head, her own confusion evident.

“Dr. Thornhollow—”

“Yes, I heard you,” Thornhollow said, his voice biting. He swallowed hard, his eyes not leaving the jury. “In my professional opinion, Mr. Mae’s brain function is not only irreversible but is indicative of criminal insanity.”

Mr. Pickering froze, his mouth still half-open to pronounce his next question. At the defense table, Atkinson was scribbling madly. The courtroom milled, a heavy buzz of whispered conversation gaining steam as those who understood explained what had just happened to those who didn’t.

Grace’s grip on Adelaide’s arm was crushing. “What has he done?” she whispered, panic rising.