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“No. I do it for the experience. The science of the matter.”

Grace had been silent for a moment, watching the ripples of the pond as fish fed on the early morning insects. “What was her name?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said she was a kitchen worker, so she must have been identified.”

“Ah, yes. Uh . . .” Thornhollow’s brow creased as he tried to recall a fact less imperative to him than others. “Anka. Anka Baran. She was Polish. Something we’ll want to keep in mind as we move forward. Assuming we don’t catch our man today we need to make note that there may be some racial motivation. Perhaps a dislike of immigrants.”

“I don’t think so,” Grace argued. “There was nothing to show hatred. The method he used to kill, it’s almost as if he specifically did not want to hurt her.”

“A very good point. I’ll amend it to add that perhaps he only wanted to hurt her in a very specific way and did not have the time. Or was physically incapable. Either way, we’ll know soon enough. I imagine we’ll be face-to-face with him within a few hours.”

Grace remembered Thornhollow’s prediction as Mrs. Beem’s comb passed near her scar, the feeling of the teeth fading as it touched the numb skin there, then reappearing as it trailed down her cheek.

“Hold still now. No jumping when I work around your face. Don’t want to mar you any more, do we?”

The last delicate clips were done, her hair dried and curled, Mrs. Beem’s fingers expertly twisting a pile of curls complete with pins holding a few in place to hide the damage at her temples.

“All right, Miss Chancey,” Mrs. Beem said. “Take a look. Doesn’t my pretty quiet one look as good or better than any of the fancy ladies that walk the shops down below?”

“Better,” Miss Chancey said around a mouthful of pins as she worked with Nell’s heavy hair. “With those scars covered she’d pass for normal easy as the rest of us.”

Grace glanced in the mirror and silently agreed. She was ready to go to work.

“You’re turning into a regular criminal,” Thornhollow teased when Grace produced the hairpins she’d lifted from Mrs. Beem’s sink stand.

“A planner, for sure,” Grace agreed, looking at herself in the mirror of his office. “I knew you’d have all the details right when finding me a dress. It’s fashionably cut so that I don’t look out of place, but not too distinctive of a print so as to attract undue attention. You’ve matched the hat, but completely forgotten that I’d need pins to hold it in place. Unfamiliar with women’s garments, indeed.”

“Perhaps I’ve taught you a little too well,” he said, holding out his arm for her as they went to the carriage.

Ned was waiting for them, happy to drive the carriage two days in a row, his bright smile almost bringing an answering one to Grace’s face. Thornhollow produced a list of addresses once they were moving, the clattering of the horse’s hooves hiding their conversation from Ned.

“I made inquiry and came up with a little over twenty doctors in the city. We’ll try to visit them all today while your hair is twisted into this unnatural shape. Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that beauty is pain?” Grace asked.

“I’m much more familiar with the latter.”

“Yes, it does hurt a little. By the end of the day there’ll be no farce involved as we try to procure headache medicine.”

Thornhollow shook his head. “I’ll never understand.”

Grace pulled a hand mirror from her purse and inspected her reflection. “Yet women do these things in order to appeal to men.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t appealing. I said I don’t understand it.”

“Yes, well . . .” Grace put a hand to her unmoving hair, and the pins digging into her scalp. “Sometimes the actions of the sane make no sense.”

“Amen.”

They clattered to a stop on a busy side street, and Thornhollow handed her down from the carriage. “Our experiment today is twofold, Grace. As I explained before, I’ll go into each practice a few minutes before you, to judge the doctor’s social ability with his own sex.”

“And I come along after in the guise of your niece, to see if his demeanor changes around females.”

“Yes. And your free time is to be exactly that. Free. Go about town; you’ll find money in your purse. Shop. Buy things. Do whatever it is you want, but be Grace Mae, not the broken girl who lives on the hill.”

Grace’s face fell, her eyes carrying a shadow that had lifted during their conversation. “I don’t ever want to be Grace Mae again, Dr. Thornhollow. I don’t want pretty things in shopwindows, and I don’t want to playact at being carefree. I am that broken girl. She has a purpose, at least, and it’s hidden in the identity of the man whose address is somewhere on your slip of paper.”