Page 15

Children’s voices echoed in the priory green behind me. I turned to see them crossing the courtyard on their way to the church for mass. I hurried through the main gates, in hopes of spotting the girl again and delivering the doll. I needed to reassure myself she was safe and where she belonged. For surely she was one of the orphans. The children were positioned in two orderly lines and dressed precisely as the girl had been the day before—the girls in pale blue pinafores and boys in short pants. Each wore a crisp blue shirt the color of the winter sky. A grim-faced Dominican sister led the group with a wooden rosary swinging loosely from her left hand. She gave me a stern look before turning her attention back to her charges. A second sister, the younger of the two, was pulling up the rear and watched me with a peculiar wide-eyed wonder before continuing. I quickly scanned the faces of the children looking for the girl—but she was not among them. Nor did a one of them have a ribbon in their hair, or any other adornment. How very odd.

I ran my fingers over the doll in my pocket and watched as the children disappeared into the priory church. In the brilliant winter morning light, the dark stones of the hospital nearly glittered—its tall walls casting a shadow across the graveled walk bisecting the green. The dark facade rose four stories high, dominating the priory grounds. The modern structure of the hospital must have been resurrected from the skeleton of the old dormitory from the glory days of Saint Oda’s Priory. Now, even with the hospital shoring up the compound, it remained a shell of its former power: a hospital, the orphanage, and the church that served the town instead of the other way around.

A commotion came from the nearby open arcade, pulling my attention into the darkened passageway leading away from the hospital toward the children’s home. Something about the tenor of the voices caught my notice. They were angry. Quick. I edged closer, pulled by the same damnable curiosity that had gotten me into my fair share of trouble thus far.

And then it struck me.

These people were Americans. The accent was unfamiliar to my ears after having lived abroad so long. My hand rested lightly on a cold stone column as I carefully peered around. It was absolutely not my business what they were arguing about, and yet I could not look away.

An arresting young woman quarreled with a fellow in a white physician’s coat. It was not the same doctor who I’d spoken with yesterday, but it would only reason a hospital like Saint Oda’s would have more than one physician. The woman, however, was achingly familiar. I’d seen her somewhere before. In passing perhaps, or at one of the thousands of parties between the war and now—an era of my life fueled by gin and a desperate longing for oblivion. I struggled to place her. She was about my age with straw-colored hair cropped like a young man’s. Shorter than my own. Slight in stature and dressed as a fellow in a pair of dark navy trousers and a fine white blouse beneath a stiff workman’s coat. I knew her, though I could not recall how. I’d not spent time with many Americans since leaving my homeland at the ripe age of sixteen beneath a cloud of scandal.

The woman jammed an angry finger at the doctor, dropping her voice low enough I could not hear her words. Whatever he’d done displeased her greatly. She looked up, noticing me. Her eyes widened for a half moment before she turned, thrust an object into her trouser pocket, and started off in the opposite direction—never once looking back.

I longed to chase her down, grab her round the elbow and make her talk to me—find out who she was and why she looked at me in such a way, as if she knew me just as certainly as I knew her.

The physician jolted to attention when he spotted me, his gaze lingering on the spot where the odd woman had been. He approached me with a game smile. This man was nearly as beautiful as the woman had been, with similar coloring. He extended his hand out. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Cecil Peterson. One of the psychoanalysts employed here at Saint Oda’s.” Despite the friendly words, there was a wariness in his expression as he studied me making it clear that he also knew who I was.

A wholesome enough looking fellow with blunted square features that put me in mind of a puppy or one of those schoolboys who spent too much time out of doors playing rounders with his friends. His hair was a golden sort of shade, neither quite blond nor brown. Straight—mostly—with a slight wave about his ears. Just as everything else about him. Somewhere between this and that.

His palm was damp and cool as he shook my hand. I released it at once, politely rubbing the moisture away on my own coat. “I’m Ruby Vaughn. I’ve come looking for a patient here, or one who was here before she passed away … Father Crawford—” I gestured back to the priory church where I’d met the old priest yesterday, struggling to sound unaffected by my own words. “He said I should ask a Dr. von Keller about her. Said she was a patient of his.”

“Ah … well I’m sorry your journey is wasted.” Cecil’s expression flickered at my words. He tucked his hand into his trouser pocket beneath his white coat, fumbling with an object within.

“Wasted?” I raised my brow.

“Dr. von Keller doesn’t allow visitors. At least, not anymore … I’d hate for you to end up on the wrong side of him. He’s not the sort of fellow one crosses.”

I caught my lower lip between my teeth, debating how grave a sin it was to lie at a priory. “I have an appointment … for quarter past eight when he finishes his rounds.” My voice echoed strangely in the cloister, but no lightning struck me for my transgressions. A small victory, I supposed.

He looked over his shoulder toward the main doors of the hospital before clearing his throat, his shoulders easing a bit at my misdirection. “Well … if you have an appointment, I suppose that’s all right. You’re a brave woman to want to see von Keller these days. He’s a mercurial chap most of the time—but these last few months?” He whistled. “I can take you to him.”

Cecil Peterson pulled his hand from his pocket, gesturing for me to follow along. “The patients stay on the floors above. Only those almost ready for reentry to society are allowed down into the courtyard and ground floor of the hospital.” His step was long and rangy as he continued down the shaded cloister before pushing in an ancient wooden door leading to the hospital. For as dark and ominous as the outside of the hospital was, the interior was its opposite. All clean white tile and sterile walls. Bright electric lights had been installed, chasing any lingering shadows away. In truth, had I not just left a medieval walkway I’d have assumed I was in a modern facility in London or Paris.

“I heard in the village some of the patients used to come down to the village.”

Peterson stiffened. The tension crawled up his neck as the muscle in his jaw worked. “Yes well. Von Keller changed his mind on that. Now no one leaves, and hardly anyone enters. We don’t get many strangers at Saint Oda’s. Not anymore.”

I frowned deeply as we continued down the empty corridor. Not a soul was around. Not a nurse. Another physician. No one. One might believe the entire facility abandoned. “Does he change his mind often?”

Peterson let out a cynical sound and turned back to me, eyes clouded with something I could not place. He reached out and took me by the elbow, pulling me into a side alcove. “I’m going to tell you something, Miss Vaughn…”

My pulse quickened, not much liking having a man touch me in such a way. Not much liking anyone touching me in such a way. I tugged my arm back, folding them beneath my breasts, and cocked an eyebrow.

“If you were wise, you’d leave this place and not look back.” A wave of unspoken emotion crossed his face as he looked at me, staring deep into my eyes, his voice cracking. “Good God … you look just like her…”

My mother. I glanced out into the empty corridor behind him. “You knew her?” My voice was low.

He nodded with a frown. “Von Keller seldom let anyone see her. Tried to keep her presence here a secret as best he could, though for the life of me, I don’t know why.”

My pulse sped up. I opened my mouth then shut it again. “Did you … was she…?”

He must have sensed the direction of my thoughts. The edge of his mouth curved up slightly. “I liked Eva—that’s what we called her here. Everyone did. We didn’t know her name as she never spoke. Von Keller called her Eva, as she reminded him of his sister. But forgive me, looking at you is like staring into a photograph.” He gave his head a slow shake. “You have her eyes—the shape that is, the color’s all wrong but you know that, I am sure. You have that same…” He let out a dry laugh, running the back of his hand over his jaw, struggling to make sense of me. And frankly, I was struggling to make sense of the situation myself. “You see, there wasn’t a soul in the world who could look at Eva and not feel compelled to pour out their darkest secrets to her. If I were a superstitious sort I’d think her a witch.”

I nearly choked on air. Little did he know, there were such things as witches. One was currently wandering the village. But my mother was not numbered among their kind. I swallowed hard. “Father Crawford said she died recently … she’d drowned in a lake.”

He closed his eyes and gave a nod, emotion clouding his eyes. “Two days ago. But Miss Vaughn … you should be careful—”

“Careful of what?” My voice cracked as I stepped closer.