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I stared at him, uncertain what he was getting at. Mr. Owen shifted, moving to my other side, and squeezed my hand within his own. His expression drawn. Bleak.

Hari weighed his words carefully and wet his lips. “It’s a particular sort of hospital. Specializing in the care of those suffering from nervous afflictions. Shell shock. Hysteria and the like.”

I made a gruff sound in the back of my throat. “And she’s been there all this time? In an asylum…”

He winced at the word. “I’m afraid so.” He ruffled through the folder, withdrawing a thick stack of newspaper clippings, most from during the war, and tapped them with two fingers. “I traced this woman—the one they call the Rusalka—through the last eight years.”

Mr. Owen’s expression grew pale at the word. As if Rusalka meant something to him.

Hari continued, unaware of Mr. Owen’s sudden pallor. “The German papers were fanatical about her—claiming she was a sign that the Central Powers would prevail in the war.”

My mother was alive. I could reach her in mere hours. I could scarcely hear Hari’s words over the thundering of my pulse in my veins. Alive.

“She moved from hospital to hospital—I had the hardest time keeping up. Occasionally there would be a photograph when she was brought to a new hospital, but most times not.” Hari’s words echoed somewhere outside of me as he continued with his tale. “In time, mention of her in the papers ceased altogether, the reporters having moved on to more fruitful stories. I thought I’d lost her, but then I called my friend at the War Office.”

The nameless kitten climbed up me to settle upon the shoulder of my cream-colored jumper. I finished off the rest of the brandy, reaching up to scratch the kitten’s soft fur. “And what did he say?”

“At first the physicians wondered if there was something extraordinary about her, something to make her survive conditions that she ought not. But in time they decided she was simply a very fortunate woman. They took her from a military hospital in Berlin to Saint Oda’s Priory to be treated under a psychoanalyst who works there. A remarkable fellow with a reputation for being a bit of a radical—but he has helped many a patient in his time. Curiously, she was brought there by special request. I’ve yet to determine who wanted her or why—but I suspect you will figure that part out in short order,” Hari said softly.

My heart hammered hard enough that it threatened to burst from its bone cage. I rested my palm over the organ, rubbing my sternum through the thick wool. “And she is still there?”

“Yes, at Saint Oda’s. In rural Belgium. There’s no record of her death, nor a transfer to another hospital.” Hari hesitated, scarcely able to contain the hope in his voice. “We’ve found her at last. You can go in the morning and be home within the week. That is why I sent for your Cornishman. You need a friend with you—and I know what he means to you.”

A tear slipped down my cheek as I stared at the pile of papers in my lap. I grabbed Mr. Owen’s handkerchief, wiping at my face. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My mother … my mother is alive. For so long I’d believed her dead and now to know she lived? I was as adrift as she had been all those years before. “Are you certain?”

“As much as I can be. But there’s more, and this is the reason for my haste. I’ve recently learned there are those who have taken issue with von Keller and his methods.”

Von Keller? The name sounded like something out of one of Mr. Owen’s pulp novels. “Who is that?”

“The psychoanalyst in charge of the hospital—there are some who believe he has grown power-hungry and tyrannical in his running of the hospital. They have petitioned to the German government to recall him. I am concerned that he will be ousted and if he is and the hospital is shut down, then the patients could be scattered—we might not have another chance to find her.”

“You’re certain?” Mr. Owen asked softly, looking from Hari to me.

Hari nodded. “As certain as I can be.”

“But how is that to be? It’s a Belgian hospital, is it not? How could the German government have any say in what happens there now?” I asked.

“The sisters run the priory and have allowed him to remain in his post at the hospital because of the good work he is doing there. They see the value in it, but if that were to change due to his increasing unpopularity—” He cleared his throat, stopping mid-thought. “You should pack your things. Everything you need is in this folio. All my notes—the newspaper clippings. Every loose end that didn’t make sense. Now prepare yourself. If I am right, your mother will be home within the week.”

Hari’s voice cracked with a contagious emotion. A hope I dared not claim as my own. For should the smallest bubble of the stuff take root in my chest, it would consume me whole. A risk I could not take, for I knew very well that hope was the surest way to a broken heart.

CHAPTER TWOA Bad War

MY mother is in an asylum.

The thought sat in my mouth like an unripe persimmon. I checked my pin watch again, before glancing down the empty train platform. Ruan ought to be here by now, but with each passing moment his absence grew more conspicuous. In the last few months we’d gone from rivals, to friends, to lovers. I still was not quite certain what we were as the latter word seemed too flippant and anything more permanent chafed.

While Hari remained adamant that Ruan would meet me here, I was grateful for his absence. I’d left him only days before at his cottage in Lothlel Green after spending the better part of a month there. In that time, I’d grown far too accustomed to his irritating reassurance. Dependent upon his even temper and keen mind. Both of which were a boon in investigating murder, but that wasn’t what I was going to do in Belgium. No. I was going to find my mother. I didn’t need him for that. What’s more, it had grown painfully clear these last few months of learning one another that Ruan had had a bad war. We all had, in one way or another. But whatever happened to him in France left an indelible scar on his soul, one that ran far deeper than the wound along his spine. While I wore my own pain as a warning to keep people away, Ruan hid his like a cat. Never showing weakness until it was too late. A vulnerability he’d only begun to show me. There was a reason he chose to stay in Cornwall and eschewed society. And despite my affection for him, perhaps me going alone was for the best. Wetness formed on my cheeks. It was for the best.

For both of us.

At least that’s what I told myself, pushing the sting of his absence away. The cold February wind whipped down the platform, catching the hem of my woolen skirt and plastering it to my legs. I hugged myself tighter as the words she’s not dead echoed in my chest. I should have left days ago … if I had, we could be home already. I glanced down to my gloved hand, realizing that I still held the two fares.

Damnable hope.

He’s not coming, Ruby Vaughn.

With a sigh, I folded the second fare and tucked it into my pocket.