“What did she do?”
“She could move objects without touching them. When one of the nurses fell asleep, Emily managed to acquire the keys to the gate and pass them to me. Unfortunately, they caught her. When they questioned the poor girl, she had a wild fit that nearly destroyed the entire building—fires, crumbled walls and ceilings, flooding. With the distraction, I was able to make my escape.” A long silence settled as Miss Grey collected herself. She wandered to the pianoforte in the corner, gently running her fingers along the ivory keys without pressing them. “Although it seems I’ve arrived too late to be of any help. I failed you and Rose,” she muttered.
I walked over to her and forcefully hugged her, as if to squeeze away that lingering guilt. Somehow I became the optimistic one. “Don’t say that. Heavens, you did everything possible, and you have been through too much.”
That did little to rest her spirits. Neither did telling her about my many mistakes over the past few days. The missed opportunities weighed heavy on both of us as we tried to find a solution.
Then the obvious answer hit me. “Miss Grey, could you not dream of Rose and find her?”
“I have tried,” she said, her shoulders slumping even more. “If I think of the specific person before I fall asleep, it sometimes works. But my perspective is limited. Rose would likely be confined to a room, and that is all I would see. Even when I dreamt of Dr. Beck, I rarely saw him leave his laboratory. I never learned where it was.”
“What about Claude or . . . that man who can create doors, what do we call him? The door man? My God, we don’t even know their names.”
“Gabriel Hale, I believe,” Miss Grey said. “But he often travels straight to his destination with his own doors.”
I felt a strange fear of breaking a fragile memory with too direct a question. “Can you remember anything else about them? Do they have homes or families?”
She shook her head, displacing stray wisps of hair. “I wish I had paid more mind. I cannot recall. My dreams are fragmented like anyone else’s, and it’s hard to remember details. All I have is my diary from the recent months, but I don’t know if it will be of any use.”
She handed me a small, ragged notebook from her reticule, and I skimmed through the delicate thing, finding the pages for Dr. Beck, Claude, and Mr. Hale. They were filled with brief, horrible memories and unfamiliar names. A couple of names were labeled as patients, but the unlabeled ones piqued my curiosity. Were they colleagues of Dr. Beck? Patrons? Camille had mentioned his funding last night. Surely Dr. Beck would need to meet with someone if he were moving to a new laboratory. Could this be our way of finding him?
“Miss Grey, do you know who these men are?” I asked, pointing at the names. A pang of guilt struck me when I looked up. She had taken several steps back, as if she did not wish to relive those memories with me.
But she stepped forward, glanced them over, and shook her head. “No, I only heard them mentioned in Dr. Beck’s conversations. I’m sorry.”
I closed the diary. “No more apologies, Miss Grey. This is a very promising start,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Kent and Mr.—will recognize a name, and we will find her soon.”
She smiled and looked like she was starting to believe me. “What happened to that cynical pupil of mine?”
“Oh, don’t worry, she’s usually here.”
“Well, you’ve grown since I last saw you—” Miss Grey broke off with a yawn. “Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry!”
“No, no, you’ve had a long day,” I said. “We will continue tomorrow.”
With evening fast approaching and the many stresses, memories of horrors, and guilt pressing on her, Miss Grey needed her rest. She gave me her lodging information, and a footman escorted her to a cab. As I waved good-bye, I couldn’t help but wish, despite all she had gone through, that she might continue searching in her dreams.
I had three wonderful seconds to myself before Laura leaped out from around a corner. “Evelyn!”
My heart stopped. An embarrassing scare, considering everything. “Heavens, don’t frighten me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You promised this morning we would talk! Who was the woman who came to visit? I thought of eavesdropping, but the last time I tried was positively dreadful. I got trapped in a cupboard for hours!”
“My former governess. She heard I was visiting London, and she wished to see me. Not worth getting trapped over,” I said, unable to imagine Laura sitting still for minutes, much less hours.
She bounced across the entrance hall and to the next subject. “And what happened last night at the . . .” She trailed off, coyly lifting her shoulders and pouting awkwardly, which I could only take as the universal sign for brothel.