Two days later, Amelia looked up from her breakfast as the sound of a masculine voice filtered down the hallway. The words themselves were lost in the general din of the ward, but the pauses indicated a conversation, and the tone was unmistakable. It was instructional, pleasant enough without any degree of deference. A doctor, for certain. The orderlies, when they spoke, murmured. Short. Obedient. Amelia held still, listening, but the voice grew no louder. Whoever he was, he’d stopped before reaching her cell.
After driving Cavanaugh away, Amelia had thrown herself back onto her cot and stewed until a nurse finally came to take her to the washroom. On the way, she peered into every cell they passed and confirmed that both Janey and Elizabeth were in the isolation ward as well. Amelia spent the rest of the morning trying to think of a way to communicate with Elizabeth, but her still-pounding head and sour stomach eventually forced her to set the problem aside.
Now, as she scraped up the last dregs of sticky porridge with her bread and popped it into her mouth, a momentary lull brought her a snippet of the conversation taking place down the hall.
“—quite certain. I will take full responsibility.”
Amelia straightened. It was Cavanaugh.
She stood and crossed to the door. She wavered between stubborn defiance and self-reproach every time she thought of their last encounter. She had no interest in repeating it. Why was he in the ward?
Amelia tilted her head to peer through the bars. Cavanaugh stood down the hall. A nurse stepped in front of him to open a cell, and Cavanaugh disappeared inside. Perhaps five minutes passed before he reappeared, shepherding the cell’s occupant before him.
Mara.
Amelia pressed closer. What was he doing? Mara hunched in on herself and shied away from his touch, blinking in the relatively brighter light of the hallway. He guided her down the corridor as if she were made of glass, and Amelia watched until the pair disappeared from view. A minute later, the ward door crashed closed. Amelia paced her cell until they returned, some two hours later. Cavanaugh led Mara back into her cell, conferred with the nurse, then left the ward again, alone.
He never looked in Amelia’s direction.
He returned again the next day. And the next. And each day after that.
He spoke with other patients on the ward. He frequently drew something from a pocket and offered it between the bars of the cells. A few women—the ones prone to violence or threats—Cavanaugh spoke to from the hallway, quiet words Amelia could never make out. Most, like Mara, he removed from their cells for an hour or two at a time. Sometimes he carried a cloak over one arm, and the women returned pink-cheeked and smelling of the outdoors. Janey went more than once and always came back smiling. There was no pattern to the visits, save that he never skipped them for more than a day.
He made no attempt to interact with Amelia.
She wondered at his silence. Once or twice there was a tiny hitch in his stride as he passed her door, as if he might turn toward her, but he never did.
Mrs. Brennan happened to be in the ward when he returned with Mara one afternoon. She reached for the girl, who flinched away. With a scowl, Mrs. Brennan took a rough hold of her arm and gave her a shove in the direction of her cell. Cavanaugh spoke.
“I’ll see her settled. You may wait for me over there.” His voice held that note of command again, and on this occasion, Amelia found she did not object to it.
When he finished with Mara, he strode directly to Mrs. Brennan, standing halfway between Mara’s and Amelia’s doors and wearing an expression as sour as curdled milk.
“I do not wish to see you handle a patient so harshly again,” he said in a firm voice, “especially one who is in need of neither restraint nor correction.”
He looked past the matron, and his eyes caught Amelia’s. Her chest tightened, and something flickered on Cavanaugh’s face for a moment before he looked away.
Mrs. Brennan followed his gaze, her frown deepening. Despite an overwhelming urge to shrink back, Amelia stood her ground.
“Additionally,” Cavanaugh went on, “I’m aware that you’ve disobeyed my explicit orders at least once. I don’t wish to find that it’s happened again.” The warning was clear in his tone. He waited until the matron looked at him. “Is that understood?”
Amelia winced. Someone would pay for that, and there was every chance it would be Amelia herself.
The older woman’s face flushed an unpleasant shade of red. Her jaw clenched, but she muttered something that must have been agreement before striding away.
Cavanaugh watched her retreating back for a moment. Amelia found herself hoping he would look at her again, but he only turned, nodded once to Mara, and left.
That evening, Amelia lay on her cot as the ward sang its chorus. Mumbles and shouts echoed. A burst of laughter pierced the air and trailed away. Threats and curses threaded through the hall. But something was missing. It came to her as she drifted into sleep. Mara’s crying. The anguished sobs that had been such a constant part of the ward’s discordant harmony.
They’d stopped.