Jonas was quiet the next day as he led Amelia through the hallway. Still upset, it seemed, about the risk she’d taken the day before.
She broke the silence as they stepped into the main hall. “When we get to Andrew’s office, I think we should—”
Jonas was looking at her with a quizzical expression.
“What?”
“It’s ‘Andrew’ now, is it?”
The observation brought Amelia up short. She had made no conscious decision to use his given name. She hadn’t even realized she’d done it. Perhaps it was because he’d blushed—much to her amusement—at the revelation of Jonas’s romantic inclinations. Or because he’d seemed to listen so intently as she spoke. That was a rare enough quality in a man, in her experience.
Or perhaps it was because she recognized what he’d given her when he trusted her with the story of his sister. Her death obviously grieved him deeply, and the wound wasn’t a clean one. It wasn’t his fault, but he felt guilty nonetheless. The story went some way toward explaining why he’d been so desperate to gain Amelia’s aid in the search for Julia Weaver. He was trying to atone.
Whatever it was, he was real to her now. He wasn’t Cavanaugh, the doctor who stood between her and freedom. He was Andrew. He yearned for something, and he believed she could help him have it.
And she found that she wanted to.
Amelia blinked at this new realization, unsure how she felt about it. She followed Jonas down the hallway, suddenly reluctant to arrive at their destination.
They were down the hall from the office—Andrew’s office, Amelia thought to herself, testing the words—when a nurse called out for Jonas’s help with the patient she was escorting, who had begun to struggle out of her grip.
“Go on ahead,” Jonas said. “I’ll be there after I take care of this.”
Amelia stood alone in the hallway, trying to ignore this unexpected bout of nerves. She took a deep breath, set her face to pleasant neutrality, and strode through the door.
Andrew looked up as she entered, and his hesitant smile of greeting set off a round of moths fluttering in her chest. She swatted them down. This was ridiculous. She was not a schoolgirl. Perhaps they were friends now. But there was no need to make it more than it was.
“Jonas had to help with something.” She gestured at the open door, through which the patient’s fading howls echoed. “He’ll be here soon.”
She took her seat, and though neither of them said anything, the unexpected intimacy of the previous day’s conversation continued to hang in the air between them, as palpable as smoke.
They both started when Jonas appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath. He closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall. “Well, what’s the plan? Are we going to get back to searching the asylum, or are we going to take another jaunt out to the lighthouse to—”
Andrew’s voice was sharp. “The lighthouse?” He leaned forward, his face strangely intense. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Amelia glanced at Jonas, who looked as puzzled as she felt, then recounted the episode, step by step. “And then it was like something slammed into the back of my head, and he was gone.”
“A blow to the back of the head. Out by the lighthouse.” Andrew was pale. “Amelia.” His voice shook. “I don’t think you summoned John McCarthy. I think you summoned John Blounton.”
“What?” Jonas’s voice was sharp. “You said Blounton drowned.”
“He did,” Andrew said. “There was water in his lungs. But there was also damage to the back of his skull. The autopsy report speculated that he hit his head on something—possibly a rock—when he fell in. And based on where his body was found, they determined he’d gone into the water near the north end of the island. Near the lighthouse.”
“You never said anything about that.” Jonas’s voice was outraged.
“I didn’t have any idea it mattered.”
“I couldn’t tell exactly what happened to him—whether someone hit him, or whether he fell,” Amelia said. “I’m not sure he knew. But there wasn’t much of him out there. He was… ‘thin’ is the best way I can describe it.” She frowned as a thought struck her, then stood and walked into the storage room.
“What are you doing?” Jonas followed her to the doorway.
“Looking for something.” She tried to remember where she’d put the cuff link she’d found in the drawer. She spied a flash of red atop one of the cluttered cabinets. She held it up. “I think this belonged to Blounton. Maybe I can use it to bring him through more strongly.”
Jonas peered at it, then at her. He continued to look at her for a long moment, then sighed in resignation, his shoulders dropping. “Will you listen if I tell you I think this is a bad idea, or will you just wait until I’m not here and try it without me?”
Amelia grimaced. “I don’t particularly want to try it at all. But it seems likely Blounton knew more than we do about what’s going on here. We can’t afford to ignore that. We’re not spoiled for choices.”
With another sigh, Jonas stepped aside and waved her ahead of him into the office.
Amelia resettled herself on the chair and tried to relax. Both men hovered, their anxiety thick in the air, and she frowned at them until they stepped back. Jonas took up a position against the wall, while Andrew leaned against the edge of his desk.
Amelia evened her breathing and closed her eyes, rolling the cuff link between her fingers, feeling the raised silver swirls of the letters and the smooth enamel beneath them. She tried to re-create the tone she’d used the day before and called the dead man’s name—his full name, this time. “John Blounton,” she said, her throat dry. “Come to me.”
If he formed, she didn’t see it. Her eyes were still closed when the itch began in her chest. She took a breath, and he was there, flickering against the borders of her mind. Amelia fought the urge to shove him away and instead leaned into the feeling. The shade began to slide through the barrier. She rode the panic and allowed it, feeling herself being pushed aside, as if a thick glass wall was between them—her side growing smaller, his larger, as he came on. And then it stopped. She’d been right. There wasn’t enough of him to take her over. Amelia was still there, behind the glass. She reached out and felt Blounton’s confusion, his lack of self. Words, not her own, slid from her lips, slurred and indistinct.
“Wss appng.” Her voice was lower, huskier. His, layered over hers.
“John?” Jonas’s voice sounded as though it came from a great distance. “John Blounton, is that you?”
“Y’ssss,” they sighed together.
“The women on the list, John. Who brought them to the asylum? Who is doing this?”
Blounton groped for the words as Amelia tried to understand, tried to help him push them out. “F’nd ’mm. S’mny.” A ragged gasp. Angry. “Bas’ard. S’ th’ one.” An enormous effort. “Finds ’em a’th’lub. Mmmmhm. ’S all ’ranged. Ussng ’onn lee.”
They tried to say more, but the effort was too much. The part of them that was Blounton fell apart like mist in the sun, and Amelia was wholly herself again, alone in her mind, shaking and dizzy. She slumped to one side and took a shuddering breath.
“So it didn’t work, even with the cuff link?” Sidney asked. He gestured for their waiter to pour the wine.
Jonas sat across from him in a semiprivate dining room at the Union League Club, one of the city’s most exclusive gentlemen’s social clubs. As they’d passed through the main lounge on the way to their table, Sidney had quietly pointed out several millionaires and a brace of government officials. Jonas had also seen a half dozen men he recognized as regulars at Sabine’s, although none of them were personal clients of his. If they had been, he would never have acknowledged it, discretion being one of the many keys to his success over the past few years.
Jonas waited until the officious-looking server had stepped back before responding.
“Not really. The voice was so muddled, none of us knew what he was trying to say. Amelia rested for a bit and tried again, but she couldn’t get him back. She thinks there’s not enough of him left.”
Sidney shuddered. “So you’re going to go back to searching the way you were before?”
Jonas nodded.
“And you’re certain there’s nothing I can do to help?”
“If Cavanaugh reneges on his side of the agreement, we may wind up needing your skills. But for now, there’s nothing.”
“What are you thinking about how to get her out?”
“Ironically, solving this mystery actually might wind up being the easiest way,” Jonas said. “If we can find Julia Weaver—or any other hidden women—and proof of whoever is responsible, we could claim Amelia was one of the victims and get her released that way.”
“And if you don’t?”
Jonas shrugged. “I still don’t know for sure. The fever’s spread seems to be under control, and no one’s died of it, so trying that seems like a bad idea. I may be back to trying to sneak her off the island.” Jonas took a sip of the rich red wine. “There’s another ladies’ charity group coming in, a big one. It’s not a great idea, but I’m running out of time. I went to see Charley today about getting the right sort of clothes.”
He set down the glass and picked up his fork, spearing a bite of tender beef. “He didn’t have anything on hand that would fit Amelia, so he’s going to have to find the right kind of dress and cut it down. He says he’ll have it next week. Either way, it won’t go on much longer. Ten more days until Amelia’s fulfilled her end of the bargain. If Cavanaugh balks, or if there doesn’t seem to be a better solution, the ladies will be there three days after that. I’ll make it work.”
Sidney was quiet for a moment. “What about afterward? Have you thought any more about what we discussed?”
“Some.” Jonas looked at his plate, then up at the other man. “I can’t make any decisions until all this is over. But it’s appealing. I’ve been borrowing books from the doctors’ library at the asylum. Psychology is fascinating. Although,” he said, “some of it is clearly rubbish. Did you know there’s actually a theory that the color of one’s hair correlates with one’s likelihood of becoming insane? I read it in Tuke’s Dictionary of Psychological Medicine. It’s interesting that—” He broke off, realizing Sidney was suppressing a smile. “I’m rambling. I’m sorry.”
Sidney shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s fun to see you so excited about something. There are thousands of books in the university library, about every conceivable subject, and they’ll all be available to you if you decide to enroll.”
Jonas looked around the room, all dark, polished wood and Tiffany glass. His years at Sabine’s had made him familiar with the habits of New York’s wealthier citizenry, but spending time with Sidney gave him a far more intimate perspective. Sidney’s grandfather had been a founding member of the Union League Club, so Sidney had been destined for membership from birth. His rarified pedigree—and ready access to large sums of money—gave him an expansive view of what was possible.
“It’s not that easy,” Jonas said finally.
“It could be, if you’d let me—”
Jonas was already shaking his head. “I won’t take your money. Not for that.”
Dinners and gifts were one thing. He’d even been willing—all right, somewhat more than willing—to let Sidney take him to Paris. But there was something about accepting an allowance, letting Sidney pull strings to get Jonas admitted to a college course or pay his tuition, that felt wrong. Perhaps he was being irrational. It would make things easier, god knew. But he’d stopped taking Sidney’s money after their third night together. Their relationship was not about money, and for the first time in his life, Jonas liked it that way. Amelia would call him ten kinds of a fool if she knew.
“Very well,” Sidney said. “The offer is there, if you change your mind. And if there’s anything I can do to help with the current situation, please ask.”
“I will.” There was no one nearby, but Jonas lowered his voice anyway. “Just having you back on this side of the ocean helps. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too. I’m sorry you couldn’t go with me this time, but we’ll have other chances.”
If they had been alone, he would have put a hand over the other man’s, but of course that wasn’t possible here. Jonas sighed and pushed back his chair. “I have to go. I’m due at the club at ten, and Sabine’s already unhappy with me after these last few weeks.”
Sidney stood, too. “She’ll be happier with you when I rent one of the rooms for the night.”
Jonas raised an eyebrow. “The whole night?”
“Don’t worry,” Sidney said, his voice pitched for Jonas’s ears alone. “I’ll let you sleep a little.”
They walked to the curb, where they stood a careful distance apart, waiting their turn for a cab. Jonas glanced down the block, and his eyes snagged on a pair of figures moving toward them. It was Klafft, with Connolly trailing behind, scribbling on a stack of papers.
Jonas tensed. Being seen standing outside one of the most exclusive clubs in the city—in expensive evening attire, no less—was not in keeping with his pose as a lowly orderly. A cab pulled to a stop before them, and he hastened aboard, trying to keep his face turned away from the duo on the sidewalk.
Jonas kept his eyes forward as the driver pulled away, uncertain if he’d been seen and unwilling to do anything to draw attention to himself. Halfway down the block, however, he risked a glance out the window.
Connolly had stopped and was turned toward their retreating cab, but Jonas couldn’t make out the expression on his face. Klafft was standing outside the door Jonas and Sidney had just exited. As Jonas watched, Connolly turned and hurried to hold the door for his employer, then followed him inside.
“Klafft is a member of the Union League Club?”
“He is,” Sidney replied, “although I don’t know him personally.”
Jonas settled back into his seat, wondering where an asylum physician got the money to mingle with society’s elite. He grimaced. If either man recognized him, they were probably wondering the same of him.