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her meandering way to the edge of the water. A line of ducks swam to meet her and she began to throw scraps to them, swinging her arm again and again. She reopened the book and walked back toward the house, still reading, oblivious to the sheep that followed her through the open gate.
    On impulse, Anna tapped on the glass and lifted her hand in a wave. The girl stopped and looked up, pressing the open pages against her chest. Anna saw a still, pointed face, thin fair hair. Suddenly, as if she heard someone call her, the girl thrust the book under her cloak and darted out of sight.
    *   *   *
    A minute later, Lovely arrived and led Anna down the stairs to Abse’s study.
    Anna paused in the doorway, casting her eyes over the cliffs of books, the fox in its glass cabinet. It seemed wrong to her that she should be entering the room from inside Lake House, from the patients’ quarters, instead of from the outside like the accidental visitor she felt herself to be. A man sat writing behind Abse’s desk.
    “Best o’ luck,” Lovely muttered from behind her. “I’ll be back to collect yer in ten minutes.” Lovely departed, closing the door behind her.
    Anna reminded herself that this was her chance to get out. She might even be free today if the physician gave her a fair hearing. Digging her nails into the palms of her hands, she readied herself to tell the whole story, calmly, from the beginning.
    “Good morning, Doctor.”
    He raised his head, looked her up and down as she walked toward him.
    “Come in, come in. I won’t bite.”
    “You are Dr. Higgins?”
    “Indeed I am. Sit yourself down.”
    He rose and took hold of her hand, two fingers pressed to her wrist while looking at his watch. She smiled at him.
    “I am not ill, you know. I need to explain to you what has happened.”
    “Open your mouth.”
    “Doctor, I’m perfectly well. If I could just recount to you …”
    He bent his face close to hers and opened his own mouth to reveal a white-coated tongue. She averted her eyes as he flattened her tongue with a spoon, peered into her throat. He was old, fifty or more, to judge by the slump of his shoulders, the corrugated skin of his forehead, but he had the hair of a boy, glinting chestnut, smooth and shining on his head.
    “Throat looks normal.”
    “My throat isn’t important,” she said when he removed the spoon. “But I must talk to you.”
    “Now, Mrs.—Mrs.?”
    “Palmer.”
    “I believe the doctor is generally considered the one who knows what’s important. Eh? Do you know what year it is?”
    The wind was gusting outside; she could see what might have been leaves or birds whirling through the sky on the other side of the glass. The globe stood on the floor by the window, tilting on its stand, swaths of pink glowing in the gloom.
    “It is 1859, sir. The first of December. But Mrs. Makepeace said I would only have a few minutes with you and I want—”
    He interrupted with more questions. Anna supplied the name of the monarch and the Prime Minister, told him how many fingers she had. How many toes.
    “There was distress, on admission, according to the notes,” he said.
    “Distress?”
    “You were out of control. Hysterical. Have you any recollection of it?”
    “It wasn’t hysteria, Doctor. I was alarmed to be locked in a room by two strangers. Frightened. I was angry too. Wouldn’t you be?”
    “It is you that is under discussion. Not I.”
    He put a trumpet against her chest, leaned his ear against the end of it. His head was so close she could feel its warmth under her chin, see the hairs growing out of his ears, the line of grime on the inside of his collar.
    “Rapid heart rate,” he said, straightening up. “Not unexpected.”
    She took a deep breath.
    “Dr. Higgins, I am here only because my husband didn’t understand why I acted as I did.”
    He resumed his seat, scanned a piece of paper in front of him.
    “Says here he’s a man of the cloth. A vicar must know