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Grace’s sob took her by surprise as her tears fell on Falsteed’s declaration that Alice remained innocent. “Thank God,” she said quietly to herself as a night rain began to fall outside. “Thank God.”

Grace slammed her hands over her mouth before she realized that the screams that had awoken her were not her own. Pulse racing, she listened with the rest of the wing’s inhabitants to see if it would happen again. And it did. A piercing wail that floated up through the floorboards, its maker unrecognizable in her grief. Footsteps shuffled in rooms all around her and doors creaked open, hushed voices seeking answers as lamps were lit.

“What’s happened?”

“Who is it?”

“Where’s it coming from?”

Grace lay still in her bed, willing her heart to a steady rhythm before joining them.

“It’s comin’ from down under me own room. Luck o’ the Irish, my arse,” Nell’s voice joined the throng and Grace slipped through her door to see a cluster of familiar faces gathered together.

“Under your room?” a tall woman named Rebecca said. “That’d be the widow Jacobs.”

Another shriek reached the group, trailing off into a series of racking sobs that made Grace’s throat ache.

“That old loon?” Nell said. “Christ, she’s a case, sure enough. Best get used to it, lassies. We’ll be up the rest o’ the night.”

“Nell,” Elizabeth chided. “That’s no way to speak.”

“I can’t help me accent.”

“You know what I mean,” Elizabeth bit back, more harshly than usual, her hand clamped firmly in the thin air beside her hair. “Something’s gone horribly wrong.”

“Oh, really?” Nell asked. “And what does String know about it?”

Elizabeth twisted her hand furtively, uncomfortable under the hungry stares of the others. “It’s not my place to say.”

“You do know, then?” Rebecca asked, raising her oil lamp higher and peering at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth’s eyes bounced from one face to another, and Grace felt a stab of pity. She tugged on Nell’s elbow just as the door at the end of the hallway opened. Janey’s hair was down and loose, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

“All right, ladies, back to bed, back to bed,” she said, her voice still carrying authority even though she was wearing a nightgown. “Nothing to get upset about.”

“Somebody who sleeps in the room under me own doesn’t think so,” Nell disagreed, arms crossed in front of her. “She was verra upset indeed.”

“Is it Mrs. Jacobs?” Rebecca asked.

Elizabeth only fretted at the air beside her ear, fingers entwined in something invisible.

Janey looked at the circle of faces and sighed. “All right then, if it’ll get you back in your beds. Her daughter’s died, and the police have just been to tell her.”

“And her just a wee lass,” Nell said, real sadness in her voice. “Tha’s a terrible thing to hear.”

“She’s not,” Rebecca said. “Her daughter’s a full-grown woman, same as me. I’ve seen her when she comes to visit. Unless there’s more than the one?”

“Mad or not, yer dense as can be,” Nell said. “’Ave ye not ’eard the woman speaking of ’er lass like she’s just a bairn? Goes on about ’ow she cries all the night till ’er mum brings ’er a drink.”

“Ladies,” Janey said, her voice bringing a halt to the argument. “Mrs. Jacobs has just the one daughter, if I must say so to end this ridiculousness.”

“She walks on ’er own two legs and still cries for ’er mum in the night?” Nell said incredulously. “Sounds like she’d be better off in ’ere with the likes of us.”

“Except she’s dead,” Elizabeth reminded her. “And Mrs. Jacobs chooses to think of her as a child because it’s easier than recognizing the adult she’s become.”

The group hushed, all faces turned to Elizabeth, who blanched under the attention.

“How did you know that?” Janey asked.