“James is going to speak to Papa today, while we’re out.”
“I don’t envy him having to speak to George,” Harriet said mildly.
“He insists on doing it.” Annis worried at her moonstone with her fingers. “I don’t know what Papa will say. Now the dowry money has been paid back to Mr. Neufeld, and… it shouldn’t be all about money, should it?”
“I hope it won’t be. But you must put it out of your mind for now,” Harriet admonished. “Distractions are dangerous.”
Annis bit her lip, ashamed of her selfishness. “Yes. Sorry.” She released the moonstone and shifted her hand to the adder stone, safe beneath her chemise. Her worries about her future faded as she felt the silhouette of the ancient stone under her hand. The magic of the herbarium returned in full force, swirling through the inside of the carriage, uniting her with Harriet and reminding her of their purpose. “Yes,” she said again. “I will focus.”
The exterior of the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island was as bleak as any place Annis had ever seen. There was almost no landscaping, no decent walkways, nothing to look at except the gray walls and the small barred windows that trapped the unfortunates within.
The interior was infinitely worse.
The smell that struck them when they walked through the double doors of the entrance made Annis want to pinch her nose shut. She was used to the smells of refuse often dumped on the city streets, but this air was thick with the stench of urine, of spoiled meat, of gas and kerosene and unwashed bodies. The odors seemed to have permeated the walls and soaked into the lobby furniture, only to be exhaled by oil heaters struggling to warm the cavernous place.
Harriet was wearing her single fur, a beaver cape with a standing collar, and a matching hat on her upswept hair. Stern faced, she strode through the lobby to the superintendent’s office as if she knew exactly where she was going.
She pushed through the door without knocking. A thin woman behind a wide desk looked up. “I want to see my cousin,” Harriet declared, as if she was not accustomed to being refused. “It’s Frances Allington. I’m in a hurry.”
Annis marveled at the aura of magic that surrounded Harriet as she infused her voice with a tone of command, sending the woman scurrying into the office behind her.
A moment later a stout man in shirtsleeves, with ink protectors reaching to his elbows, emerged. Scowling, he stamped around the desk to the spot where Harriet stood, her booted foot tapping with impatience.
As he drew near her, the man’s expression altered. Irritation gave way to confusion, and then, by the time he had reached her, to deference. He inclined his head and said politely, “Stephen Beaufort, at your service. I don’t believe you gave my secretary your name, Mrs.…?”
“Harriet Bishop.” Harriet made a show of pulling back her lapel to glance at the gold watch pinned to her shirtwaist. “You are the medical superintendent, are you not?”
“Yes,” Beaufort said warily.
“Your name is known to me from the hearings. The Times covered them extensively.”
“Oh yes, yes. Of course, the hearings were—that is, we’ve been trying to—”
“Never mind that now. I’ll speak to the mayor if I have questions. In the meantime, if you don’t mind,” Harriet said, with an aristocratic sniff, “I have so little time. We’ve brought Mrs. Allington some things, and I wish to deliver them personally.”
She gestured to Annis. Obediently Annis held up a linen bag holding a piece of cake from Mrs. King and a chemise and nightdress Velma had begged Annis to bring.
Mr. Beaufort said, with an apologetic air, “I’m afraid we’ll have to look inside the bag, Mrs. Bishop.”
“Indeed?” Harriet raised one haughty eyebrow and nodded permission to Annis. Annis pulled the neck of the bag open and held it out so Mr. Beaufort could peer inside.
He leaned forward, though he kept his hands behind his back, and peeked into the bag. He nodded approval and straightened. “I’ll send for a nurse to accompany you.”
“We won’t need a nurse,” Harriet began, but Mr. Beaufort gave an