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turned and
looked at me. “There!” she said, dashing a tear from her cheek.
“You look just like Evangeline in those. I knew they’d fit.”
“You knew my mother . . . ?” I began to ask, but the sound
of the door creaking open interrupted me. Nurse Rackstraw
stood framed in the doorway, her thin-lipped mouth a round O.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “And how did you get in
here?”
Miss Moorhen squared her shoulders and tilted her chin
up, the feather on her hat quivering like the crest on a warrior’s
helmet. “I am Miss Agnes Moorhen, personal secretary to Mrs.
Throckmorton van Rhys Hall, grandmother and legal guardian to this woefully mistreated child. Who are you?”
Nurse Rackstraw opened her mouth but, without saying a
word, fled. We heard her calling for Dr. Pritchard as she ran
down the hall. Miss Moorhen sniffed and withdrew a pair of
boots and stockings from her bag. “You’d better put these on so
there’s no delay,” she said.
I hurriedly pulled on stockings and boots, my hands shaking. What if Dr. Pritchard wouldn’t let me go? What could one
woman—even one as clearly forceful as Miss Moorhen—do
against a man of authority?
Doctor Pritchard returned with Nurse Rackstraw as I was
tying my laces. His eyes flicked from me to Miss Moorhen
standing at the window with her carpetbag in one hand.
“I don’t know how you got in here, young lady,” he boomed
at Miss Moorhen, “but I know how you are going out. I have
called the guards—”
“And I have called the police, sir. They will be curious to
know why you are holding Miss Hall without notifying her
grandmother. Here is a copy of the writ of complaint Mrs.
Hall’s lawyer has drawn up against you”—Miss Moorhen
withdrew a sheaf of papers from her bag—“and forms releasing Miss Hall into my custody. Mrs. Hall’s lawyer and two employees of the Pinkerton Detective Agency are waiting for me
outside in Mrs. Hall’s automobile. They have instructions to go
straight to the mayor’s office in . . .” Miss Moorhen withdrew a
pocket watch from her vest pocket. “Ten minutes if I have not
exited the premises with Miss Hall.”
Dr. Pritchard’s light green eyes bulged and a vein at his temple throbbed. “In my expert medical opinion it is dangerous to
remove this patient from care at this time—”
“Oh,” Miss Moorhen chirped. “Is that the same medical
opinion that kept a sixteen-year-old girl drugged and bound for
five months? No, I don’t believe we will be requiring your medical advice anymore, Dr. Pritchard. Now, if you will please step
out of the way, Miss Hall and I will be going.”
Dr. Pritchard’s hands curled into fists. The bass bell inside
my head rang once. I got ready to hurl myself at him should he
attempt to throttle Miss Moorhen, but then his hands went
limp and he let out a breath. He smiled and stepped to one
side, bowing and waving his arm in the air toward the door. He
looked at me.
“You are, of course, free to go, Miss Hall. I wish you luck in
your new home. But remember, if you ever require my services
again, I will be here waiting for you.”
He smiled at me, and a thin wisp of smoke dribbled out of
his mouth. I shuddered at the sight, but forced my eyes away
from him and focused on Miss Moorhen.
“I’m ready to go,” I said. She linked her arm through mine
and together we walked out of the Bellevue Pavilion for the Insane.

4
    AS MISS MOORHEN had promised, there was an automobile waiting for us just outside the massive iron gates of Bellevue—a long sleek silvery automobile with a figure of a winged
woman at its prow—but it wasn’t full of Pinkerton detectives. A
uniformed driver sat at the wheel and a nervous-looking young
man in a rumpled linen suit paced in front of the car, raking his
hands through his hair and muttering to himself.
    When he saw us coming out of the gates he rushed toward
us, looking as though he were going to fling his arms