Chapter I

Christine tucked her soft, white hands into the folds of her skirt, too overcome to look at them. They slipped into the depths of silk taffeta and chiffon sufficiently covered, she thought, by the embroidered rosebuds and coloured lace. Now there was only a smattering of tiny roses and a bit of green where her porcelain hands once had been. If she never saw them again, she would be happy.

Murderer's hands. That's what the constable had called them when it was remarked how dainty they appeared. She could not be a murderer now, for she had no hands to condemn her. Her limbs were made of many waves of ribbon; pink, yellow, green—all but blue. If she wriggled what once was her smallest finger, the waves danced like those at the seashore she would holiday near with Papa.

A bit of lace caught on the edge of her nail, and she froze, not willing to lose sight of the ocean and the pull of the water as it moved over her bare feet, sinking them further into the sand each time the waves returned. She slid the nail free, just as the image of a tawny haired gentleman smiling shyly at her caused a cold pallor to overtake her features and she released the memory with a shiver.

The constable took her trembling as a sign of guilt. He painted a dark picture of her; a poor, conniving wretch who beguiled a man of fortune into marriage to obtain his wealth. Though she had escaped with no blood on her hands, the guilt was such that she could not have done worse if she'd bathed in the crimson pool that eked out over the gravel walk, and danced upon her husband's body.

The guilt, he affirmed, had driven her to madness. Perhaps she was mad. What woman in her right mind pushed her husband out the window?

Something skittered down the hall, and Christine jumped in her seat. It was only Lily Mason who had dropped her paper boat while being led down the hall to the dormitories. At least the rooms were safe. The nurses would periodically check in throughout the night to be sure all were accounted for, and restful, but it was nothing like the disturbance of the elder Mme de Chagny's expression after Christine had admitted to her humble origins. She couldn't explain why, but from that day on, she feared for her life. There were sinister faces haunting every shadow. Her nerves were such that she no longer slept at night without a candle or two in every corner. Mrs. Vallum grew frightened on her account, and said it was pre-wedding anxiety. The sooner she married, the better.

"Mme de Chagny—ah, Christine," the attendant corrected, cheeks flushed by her error, "The doctor will see you now."

Christine rose in a gentle rustle. She was allowed to keep the gown she'd been wearing when dragged to the inquiry. The ruffles were beginning to wear, especially at the hem. The pink was fading, and there was a tear under the right sleeve that sometimes made her feel as if an icy finger could at any moment jab her tender flesh. These were the marks of only a couple nights of it passing to the laundress at the asylum, yet it remained a far more beautiful gown than anything she'd owned a month prior.

The room was small, but not stifling like the de Chagny's perfumed parlour. Doctor Derek sat in his leather captain's chair, beside the table which carried the lamp Christine had grown fond of. The base held the figure of a cloaked man whose ready fingers hovered over a grand piano. His face was bent over the instrument so that it was obscured from view, but Christine imagined it was serious, and kind. Atop the piano, amidst a plethora of candelabras and stacks of musical compositions there stood the tiniest working clock. As the hours wore on and the sun withdrew from the sky, the lamp turned on at precisely the right hour, steadily growing brighter and brighter to make up for the fading daylight. It was a remarkable lamp, and Christine did not mind sitting in the room where her madness was confirmed so long as she had the curious lamp and the mystifying figure of a musician to study.

She had asked of its origins her first session, never having seen the like in any of the houses full of trophies and splendour that the de Chagnys were obligated to frequent for society, and she too, once the engagement had been published. Dr. Derek smiled at her sudden brightness of expression, and genuine curiosity. "It was a gift from one of my patients. He crafted it over many sleepless nights. I believe he was no stranger to that very scene he depicted. Do you like it?"

"Oh, very much!" Christine reached a finger as if to touch the shoulder of the miniature man, but withdrew it almost instantly, fearing a reprimand for meddling with precious things. "The song he's playing... I wonder what it is."

"Shall I share with you a secret, Christine?"

She'd glanced up in surprise. "Me? I... yes. You trust me?"

Dr. Derek merely smiled, and felt around the side of the round base. Something clicked. The miniature man's hands rose and fell, and the keys on the piano did likewise as a tune chimed sweetly from the remarkable piece. Christine clasped her hands together and watched the man play for nearly a quarter of an hour. She did not recall ever speaking another word, but Dr. Derek was now privy to matters that could only have come from her own lips, and she wondered if the little man at the piano was a device for hypnosis.

Thus was the start of Christine's sessions with Dr. Derek. If he considered her a lunatic, he never said it, not in so many words. However, it was his responsibility to ensure his patients truly belonged there, and so far he had given no indication that Christine did not.

Today, the lamp was still. The light from the window was plentiful as it was still early in the day, and the lamp gave off only the tiniest glow. Christine had not asked to hear the music since it had first been shown her, but the melody refused to leave her mind.

She perched on the edge of her seat, shoulders back and spine straight as a ruler, as Mme de Chagny had taught her. The image of the ruler was clear in her mind. Her palms still stung in recollection of the punishments received when she was caught slouching or sighing. She could not keep her eyes from straying to the lamp, nor her hands from fidgeting.

"Are you nervous, Christine?"

"No, I..." she lowered her head, only to snap to attention as the crack of a ruler sounded through her head. "The music... The music that the man on the lamp plays. What is it?"

"It is a lullaby."

"My father taught me many lullabies and folksongs of our people, and the English when we came here. Of course, there may be some I haven't heard, but it is so unusual..."

"It was written by the man who crafted the lamp. He was highly intelligent. He composed music, as well as sang, wrote, designed, invented, and created dozens of beautiful things. This is only one of his many accomplishments."

"You say, 'was?'" A shiver escaped Christine, and she hastily regained her posture before it became relaxed.

Rather than answer her question, he asked one of his own. "Have you heard this music somewhere, Christine?"

"Last night," she breathed, barely a whisper. Her eyes misted as she kept them focused on the musician. "A man's voice sang me the lullaby last night."

"You know that is impossible," he gently scolded.

"I know it is, and yet... that is what I heard."

"Perhaps you were dreaming."

"No, no... I... yes, perhaps. No, it did not seem a dream, and yet, it was so very like one..." her eyes flickered back to her folded hands as her mind returned to the present. "I have no wish to speak of it any longer."

"Very well. We may speak of other matters. However, I cannot release you so long as you are experiencing these delusions." There was no mocking in his tone, and Christine was glad of his candour.

She unclasped her hands, and felt them slip into the safety of her gown's folds once again. "Monsieur," she said, the forced accent of the de Chagny family's proud heritage catching her off guard even as her voice caught and her eyes filled with tears, "I have nowhere else to go."