Miranda. Susan Wiggs

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      Her heart drummed against her breastbone. Reeling with dread, she turned to her escort, the watchman who had been with her at the fire. “This is Bedlam.”

      “Aye, miss.”

      “It’s a hospital for people who are mad.”

      He moved closer to her, put his hand on her arm. She supposed it was meant to comfort, but instead she felt nervous, trapped.

      “Miss,” he said, “at least you’ll have a roof over your head, a meal—”

      “I’m not mad.”

      His hand tightened on her arm. “You say you don’t know who you are, where you live, who your family are.”

      The black gulf of emptiness invaded her again, as it had each time she’d tried to remember before. Before the night, before the fire, before the terror and the insanity.

      She stared at the ground, studying the cobbled street and the sparrows and rock doves poking at crumbs. London Wall. It wasn’t a wall, but a roadway at the edge of Moorfields. How was it that she knew the name of this street if she could not even name herself?

      The heavy door of the entranceway creaked open on iron hinges. She found herself looking at a beefy man with a mustache that swept from ear to ear.

      She shouldered back her weariness, lifted her chin. “I don’t belong here.” Despite the show of resolve, she staggered, on the brink of exhaustion, and her vision swam. “I belong in...in...” Her chest squeezed with dread. “In hell,” she said before she could stop herself. “Just not here,” she finished weakly.

      The warden exchanged a fleeting look with the watchman behind her, and she felt their unspoken exchange: Mad as a March hare.

      “That’s what they all say,” the warden remarked in a bland voice. “Does she need restraints?”

      Restraints. They would chain her like an animal.

      She took a step back. Bumped into the watchman. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders.

      “Sir!” she choked out. “Unhand me! I do not belong here, and I certainly don’t need re—”

      “You did well this time, Northrup. Got here before Dr. Beckworth makes his rounds.”

      “He oughtn’t to complain, the stupid cit. The gate fees pay his wages,” Northrup said. His hand snaked into her hair. He pulled, forcing her head up. “Such a pretty piece will be a nice addition to the menagerie.”

      “I’ll be able to charge the gawkers double. They like the pretty ones.”

      Miranda gasped. “You mean, I am to be sold like a monkey to a zoo?”

      The warden lifted a bushy eyebrow. “A show of spirit is always welcome. She’ll be an interesting specimen.”

      “This is criminal!” she shouted. “Kidnapping!”

      The warden captured her wrists in one hand and brought them up high behind her. A wrenching pain seared her elbows and shoulders. She could smell his sweaty body, could feel the heat of his breath on the back of his neck. Could hear the clink of coins in the small cloth purse he gave the watchman.

      Outrage gripped her in a choke hold. The man who was supposed to be helping her—a man she had trusted—had sold her to a madhouse.

      The watchman slipped away, ambling down the fog-shrouded lane.

      Miranda shuddered out a long sigh. “Please, sir,” she said, affecting a small, meek voice. “It has been a rather long, eventful night for me, and I am quite exhausted. Truly, I need no restraining whatever.”

      He laughed unpleasantly. “So you’ll make it easy on both yourself and old Larkin?”

      She swallowed. Her throat still burned from the smoke. Her mind held nothing but emptiness—and fear. “Certainly, Mr. Larkin,” she forced out through dry lips.

      The hard grip eased. She rotated her aching shoulders. Think, think, think...

      The man called Larkin opened the door wider. The sharp smells of lye soap and urine gusted out, along with the roars and wails of the inmates.

      Miranda ran.

      Bunching her tattered skirts in one hand, she plunged down the lane. Her feet, laced into sturdy brown leather boots she did not remember putting on the previous morning, clattered over the uneven cobblestones.

      With the curses of the warden ringing through the rows of close-set buildings, she ran blindly. She had no idea where she was going except away.

      Away. The thought pounded in her head, counterpoint to the rhythm of her running feet.

      Away, away, away.

      Why are we going away again, Papa? And why must we leave in the middle of the night, without even saying goodbye?

      It was a very old memory, incomplete, a vague impression of a slender man in a shabby coat, a warm hand closed around her small, cold one.

      “Stop, thief!” the warden bellowed. His big voice roused a few sleepy-looking pedestrians as they walked along the street. Here and there, shutters opened and heads poked out.

      “Stop her!” Larkin called again. “Stop her, I say!”

      Miranda plunged on. She had a fleeting impression of inquisitive glances, but no one seemed inclined to stand in her way. There was, she decided, some small advantage to having one’s face and clothing soiled with black soot. No one wanted to touch her.

      Don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t— Another memory, this one dark and disturbing. She was almost grateful when it evaporated like the fog.

      She careened around a corner, nearly colliding with a costermonger’s cart. The coster swore. Loose onions and potatoes spilled out, filling the narrow lane. She hesitated, then tried to leap past the cart.

      Brutal hands dug into her shoulders. She turned to see Larkin’s face, red with fury.

      “That’s the last time you’ll run from me, my fine lady fair,” he said, huffing with exertion. Even as she fought him, he hooked his leg behind her knees and forced her to the hard ground. He settled his weight on her, filling his fist with a handful of hair and giving it a cruel twist. “You want to earn your keep on your back, eh?” His eyes were small and hazel in color, hot and hungry. “I can arrange that.”

      Miranda screamed.

      * * *

      Lucas Chesney grew impatient, waiting for Miranda. She had never been late before. He plucked a gold watch—one of the few items he had yet to pawn—from his pocket and thumbed it open, just to make sure.

      Yes, it was half noon. She was late. Was she still angry about their ridiculous quarrel? What a barbarian he’d been, ripping her dress like that.

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