For a moment, the falling feels like something else entirely—like a brief, wild glimpse of freedom.
But the surface comes too soon, shattering against her skin—a pane of glass—knocking the air from her lungs. Or perhaps it is she who has shattered. She is no longer herself, no longer a single person but divided and adrift in the darkness. The burn in her lungs is too unbearable; her mind begins to soften to make room for the pain.
Strange thoughts come to her through the cold: Here there is no beauty.
This much is an unexpected relief.
But the body wants what it wants: please, it begs. Her body begins to fight; her face seeks the sparse starlight above, already so far away. Someone once told her that the stars were merely sewing pins, holding the black sky up so that it did not come down on the world and suffocate it. Her brief calm gives way to panic. A powerful, unstoppable desire possesses her—it isn’t life calling to her, demanding another chance, but love. We all deserve a second chance. The thought seems to arise not from within her but around her, even as the currents pull her deeper, as a frigid fog entangles her mind.
The surface is unfathomably high now, untouchable. The cold is everywhere, pushing, begging to be let in.
I can give you another chance, the waters seem to say. I can make all of this go away if you let me.
It is a promise. The waves are no longer pulling her down but holding her in their arms, waiting for her response.
She opens her mouth at last. Water floods in, forming the answer.
1916
18 September 1916
For the attention of the director
Morninggate Asylum, Liverpool
Dear Sir,
I write in the hope that you may be of assistance in a very sensitive matter.
My dear daughter, Annie, disappeared unexpectedly from our home in the little village of Ballintoy four years ago. My wife and I have been searching for her ever since. We have made inquiries of hospitals and convalescent facilities, as our daughter was in a distraught state when we last saw her and suffering from injury, perhaps of a more grievous nature than we thought at the time. We began with facilities close to us, in Belfast and Lisburn and Bangor, but when we failed to locate her, we worked our way out, eventually crossing the Irish Sea to Liverpool.
We wrote to fifty-five hospitals in all. Having met with no luck, it was suggested that we might expand our inquiries to facilities such as your own. Since childhood, our Annie has always been extraordinarily sensitive to the emotions possessed by all members of her sex. These emotions, however, can be both a blessing and a curse: a woman without these qualities would be a cold, heartless thing indeed, but to be possessed of too much love is no kindness. As her father, I at times cannot help but wish there had been a way to temper this quality in my dear Annie.
And so I write to you, kind sir, to inquire as to whether there might be a woman in your establishment matching my Annie’s description. She would be twenty-two years of age and stand five foot six inches tall. She is a shy, soft-spoken lass who can go a week without a word to anyone.
I pray that you will be able to end our nightmare and return our Annie to us. Yes, in a word, she ran away from the home we provided for her, but we suspect that it is merely her own fear of censure that keeps her away. Please know, sir, that we are pursuing this matter outside the law in order to preserve Annie’s privacy and dignity. I pray we may count on your discretion. I imagine, in your position, you see a goodly number of women in situations like my Annie’s.
She is our only daughter and, despite her frailties, her weaknesses, despite anything she may have done, we love her dearly. Tell her that her brothers pray nightly for her return and her room remains exactly as when she left it, in the hope that we will take her again in her family’s loving embrace.
Yours respectfully,
Jonathan Hebbley
Ballintoy, Civil Parish, County Antrim, N. Ireland
25 September 1916
Morninggate Asylum, Liverpool
Dear Mr. Hebbley,
I received your touching letter concerning your daughter, Annie, Friday last week. While I am not unsympathetic to your tragic situation, I regret to say that I am unable to cooperate.
The Lunacy Act of 1890 has wrought many changes in the legal constraints governing institutions such as Morninggate. The act has driven facilities to create hitherto unimagined internal policies, designed—in my opinion—to protect the institution against spurious legal claims rather than for the benefit of its patients. At Morninggate, these policies extend to safeguarding our patients’ privacy. It is for this reason that I must respectfully decline to answer. It is a matter, you see, of protecting the privacy of the afflicted, who often suffer greatly due to the general public’s prejudices against those with disorders of the nerves and mind.
Please do not construe this reply as either affirmation or denial of knowledge of your daughter’s presence at Morninggate. As administrator of this institution, I am bound by law.
Your servant,
Nigel Davenport
Physician and Director, Morninggate Asylum
Byshore Mews, Liverpool, England
Chapter One
October 1916
Morninggate Asylum
Liverpool
She is not mad.
Annie Hebbley pokes her needle into the coarse gray linen, a soft color, like the feathers of the doves that entrap themselves in the chimneys here, fluttering and crying out, sometimes battering themselves to death in a vain effort to escape.
She is not mad.
Annie’s eyes follow the needle as it runs the length of the hem, weaving in and out of fabric. In and out. In and out. Sharp and shining and so precise.
But there is something in her that is hospitable to madness.
Annie has come to understand the erratic ways of the insane—the crying fits, incoherent babblings, violent flinging of hands and feet. There is, after days and weeks and years, a kind of comforting rhythm to them. But no, she is not one of them. Of that she is certain.
Certain as the Lord and the Blessed Virgin, her da’ might once have said.
There are a dozen female patients hunched over their sewing, making the room warm and stuffy despite the meagerness of the fire. Work is thought to be palliative to nervous disorders, so many of the inmates are given jobs, particularly those who are here due more to their own poverty than any ailment of mind or body. While most of the indigent are kept in workhouses, Annie has learned, quite a few find their way to asylums instead, if there are any empty beds to keep them. Not to mention the women of sin.