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The slot slammed shut before Graham could respond.

He sank to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees again. In the corner, the rat reappeared, whiskers twitching as it considered him.

“Forgive me,” he said to the rat, voice threadbare. “I’ve misplaced my manners.Graham Redchester. Duke. Physician. Occasional lunatic.”

The rat blinked. Graham nodded. “Strong silent type. I respect that.”

Somewhere in the bowels of the asylum, a man began to scream.

Rain slashed against the carriage windows as the dark edifice of Hallowcross Asylum materialized through the downpour. The ancient stone building sprawled across its grounds like a sleeping beast, its windows barred and lightless save for a single lantern glowing weakly at the entrance. Abigail pressed her forehead to the cool glass, fear pooling in her stomach.

"Looks even worse in the rain," Admiral Birkins muttered, tugging his coat tighter around him.

The carriage jerked to a halt far short of the entrance.

"This is as far as I go, Your Grace," the cabbie announced. "This ain't a place for honest folk after dark."

"Superstitious nonsense," the admiral grumbled, but his weathered face betrayed his unease.

Abigail pressed a few coins into the driver's palm. "Double your fare to wait."

“Not for all the coin in England." The driver crossed himself. "Things happen in that place that God Himself turns away from."

I’ve never believed in curses—but in this place, I might.

Admiral Birkins leaned forward. "Now see here?—"

"It's all right, Admiral." Abigail gathered her skirts, resigned. "We'll find another way back."

The admiral climbed down first, offering his hand. Abigail stepped into mud that nearly came over the top of her boots.

The driver's relief was palpable. "There's a tavern down the road, The Blackbird. You can wait there and someone will drive you back to town come morning." He flicked the reins. “God’s mercy on whoever you’re to see.”

"Marvelous," Elias grumbled. "Now we're stranded at the gates of hell."

"We're not stranded," Abigail said, squaring her shoulders. "We're precisely where we need to be."

The rain intensified as they climbed the steps, soaking through Abigail's shawl and gown within moments. Lightning cracked the sky, followed by thunder that Abigail felt in her bones. Her dress clung to her, heavy and cold as chain mail.

Abigail tugged the iron bell-pull. Its hollow clang echoed, followed by silence so complete she wondered if anyone remained alive inside.

"Perhaps they've all gone mad and killed each other," Elias muttered darkly.

"Admiral!" Abigail scolded, but her own pulse quickened at the thought.

A man–hollow-cheeked, with hair sprouting in uneven tufts from his scalp–opened the door. His uniform hung from his frame like washing on a line, the brass buttons tarnished almost black.

Abigail took a step, unsure if this was a patient or an orderly.

"No visitors after dark," he announced, moving to shut the door.

Abigail wedged her foot in the gap. "I am the Duchess of Eyron. My husband is being held here. I demand to see him immediately."

The orderly blinked, watery eyes darting between her and the admiral. "No visitors after dark," he repeated stubbornly.

The admiral drew himself to his full height, rain dripping from his grizzled eyebrows. "Listen here, you festering excuse for a doorman. I am Admiral Elias Birkins of His Majesty's Royal Navy. You will admit us at once or face the consequencesof obstructing officers of the Crown in the execution of their duties."

"The execution of—?" The man's brows drew down.