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Abigail pressed the advantage and withdrew a folded paper from her reticule. "We have authorization." She thrust it toward him, revealing a formal, ornate letterhead and official seal.

The orderly squinted at the rain speckled paper–a mundane correspondence from her dressmaker about the fitting schedule for new walking dresses. She held it just far enough away to prevent him from reading it, but close enough to display the ornate seal.

"Can't read in this light," he mumbled, hesitating.

"Then perhaps you should let us in before we all drown," Abigail suggested icily.

The orderly's mouth worked, uncertainty playing across his face. Finally, he stepped aside with a reluctant nod.

The vestibule of Hallowcross was worse than she'd imagined—a high-ceilinged space that trapped the stench of unwashed bodies and despair. Iron sconces cast fitful shadows across damp stone walls. The air hung heavy with mold and something sharper, more medicinal.

"This way," the orderly mumbled, shuffling ahead of them down a narrow corridor.

Gas lamps struggled against the darkness, casting weak pools of light. The walls were stone, the floor flagged with uneven slabs. Every twenty paces, a heavy door interrupted the monotony, each fitted with a small barred window and a substantial lock.

From behind one such door came a soft, rhythmic thumping. Behind another, someone sobbed. The orderly never slowed, never acknowledged the sounds.

“Night supervisor's Mr. Hodge."

He led them through the door into a cramped antechamber where a more substantial figure sat behind a scarred desk, a ledger open before him. This man was cut from a different cloth—broad-shouldered and alert, with a neatly trimmed beard and shrewd eyes that assessed them instantly.

"Simkins," he barked at their guide, "what's the meaning of this intrusion?"

"Visitors for the duke, sir," Simkins mumbled, shrinking back toward the door. "Got papers."

Hodge's eyes narrowed. "Do they indeed?" He rose slowly, revealing a powerful frame beneath his dark coat. "You may go, Simkins."

The orderly scuttled away, leaving them with this new, more formidable obstacle. Abigail stepped forward.

"Mr. Hodge." She removed her sodden gloves, her movements deliberate. "I apologize for the late hour, but I must see my husband, Dr. Graham Redchester, the Duke of Eyron."

"No visitors after sunset," Hodge replied flatly. "And no visitors prior to evaluation." His gaze flicked to the admiral. "Fancy papers notwithstanding."

Abigail reached into her reticule and withdrew a small purse. The coins inside clinked softly as she placed it on the desk between them.

"I understand rules exist for good reason," she said, her voice steady though her heart galloped away in her chest. She met the supervisor’s gaze. "I also understand that men who enforce those rules deserve compensation for their discretion."

Hodge's expression didn't change, but his gaze flicked to the purse. "The duke is scheduled for evaluation at dawn. No exceptions."

“I must speak to him. There is much at stake.” She withdrew a second purse and set it next to the first. The admiral made a strangled sound next to her.

I’d make a deal with the devil himself to see Graham.

“Five minutes. Please,” she added and held the man’s gaze, willing him to understand the dire circumstances.

Hodge's hand moved toward the purses, then stopped. "If Dr. Wrenn learns of this?—"

"He won't," Abigail promised. "Not from us."

He hesitated only a moment longer before pocketing both purses with a smooth motion and stood. "Five minutes. This way."

As they followed Hodge deeper into the asylum, the distant sounds that had been muffled in the antechamber grew more distinct—muted sobbing, unintelligible muttering, and occasionally, a piercing wail that made Abigail's skin crawl. The corridors twisted like a labyrinth, each passage identical to the last—stone walls slick with condensation, iron-bound doors set at regular intervals.

"Your husband's quarters," Hodge announced, stopping before a heavy door with a small viewing slot. He produced a ring of keys and selected one. "Five minutes. When I return, you leave—without protest."

"Understood," Abigail agreed without hesitation.

Hodge unlocked the door and pushed it open just enough for them to enter. The stench rolled out—mildew, urine, blood. Abigail swallowed hard, bracing herself against the wall for a heartbeat before she could cross the threshold. She stepped intothe cell, the admiral close behind her. The door clanged shut behind them. The only light came from Hodge's lantern, casting long shadows through the grate.