Yorkshire, 1940

Fat snowflakes fell outside the large windows in the common area where Sable sat with Crow, alone one afternoon while the other patients finished their supper. It had been three months since Sable had began work at Rosemanor, and with December came snowstorms and chilly drafts in the old creaky floors of the sanatorium. Birdie, ecstatic that Sable got along with Crow so well, left him in Sable’s care almost all the time. Though he still slept in his room in solitary, he had all but been released from confinement. To Sable’s surprise, she felt at peace with him, no longer minding his blank stares or silence.

Crow hardly spoke; usually only the occasional “yes” or “no” in their one-sided conversations. She began asking the right questions, the kind he wouldn’t necessarily have to answer aloud. Sable learned to read his face. He quirked an eyebrow when he was curious, stared at his hands with his brows furrowed when he was uncomfortable, and often didn’t look her in the eye when she spoke, but she knew he absorbed her words all the same. He sometimes got a strange expression on his face when she told him stories about city life in London, like he was trying to picture it, his eyes glazing over as he stared at a wall absently, brows knit. Sitting in the common room with Sable, his eyes traced the lines in the hardwood floor.

“Does it snow like this in Sweden?” she asked him. “Or do you get more?” He raised his chin to look out the window, considering.

“More,” he said.

Sable nodded. “I can imagine. London doesn’t get a lot of snow. Mostly it all turns to slush,” she remarked. “I remember there was one Christmas parade, a bunch of cars slipped and almost wrecked Saint Nick’s sleigh.” As she laughed, he smiled crookedly. It was the most she could ever get out of him.

She peered at him as his smile faded a little. “Do you miss it?” she asked. “Sweden, I mean.”

He looked at her, his blue eyes almost sad. He nodded and shifted his gaze to the floor.

“It seems like a wonderful place,” Sable said, only half speaking to Crow. “Once the war is over I think I’d like to go.”

He didn’t look at her, only at his hands wringing in his lap. She watched him as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Slowly she reached for him, steadying his twitching hands under her own. His skin was warm and he froze, his eyes flitting to their joined hands. Hers were small compared to his broad ones.

“You will too, Crow,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know it. You’ll go home someday.” She gave his hand a tiny squeeze.

Now he met her eyes, raising his chin. His brows twitched slightly, his eyes looking wet. Sable lifted one hand and gently brushed her knuckles against his jaw, now prickly with blond stubble.

Sable jolted awake to someone pounding on the door to her room in the nurses’ quarters. Groggily, she stood and pulled a thin robe over her nightgown. When she opened the door, Birdie stood in her own robe, her graying hair in a braid down her back. Her face was grim.

“What is it?” Sable asked, wary upon seeing Birdie’s expression.

“It’s Mister Torell,” Birdie replied shortly. Sable snapped to attention, quickly cinching the robe around her waist as she slipped her shoes on. Birdie took off briskly down the hall, and Sable had to jog to catch up.

“What happened?” she began as she caught up with the older woman.

“Apparently the security guards that work the night shift heard him yelling,” Birdie said. “They found him with a bloodied forehead, like he’d banged it on the wall.” Sable’s breath hitched; her veins felt like ice.

“Is he okay?” she demanded. Birdie shook her head.

“I dunno, dear,” she said.

The pair rushed across the courtyard separating the nurses’ quarters from the rest of the sanatorium, the moon high and the snow sparkling under its light. Sable’s chest constricted as she and Birdie raced to Crow’s room in solitary. The other patients in the hall were either asleep or frozen with fear; no one made a sound.

In Crow’s room, two burly security guards held him down, though they had already wrestled him into a straightjacket. One was bleeding from his nose; had Crow punched him? He writhed under their grips, almost growling deep in his throat. His head oozed blood from a scrape above his left brow, matting his hair and running down into his eyelashes. The wall had a matching bloody splatter where he had indeed banged his head on the drywall. Sable froze in the doorway, but Birdie barking her name brought her to her wits.

She rushed to his side. The guards raised their arms to push her back.

“Miss, you—” one began.

“Piss off,” she growled, and shoved their arms away. Crow ceased his struggling and stared up at her, his eyes wide. She gently smoothed his hair from his forehead, and he winced as it brushed his wound. “Get me something to wash this off,” she said to no one in particular. After a moment, Birdie pressed a wet cloth into her hand.

She wiped the blood from his eye, and softly dabbed at his temple, her brows knit and her loose, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. His eyes stayed on her.

“What happened here?” she heard Birdie ask.

“He went crazy,” a guard said. “We heard someone yellin’ and poundin’ on the walls, and when we checked, he was rammin’ his head on it, over and over. When we came in to restrain him, he attacked me.” Sable looked up at the guard, who was gingerly caressing his bleeding—and likely broken—nose.

Birdie frowned, her hands on her hips. She raised a hand and massaged her temples. “Get the kit,” she sighed. The guards nodded and left.

“The kit?” Sable asked. Birdie nodded.

“The electroshock kit. It’s standard procedure for something like this,” Birdie said. Sable stifled a gasp.

“Seriously?!” Birdie frowned at her.

“Yes, Sable, it’s very important that something like this is corrected right away.”

“But—”

“Don’t,” Birdie warned. The guards returned with a hulking box, setting it on the nightstand next to the bed. They opened it and a series of knobs covered the top of the box. They pulled out a headset with cloth-covered bulbs on either end of the metal Y, a rubber mouth guard, and a small tin of stuff that looked like jelly.

Crow trembled under Sable’s hands, the wet cloth still pressed to his head. He looked to her, his eyes pleading. She glanced at the machine.

“Birdie, please,” she said. “Is this really necessary? He’s been doing so well, you’ve seen it yourself!”

The older woman nodded. “I’m afraid so, Sable.” Sable opened her mouth to protest, but Birdie shook her head. “You may want to leave, dear.”

As the guard with the broken nose spread the goop from the tin on Crow’s temples, he strained against the straightjacket, but his ankles had been bound with leather straps on the bedframe that Sable hadn’t noticed before. The jelly became streaked red with blood. The guard grabbed him by the jaw roughly, thrusting the piece of rubber into his mouth. Crow grit his teeth around it. The guard shoved Sable away, hard this time, and she stumbled backwards, her back slamming into the wall. Birdie grabbed her shoulders and pushed her out of the room.

“Birdie, no!” Sable cried. But the older woman only grimaced and closed the door, separating Sable and Crow.

“I’m sorry, I can’t have you interfering,” Birdie said, her voice muffled by the door. Sable slammed her fists on the metal door, not caring if she woke up the other patients in the hall. She watched as the guards pressed the cloth-covered bulbs of the headset to Crow’s temples. One of them held the headset fast as the other cranked one of the dials on the box.

Sable couldn’t hear the buzz of the machine through the door, but Crow’s eyes widened in panic. His back arched up off the bed, his head digging back into his pillow. She heard his faint groans, straining against the mouth guard as his teeth ground into the rubber. When the veins on his neck swelled against the stress of the electroshock current, Sable tore her eyes away, her vision blurring with tears.