White Space

In this London, could only she and Kramer see Eric’s tags and the cynosure for what they were? To everyone else, were they nothing more than scraps of tin and a worthless, if very pretty, marble?

Alive or dead, alive or dead … Round and around. It felt like a prayer. Please, God, please. I am me; I am real. I felt Eric; we touched, and blood binds. I have to be me.

Because what else was there? Everything she was depended on what Kramer said next.

“Ah, yes. Excellent.” A satisfied sigh. A musical tinkle. “I will tell you what you are now. You are mine, Emma, you are mine, and I want what you know, what you’ve seen. I want what only you can do.” Kramer brushed the hair from her face with a touch as gentle as a lover’s, but his voice was a serpent’s from somewhere deep and dark and very distant now, because she was sinking fast, going down full fathom five.

“I want it all, Emma,” Kramer said. “I want everything.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, it takes a village to make a book, and so my deepest thanks go:

To Greg Ferguson, for reading this, being thoroughly creeped out, and getting exactly what this book is about without my having to explain.

To Elizabeth Law, for her intelligence, enthusiasm, and general all-around cheerleading—and, yeah, that Champagne was pretty nice, too.

To Jennifer Laughran, for her continued advocacy, hard work, good common sense, and high tolerance for authors who sometimes need a road map for the simplest things.

To Ryan Sullivan, for a nip here, a tuck there, and yet another spectacular copyedit.

To the entire Egmont USA team and Random House sales force, for their dedication and willingness to pound the pavement for books they believe in.

To Sarah Henning, archivist at London’s Imperial War Museum, for graciously providing both historical context and a personal tour of the Bethlem Royal Hospital’s Dome Chapel and other portions of the old hospital that are extant.

To Colin Gale, archivist at Bethlem Royal Hospital, for answering my many questions regarding treatments, patient care, and the general layout of the old Victorian-era asylum.

To librarians Erin Coppersmith, Rachel Montes, Tracy Maggi, Ann Reinbacher, Karen Hogan, Jackie Rudd, Gena Gebler, and Sue Jaberg, for tirelessly tracking down whatever arcane book or article I need this week, and without complaint. Ladies, you kick some serious butt.

To Dean Wesley Smith, for telling me to stretch and try something new with every book.

And, finally, to David, my rock: for his patience; for his faith that, really, I can do this; for eating whatever’s lying around if I just … I just can’t, don’t bother me, I just can’t; for encouraging me to take risks; for keeping me and the cats in kibbles; for being so proud of me; and for reminding me, daily, why we ended up together in the first place. Every book owes its life to you.