Salpêtrière Hospital, Paris, Summer 1865
Claire first became aware of the light that changed in front of her eyelids, although they didn’t want to open. It was the kind of dim glow that comes with a foggy gray morning when one would rather stay abed until the smells of breakfast lured one downstairs like a persistent friend.
Then there were the smells, definitely not breakfast. Dusty wood, wet wool, and the various odors of pomade, soap, cologne, and underneath it all, people. Many people. Men, to be exact, but a few women. A rhythmic susurrus resolved into spoken French floating upon a sea of murmuring and whispering. She’d taken French in school and even practiced it a little with a neighbor, but someone nearby spoke these words with the confidence and fluidity of a native speaker—and
