"How about opinions? Do you have any?"

"Edith puts them in her stew."

He frowned. "What?"

Opinions. Not onions. She tried to smile, but it was difficult. He was staring at her so intently, she felt sick inside, nervous and uncertain. "Opinions. You mean beliefs."

"Yes." His pen lowered again to the page, waiting.

"I believe . . ." Her words trailed off. Frantic to impress him, she tried to remember something-anything-that Johann had said, or Edith, or Maeve. Anything that might be an opinion. Ian expected her to have some; she could see the expectation in his gaze, feel it in the ebb and tide of his breathing. "I believe ..." Her shoulders sagged, her voice fell to a thick whisper. "I believe I have no opinions."

"Really?" He drew the word out, as if savoring it, as if he were glad that she was so empty in the head.

She scooted closer to him, though it wasn't ladylike, and tilted her face up. He was so close, she could see the dark flecks in his blue, blue eyes, so close, she could feel his breath against her face. "I believe in you, Ian."

He laughed, only this time it was a harsh sound that made her feel stupid and small. "No opinions and no intelligence," he said, making a quick note in his journal.

"I am not stupid," she said in a quiet voice.

He looked surprised by her statement. "I never said you were."

160.

"But you just said-"

"Oh, that." He cut her off with a wave of his pen. "That's simply sarcasm. I was saying that anyone who believes in me has no intelligence. You see, it's a joke at my expense, not yours."

She nodded, pretending to understand. But she didn't understand at all. Why would someone make a remark designed to inflict pain?

"I ... I knew you would come back to me," she said, gazing up at him, waiting for him to reach out and touch her, to see her as something more than a patient to question.

"I wish I had sooner. This d.a.m.ned journal would be so much more complete if I'd doc.u.mented every step of the recovery process." He got suddenly to his feet and went to the bookcase behind him. "Now, let's try some coordination and dexterity tests, shall we?"

Selena watched him. He turned, carried back an armful of board games and pictures.

Something was terribly wrong, and she had no idea what it was. She felt useless and stupid. And she'd tried so very hard.... He sat down next to her. Close, but not too close. Then he picked up the pen and poised it above the paper. "Let's see if you can put the square peg in the square opening this time."

For no reason at all, she felt like crying. She didn't understand her own reaction. She ought to be happy now, ought to be grinning at the prospect of this examination. She'd practiced it several times, so many that she could perform it in her sleep. For weeks, she'd looked forward to impressing him with her mastery of this very test.

But now, somehow, things were different. It felt as if pa.s.sing wouldn't matter to him, wouldn't make him put down that pen and truly look at her.

She realized suddenly what the matter was. It came to her in a swift, breathless jab of pain.

161.

He didn't care about her.

Oh, he wanted to understand her, wanted to take her apart and test her and see how she'd survived whatever it was she'd survived. He wanted to write down her thoughts and feelings and reactions, wanted to understand why she couldn't remember her name and why she had no opinions, but he didn't want to know her.

He didn't believe there was a her inside all that missing information. Inside that broken brain.

"I am a patient to you, am I not?"

"Of course you are."

"You think you will repair me?"

He wrote very quickly, as if afraid of missing a single word. "I don't know precisely what's wrong with you yet. Except, of course, that you're brain-damaged." He gave her a brief, heartless smile, then resumed writing.

Selena bit down on her lower lip and looked away. The dreams she'd spun so easily in the last weeks began unraveling, separating like strands of old silk. He was backward, but she couldn't tell him so. How could someone like her-broken and inexperienced-tell a great man of science that he needed to search for what was right with her, not what was wrong?

She picked up the small wooden spike and put it in the square hole.

He drew in a sharp breath and grinned at her. "Good." Back to the writing.

She felt none of the triumph she'd prepared herself to feel, none of the exhilaration. Instead, she felt vaguely sick and lonely.

He reached for the stack of pictures beside him and picked one up. "Can you name this item?" "Moon,"

she said dully. "And this one? Do you know what it is?" Selena looked at the stylized painting of a heart.

"Yes," she said in a soft voice. "I know what it is. Do you, Ian?" He looked up, startled. "Of course I know what it is."

"And do you have one?"

"No body can function without it, Selena. Now, what is it?" "A heart."

He didn't look up from his journal, just kept writing. "Its function?"

"It is the storehouse of a person's emotions and dreams and desires. Johann says your heart is the dwelling of the soul."

"Don't listen to Johann. The heart is simply an organ, like your kidneys or your liver. It pumps blood throughout your body. Emotions stem from certain places in the brain."

"I am proof that you are wrong." Ian looked up. "What do you mean?" "I have forgotten my name, my place of birth, everything about the life I once lived. This is caused by the damage to my brain." He wrote furiously. "Uh-huh." "But I remember my feelings. I can laugh and cry and love. And I can be hurt."

He frowned at her. "So you're saying that your emotions do reside in the heart. Empirically, not figuratively." He tapped the pen against his lips and stared past her. "Interesting. Very sophisticated logic, too, I might add. Though you probably don't know what I mean."

She tried to smile. Her eyes met his, pled silently for understanding. He had missed the point entirely. "I mean I can be hurt, Ian."

He stared at her for a long time, saying nothing, not writing. Antic.i.p.ation tingled in her blood. He was seeing her this time, she was certain of it. He wasn't a.n.a.lyzing or cataloging or diagramming her. She'd said something that touched him. A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. She leaned toward him, a little out of breath.

163 Very slowly, he brought his pen back to the paper. "Everyone can be hurt, Selena." She felt him fade away from her again, felt the moment of possibility disappear. Lethe House was curiously alive. Ian stood in his study, sipping a warm gla.s.s of port, listening to the incredible din of voices in the hallway. There was laughter, for G.o.d's sake. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard such genuine camaraderie among the residents of this place. Selena had obviously worked her magic on all of them. From the moment she'd first appeared here, battered and bloodied and nameless, she'd struck at the very heart of every person under this roof. He could feel the enchantment in the air, hear it in the muted strains of laughter. She was drawing the inmates together, making a family out of strangers, turning a collection of lost and lonely souls into friends. Yesterday he mightn't have noticed. Today he was a doctor again. A doctor who wanted to understand every facet of his patient. She'd shown a remarkable retention today, an ability to reason that surprised him. He had so many more questions to ask her. As soon as she'd eaten her supper, he wanted to test her again. Someone knocked on the door. "Come in." The door swung open and Edith bustled in, her fleshy cheeks high with sweaty color. She wiped her hands on her flour-streaked ap.r.o.n and c.o.c.ked a thumb toward the door. "Supper is ready, sir." He drained the last of his drink and set the empty gla.s.s down on the mantel. "Good." Edith didn't move. Nervously she pushed a straggly strand of hair back into her white cap. "Selena wanted you to join us." "Us?"

164.

A slow, sheepish grin pushed through the wrinkles. "She's a force to be reckoned with, that she is, sir.

Why, from the moment she began speakin', I haven't found a wee moment's peace. She wants to change every rule and custom to fit her curious brand o' logic. Said she'd run round naked if we didn't let her wear pants." She grinned. "Pants."

"What in G.o.d's name are you babbling about, Edith?"

"Selena, sir. She refused to eat unless we made an event out of it. Starved herself for two days, she did, until we agreed to serve supper in the dining room." "The residents eat together!"

" Tisn't half-bad, I must admit. There's a wee bit of food tossin' sometimes, but other than that ..."

Maeve floated into the study, her long white skirts trailing behind her. "What's taking so long, Edith?" She stopped beside Ian and c.o.c.ked her head up. "Are you coming?"

He stared at his mother. "Are you suggesting I eat with the inmates?"

Maeve frowned and picked at the pale pink ribbon at her throat. "I'm ... demanding it."

Ian looked down at her in shock. "Excuse me?"

"This is my house, I believe?"

"Yes ..."

Maeve grinned, as if she'd just answered a most confusing query. "Yes, I thought so. As owner and Edith's employer, I shall make a new rule. No eating in bedrooms."

"Mother, you cannot-"

"I have. Now, Edith, serve supper. My son and I shall be along shortly."

Edith bobbed her head in a quick show of deference, then hustled out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.

Maeve moved closer to Ian. "I will not let you hurt her, Ian."

165.

"What do you mean?"

"Selena has been practicing her table manners for weeks. She would be heartbroken if you didn't show up at supper."

Ian stifled a quick urge to smile. This was an opportunity he hadn't even considered. To watch Selena's dexterity at complicated tasks, see how her impaired brain function impacted her motor skills. "Lead on, Mother."

She frowned at him, then slowly turned and walked out of the parlor. He followed her down the hall and into the dining room.

The scene that greeted them stopped Ian in his tracks. The room was full of people. Lara, Andrew, Johann, Dotty, Queen Victoria, Edith, and Fergus were all seated around the oval mahogany table. A dozen candles dotted the table, casting quivering pockets of light atop the burgundy tablecloth. A large silver tray held a still-sizzling roasted turkey ringed in baked carrots and onions. Beside the bird, two pewter bowls held mashed potatoes and turnips. Scattered randomly in between the serving dishes were apples, nuts, pieces of hard candy, and pickles.

"Rather odd a.s.sortment of food," Ian murmured.

"To feed a rather odd a.s.sortment of people," Maeve responded. She clapped her hands for attention.

"Ian has consented to sup with us."

A roar of approval went up in the room. Ian's gaze cut to Johann, who sat sprawled in a chair, one leg drawn up, his arm draped across the knee. A half-empty gla.s.s of wine dangled from his long fingers.

Johann gave him a slow, sarcastic smile and tilted his gla.s.s in a mock toast. "Why, Doctor, how nice of you to join us. I'm so sorry I missed your reunion today with the G.o.ddess." His smile graduated into a grin. "Such a staggering misdiagnosis...."

Ian ignored Johann and turned back to the table. For the first time, he noticed the room's decorations.

Bright

166.

gold cords were draped from the chandelier, their valleys deepened by small, hanging Christmas ornaments. There was a sc.r.a.p of paper pinned to the base of the light fixture, upon which were written the words chandelier-for light.

Ian glanced around, suddenly noticing the dozens of other notes affixed to every item in the room. He went from one to the other, reading. Sideboard-to hold hot food; table-to sit at for meals; rug; window-to see through; drapery-to keep light out.

He felt Selena beside him without even hearing her come up. All at once, he simply knew that she was there. He turned to her. She stood tall and straight, her hair loosened around her face. She wore a baggy blue gingham dress with bits of lace at the collar and cuffs. A G.o.ddess in a gunnysack.

Her face lit in a smile. "Andrew wrote those, to help me learn words."

For a second, he was so lost in looking at her face that he didn't know what she was talking about. Then he realized it was the notes. "Did it work?"

"Yes. The moment I see the word, I seem to recall its meaning. I am relearning my old life."

"Good idea, Andrew," he said to the young man, who blushed furiously at the sudden attention. "I'd like to speak with you after supper. Perhaps you-and the others-can fill me in on Selena's recovery process."

"I would think Selena's current state would tell you all you need to know," Johann said. "Just look at her, for G.o.d's sake."

Ian frowned. "It's not her looks that interest me, Johann. It's her brain. How damaged is it? How difficult was the recovery process?"

Johann's eyes turned cold. "You would see only the imperfections, Ian."

"You will sit by me?" Selena asked quietly. The question surprised Ian.

167.

"Of course he will," Maeve responded.

Slowly Ian followed Selena to a seat at the table, watching her intently as the meal began.

She sat very stiff and erect, her napkin spread across her lap. She carefully placed an apple, a pickle, and two pieces of hard candy on her plate. Taking up her fork, she cut the apple in small pieces and began to eat.