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and go back to the quiet darkness of his room, but strangely enough, he found some comfort in being with other people right now. They were all here, drawn by the mystery of Selena, each in his or her own twisted way hoping that she would pa.s.s the upcoming tests.

Even Johann. The younger man was afraid to believe in Selena. He'd worked so hard at creating his hatred for everything and everyone in the world, he couldn't admit that he cared about their sleeping beauty.

But Johann cared. Ian saw it in his eyes, in the way he lurked in the shadows outside her room. Johann was no different from the rest of them. Selena had become a symbol of something to him. For Ian, she symbolized the redemption of his career. For Johann and the others-who knew?

Footsteps thudded down the stairs.

A quietly indrawn breath moved through the drawing room. Almost everyone straightened, leaned infinitesi-mally forward.

The crystal doork.n.o.b turned. Edith walked into the room, her fleshy cheeks rosy, her hair a kinky ma.s.s of curls. "She's done ... sort of."

Ian frowned, came to his feet. "What do you mean, sort of?"

"I couldn't wash her hair. I tried to twist it up some, but she wouldn't let me pin it up." Edith shrugged.

"She screamed. I guess that meant it hurt."

"Oh. Well, that's fine."

"Certainly," Johann piped up. "What's a little lice among friends?"

Edith puffed up. "That poor wee thing doesn't have lice."

"Ignore the syphilitic b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Ian said, reaching for the pile of pictures he'd set on the table beside him.

Johann plastered a skinny hand to his chest and sighed dramatically. "Ah, Dr. Carrick, you're such a comfort to me in my time of need."

Tucking some pictures beneath his multicolored vest, Ian strode from the drawing room. When he reached the foyer, he paused unaccountably at the bottom stair. The stairwell loomed before him, dark and uncertain.

All of a sudden, he had a staggering sense that he should turn back. Johann was right. She wouldn't pa.s.s, wouldn't even come close to pa.s.sing. It wasn't just aphasia, wasn't just that she could think the words but couldn't form them, couldn't speak. It was something else . .. something he couldn't fix.

Permanent brain damage.

It was the thought he'd kept at bay by sheer force of will. He couldn't think of it, for if he did ...

He pushed the words away and climbed the stairs. He heard the crazies behind him, a dull thudding of feet. They moved in a hushed, respectful silence, afraid of angering him by shadowing him, more afraid of being farther than ten feet away from their moody master.

Finally he made it to the top of the stairs and turned toward her room. The door was open a crack. He gave it a push. It whined on tired hinges and swung wide.

The room was empty.

Ian raced inside, his gaze sweeping the small chamber in an instant. The window was closed, the bed made. The chair was empty.

His heart started hammering in his chest. Jesus, where was she?

He started to turn away when a glimmer of white caught his eye. Frowning, he eased into the room and bent down.

She was lying on the floor beneath the bed, talking in some nonsensical way. Words that made no sense, strung together as if they were a sentence.

"Peach . . . chair . . . mouse."

"Selena?" He couldn't keep the dread out of his voice.

She made a sharp, grunting sound and crawled back toward him, her pantalooned f.a.n.n.y high in the air.

He saw the back of her head first, her long, tangled

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locks separated to reveal the triangular swatch of shaved skin, covered now in a peachy fuzz. Her healing scar was a blistering red trail through the new growth.

She turned suddenly and thrust her hand out at him. There was a dead mouse in her palm. She stroked the soft gray fur and smiled up at him.

"Jesus!" He surged down and batted the thing out of her hand. It plopped on the floor and skidded back under the bed.

Her smile slowly fell. "I am ... Ian?"

Christ, he didn't know if she was talking to him or the mouse. He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair, trying to hold on to his temper, trying harder to hold on to his hope.

"Come here, Selena." He reached down and grasped her hand, leading her to the bed. She sat on the soft mattress, her bare feet swinging above the floor, her hands clasped together in her lap. Turning, she gave him a look of such pure, childlike confusion that he wanted to cry.

"Can you understand my words?"

She stared at his mouth a long time, and he could see her struggle, see her trying to understand and answer. It took her about three minutes, but finally she nodded. "Bowl." Her mouth twisted in what had to be a smile.

"Good. Let's try a few questions again, shall we? I think we'll st-"

She touched his arm. "Slow."

"I'm sorry. Questions . . . tests. Yes?"

Two minutes later, she nodded. "Yes."

"Do you know me?"

Slowly she nodded. "Ian-G.o.d."

He couldn't help himself, he laughed. "Ian. Only Ian."

"Ian," she repeated, staring at his mouth.

"Where are you?"

He could see her surprise at the question and knew

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that she understood. He watched her frown deepen. Finally she shook her head. "Cup."

He thought she was trying to say no. "You don't know where you are?"

"Don't . . . know." Her face scrunched up in a frown. A few moments later, she managed to say, "Should .. . know?"

He shook his head. "No, you shouldn't." It was true. There was no reason for her to know where she was. He told himself it didn't matter that she didn't ask. "Who are you?"

"Selena."

"No. Before Selena. Who were you before Selena?"

It took her at least a minute to answer, but this time when the words finally came out, they were stronger and clearer. "Don't . . . know . . . who."

He waited for her to ask a question, battling disappointment and anger. She looked up at him, through her dark, mysterious eyes, and he felt as if he were being strangled. Time stretched between them as he waited for her to ask the all too obvious question. He noticed a dozen tiny things in that moment, the maple-syrup hue of her eyes, the quiet sound she made when she breathed, the pale triangle of milky skin at the collar of her nightdress. With every second, every breath he drew, he felt his hope that she could ever be normal fade.

She wasn't going to ask if he knew who she was. It seemed completely unimportant to her. "Can't answer or don't know?"

"Don't know."

He spoke very slowly-too slowly-trying to keep the rising frustration from his voice. "Do you want to know?"

"Why?"

The question stunned him. Jesus, how could she not care? She woke up in a strange bed, tended by

strangers, and she didn't have the least interest in her past, her

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history? "Family," he said, clutching at straws. "You might have a family out there who loves you, who's looking for you." He knew he was speaking too fast, but he didn't care anymore.

"Ian." She frowned, touched his cheek.

He pulled back and stood up. The game slipped through his nerveless fingers and thudded to the floor, forgotten and unimportant now. What did it matter if she could fit a square peg in a square hole? She had no mind left. She was a blank slate, a childlike adult who didn't remember that fire was hot or gla.s.s was solid .. . or that dead mice weren't family pets.

Irreparable damage to the brain.

She couldn't be his miracle. She could get better- might even one day be able to formulate a complete sentence, but no more. His dreams of redemption were just that. Dreams. As unattainable as the stars.

And if his life looked bleak, hers was unimaginable.

She looked up at him. He saw the first sheen of tears in her eyes. "Ian .. . test-"

It hurt to look at her. He glanced at the ceiling and gave a bitter laugh. The puppet master had won again.

G.o.d had given Ian the only patient whom he could touch, and she was damaged beyond repair.

Ah, the irony. The only person who was immune to his powers . .. and she had no mind. No mystery to unlock, no secrets to reveal. He could never be Pygmalion to her Galatea. He was closer to Mary Sh.e.l.ley's famous Dr. Frankenstein, pining to be a G.o.d, wanting to create articulate, intelligent life from a lump of animated flesh.

Madness . . .

"Test," she whispered in a small, stricken voice.

"No." He backed away. "No more tests today. I've seen enough." He turned and headed for the door.

As he reached for the k.n.o.b, he couldn't help himself. He turned back to her.

She sat slumped on the bed, her matted, dirty hair streaming down her back. Tears spilled from her eyes

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and splashed on the white lawn of her nightdress. He knew she didn't have an idea in the world why he was leaving, or what she'd done wrong. All she knew was that Ian-G.o.d was disappointed in her .. . and she was alone.

"I'm sorry, Selena." His voice cracked. "Jesus, I'm so sorry."

Then he ran from the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

The lunatics were in the hallway, waiting for him. The small crowd pressed in on him from all sides, talking, whispering, gesturing.