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Maeve looked up from the stuffed owl in her lap. "I dreamed I went to Paris last night. It was beautiful."
Queen Victoria grunted. "I spit on France."
Ian rolled his eyes. Lord, would it never end? He looked at the closed door. He should push through it
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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 pass 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 doorknob turned. Edith walked into the room, her fleshy cheeks rosy, her hair a kinky mass 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 bastard," 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 pass, wouldn't even come close to passing. 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.
