Waiting for the Moon

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Ian drained the last of his Madeira and put the glass on the mantel. "The truth is, I don't know how she is."

"Certainly you don't. You're a doctor," Johann said.

Ian ignored him. "She just came out of a coma that lasted nearly twenty-one days. Anyone would be ... disoriented. But she showed some signs of understanding. That, at least, was encouraging, I should think."

"Very encouraging," Andrew said solemnly.

"Oh, for God's sake, why don't you fling yourself at him and be done with it?" Johann snapped, shoving Andrew toward Ian.

"Enough," Ian hissed. "Jesus, why do I bother with you people?" He grabbed his empty glass and strode for the door.

Johann's sarcastic voice followed him out. "That's easy, Herr Doctor. You're one of us. And so, apparently, is your precious Selena."

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Chapter Five

They were all in her room again, God and the strangers. She felt their eyes on her, felt their combined expectations like a consistent, crushing weight on her chest. She wanted to please God, wanted it desperately. But he was easily disappointed, and she was so sleepy. The pain in her head was agonizing.

He moved toward the bed and sat down on his chair. She heard the wooden legs skid across the floor as he scooted close. "Selena." His warm, honeyed voice melted across her skin like a caress. "How about a few tests?"

She groaned. A vague memory taunted her mind, some dim recollection of a movement that signaled her refusal. She concentrated, willed it to the surface . . . something about her head, moving it in some way . . . side to side ... up and down. It wouldn't come. She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes for understanding.

"Please?"

The softness of his voice tugged at her heart. She saw the disappointment in his gaze and felt ashamed. This was the man who had saved her. She struggled to rise to her elbows. At the movement, the pounding in her head intensified. Nausea settled heavily in her stomach.

His strong arm curled around her waist, drew her close. Sliding the coverlet back, he gently tilted her up-

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right. Her bare legs swung over the bed and dangled above the floor. He moved out of the chair and sat beside her on the bed. She let out a little sigh and leaned against him, pressing her cheek into the solid ball of his shoulder.

"Are you okay on your own now?"

She stared at his mouth, trying to unravel the secret of his words, but it was hard to concentrate. Her head was on fire.

He started talking again, too fast, always too fast. Asking questions and more questions, looking at her, staring at her. Waiting.

Frustration magnified the pounding in her skull. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out except a gasping, guttural groan, and then, finally, a wheezing "... now ..." that seemed to take forever.

"Take your time, Selena. Concentrate."

She couldn't understand him. Nothing. Her frustration spilled into anger. She should know how to speak, should be able to understand and answer his questions. Then, all at once, the anger was gone, and all she had left was the pain. She curled forward and cradled her hammering head in sweaty hands. Make it stop . . . make it stop.

He slipped his arms around her and drew her close. "It's okay, Selena. Don't worry. It's okay."

She melted into his arms. The urgent sense of despair faded away. As always, the sound of his voice eased her frustration and fear.

"Here, come with me." He tightened his hold on her shoulder and helped her stand.

The floorboards were delightfully cold on her bare feet. He maneuvered her across the room, past the strangers, to the small glass box in the wall. With one finger, he flicked back the lacy white curtain and offered her the world.

It was so beautiful, so unexpectedly magnificent, that for a second, she forgot her headache. The large lawn,

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