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tottered with all the grace of a babe in leading strings, making his way to the
    window. It was open the merest crack. He smelled the growing things beyond it even
    before he looked out. The sweetness of fruit trees. Flowers. Vegetables
    tomatoes,
    carrots, peas. Freshly turned earth. The complex melange of woodland .

    Trees and tangled bushes framed the window. A pine-and oak-covered hill rose steeply
    a few yards beyond. The air was fragrant, with a hint of dampness. He could smell
    people nearby, but not in the numbers that meant close-packed houses and smoke and
    waste from thousands of residents, rich and poor and in-between. The only sounds
    were the singing of birds, a muffled voice, the distant lowing of a cow, the rustle of
    leaves .

    He wasn't still in the City, then. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, thinking
    hard. There'd been the saloon in San Francisco
    gambling, winning
    making plans to
    move on, catch the ferry to Oakland across the bay. It didn't really matter where he
    went, as long as he kept moving .

    That was where the latest blank spot in his memory began. And ended here, in this
    room .

    But there was something else. He returned to the bed and grabbed a handful of sheet,
    lifting it to his nose .

    Yes. A woman. He shivered at the memory of her touch, his body's recollection more
    vague but every bit as real as that of the mind .

    Secret of the Wolf – 19th Century Werewolf 03
    Page 33 of 455
    A woman. He groaned. Was this some woman's bed he'd shared last night? He couldn't
    even remember her face, let alone the rest of her. He glanced down at himself. His body
    wasn't telling him that it had enjoyed a woman recently .

    A small mirror hung above the washstand. He looked himself over: He obviously hadn't
    shaved in a couple of days. Aside from a certain gauntness and the dark half-circles
    under his eyes, his face was unmarked. No surprise there, and no sign of violence in
    the vicinity, nothing to indicate that his amnesia hid behavior or incidents he should fear .

    But he was afraid. This was happening more and more often, his periods of amnesia
    increasing in length each time. He always swore he wouldn't take another drink

    Until it happened again .

    As he always did when he awoke this way, he searched the room for other clues. No
    peculiar objects he didn't remember buying. The shoes beside the bed looked at least a
    size too large—so, for that matter, did the clothes. In the drawer of the night table lay a
    heavy pouch of coins and bills; his winnings had been very good indeed, it seemed. And
    no one had stolen it while he slept .

    But something was missing. He emptied the pouch and sifted through the coins .

    The ring was gone. His mother's ring, inherited from her own family, the Gevaudans,
    and given to him upon her death—the last tangible memory of his family. Had he used it
    as a stake in a game, or drunk it away, or lost it?

    He shrugged, shutting off a twinge of pain. His mother had been dead for twenty-four
    years. She wouldn't know how low he'd sunk .

    He reached for the trousers laid over the chair. He was still weak enough that it took
    rather longer than usual to put them on. The thud of footsteps outside the door found
    him balancing on one leg like a stork, trouser leg flapping .
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    The door creaked open slowly. A brown eye pressed up against the crack. Someone—
    male—was trying very hard not to breathe audibly, making even more noise in the
    process .

    "Come in," Quentin said. His voice felt long-unused. "Come in, if you please.”

    His secret observer took immediate advantage of the invitation. A sandy-haired giant,
    near six and a half feet in height, barged into the room. He wore overalls several inches
    too short and a wide grin, as if he'd never seen anything quite so delightful as a half-
    dressed man struggling to put his leg into his trousers .

    "You're awake!" he said. "Doc