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Jo will be glad." He pointed at the shirt Quentin hadn't yet
    tackled. "Them's my clothes," he said with an air of pride. "You can borrow them until
    you're better.”

    Quentin won his battle with the trousers and sat down. Now he knew the origin of the
    clothes, in any case. He hadn't thought his taste could suffer such a major lapse. But
    there'd been the time when he'd woken up in the desert without any clothes at all

    "Thank you," he said gravely. He grabbed the shirt, while the overgrown boy watched
    with fascination. "Boy" seemed the right word for him, in spite of his height and bulk. He
    couldn't be more than twenty, though he spoke like someone much younger. Simple-
    minded, perhaps. There were far worse lots in life .

    And surely the boy could answer basic questions. "My name is Quentin," he said,
    buttoning the shirt. "Can you tell me where I am?”

    "My name's Oscar," the boy said. "Doc said to go get her when you woke up.”

    "Doc?”

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    "Doc Johanna. I helped her bring you here.”

    So he hadn't come of his own volition. And Johanna was a woman's name. A woman
    doctor. That would explain his memory of a woman's touch .

    But this wasn't a hospital. The good doctor's home, perhaps? Had he been so ill?

    He stood up and offered his hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Oscar. Can you tell
    me how long I've been here?”

    Oscar gazed at the man's hand and suddenly folded his own behind his back in a fit of
    shyness. "I don't know," he said. "You been very sick. I helped take care of you.”

    "You and Doc Johanna?" At the boy's nod, he asked, "Where is this place, Oscar?”

    "The Haven." He shuffled from foot to foot. "I gotta go get Doc now." He backed away
    and was out the door with surprising swiftness .

    Quentin dropped his hand. The Haven. A very peaceful sort of name, to match the feel
    of this room. The Haven .

    To a man like him, it sounded like paradise. But for a man like him, there was no such
    place .

    Aware of a powerful thirst, he went to the washstand and poured himself a glass of cool
    water from the pitcher. The water was clear, as if it had come from a spring, with a faint
    tang of minerals. It was the most wonderful thing he'd ever tasted. He was finishing the
    last of it when the door swung open again .

    No giant this time. This one was most definitely female. His practiced gaze took her in
    with one appreciative sweep, noting the lush curves of a body matched with the height
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    to carry it: a statue, a goddess, an Amazon. He noted and dismissed the black bag in
    her hand. Her dark, modest dress was almost severe, out of step with the modem
    fashion of close-fitting cuirass bodices and snug skirts, but it did more to enhance her
    generous figure than any fancy ball gown might have done .

    And as for her face

    At first he thought it rather plain. Its shape was oval, with a very slight squareness to the
    chin, and broad, high cheekbones. Her hair was a common light brown, drawn close in
    a simple style at the back of her head. Her brows were straight, without the provocative
    arch that might have lent her greater feminine allure. Her lips were, at the moment, set
    in a prim line, though they might be full enough when relaxed. Her nose was quite
    ordinary. And her eyes—her eyes were blue, the brightest thing about her, sharp with
    intelligence and purpose .

    The eyes alone made her attractive. That, and the way she carried herself. Like a
    queen. Rather like his own twin sister Rowena, in fact
    except that this doctor was
    human, and Quentin doubted she carried an ounce of aristocratic blood in that sturdy
    frame .

    She strode into the room and closed the door behind her .

    "You should not be out of bed," she said immediately. "Sit down, please.”

    Quentin obeyed. Her voice—low, a little husky, with just the trace of an accent—
    demanded instant