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    Secret of the Wolf – 19th Century Werewolf 03
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    He'd already toured the roomy kitchen, where he'd been offered a late breakfast of
    coffee, bread, and eggs, left by the housekeeper, Mrs. Daugherty. After the meal,
    Johanna had shown him the smaller room she called her office. The remaining rooms
    were the patients' chambers, and Johanna respected their privacy. She did, indeed,
    seem to regard them more as family than men and women afflicted with madness .

    "You've met Oscar," Johanna said from her chair opposite his across the parlor. "He is
    what many call an idiot—his level of intelligence is that of a young child. He is prone to a
    child's outbursts, but in general he is a gentle soul who asks only to be treated kindly.”

    "But he cannot be cured of such an affliction, surely," Quentin said .

    "No." She leaned forward, her hands clasped at her knees in a posture completely free
    of feminine self-consciousness. "You see, he was born to a family in which his mother
    contracted a serious illness during her pregnancy. She died soon after his birth. I know
    little of his early life, but he was left much on his own as a child, and suffered for it. His
    father was himself a dying man, and begged my father to take the boy in." She smiled
    with a touch of sadness. "Oscar has been with us since the age of twelve. The world is
    not kind to those with his defect.”

    "As it isn't kind to any who are different," Quentin said. Johanna looked at him with such
    unexpected warmth that he found his heart beating faster. Good God, was he so much
    in need of approval, of any meager sign of esteem?

    Or was it just Johanna herself?

    She blinked, as if she'd caught him staring. Perhaps he had been. "I'm glad you
    understand," she said, and lapsed into silence .

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    He was trying to find something intelligent to say—something that might impress her
    with his wit and breadth of knowledge—when a woman flounced into the room from the
    hallway .

    Never had Quentin seen a more vivid contrast to Johanna, except among the prostitutes
    who so often became his unsought companions. The woman was near fifty but dressed
    several decades younger, in flowing clothes that hinted of Bohemian affectation. She
    wore as much paint as any lady of the evening, but she carried herself like a queen.
    Once, she might have been pretty. She clearly believed she still was .

    Quentin rose. The woman came to stand directly before his chair and assumed a pose.
    "At last," she said. Her dyed red hair was piled fashionably on top of her head, but a few
    stray wisps gave her an air of slight dishabille. Her colorless eyes glinted with predatory
    intent. "Johanna, introduce us at once.”

    Johanna sighed, so softly that none but Quentin could hear. "Irene—”

    "Miss DuBois." The woman sniffed .

    "—I would like you to meet Mr. Forster—”

    "Quentin," he put in .

    Johanna's mouth stiffened. "Quentin, please be acquainted with Miss Irene DuBois, one
    of our residents." She pronounced the name in the English way, vocalizing the final "e."
    "Irene, Quentin will be staying with us for a time.”

    Miss DuBois batted her eyelashes at Quentin. "Delighted, Mr. Forster. I am so glad you
    have come to see me. I had almost feared that all my admirers had forgotten about me."
    She extended a beringed hand .

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    Quentin did the expected and kissed the air above her knuckles. "How could anyone
    forget you, Miss DuBois?”

    "Of course." She laughed, and the sound, much like her face, might once have been
    beautiful. "I knew at once that you were a man of taste and discretion. You could not
    have failed to see my performances on the stage on Broadway. I acted at the National
    Theater, Niblo's Garden, and the Winter Garden; everyone who was anyone came to
    watch me. When I trod the boards, no other actress was worth