SECRET OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

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.

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 seeing.”

Careful not to allow the slightest trace of amusement to cross his face, Quentin released her hand. He was beginning to guess what her particular form of madness might be. “The stage lost a great talent when you left it.”

“Yes. You see, my doctors told me that I had worked much too hard, out of love for my devotees and my dedication to my art. They insisted that I sit out a season to rest. But I shall be returning very soon, and then the New York stage will be restored to its former glory.”

“I’m certain that you shall dazzle your audiences,” Quentin said. He glanced beyond her to Johanna, whose expression was unreadable. Did she approve of his playing along? He couldn’t tell. “You haven’t been here long, I gather?”

“Just for this season,” she said. She threw Johanna a disdainful look. “Johanna would like to confine me here forever. This place is so drab without me, and the others simply couldn’t get along without a little beauty and culture in their lives. Of course she didn’t want you to see me. She knew what would happen.”

Quentin recognized another cue when he heard it. He felt a profound pity for this woman, who lived in a past that might or might not have been as glorious as she painted it—a past that could never be restored. But he wouldn’t be the one to shatter her illusions, even if Johanna’s ultimate intent was to do so.

“I doubt very much that the doctor compares herself to you,” he said.

Irene fluttered. “I should warn you, Quentin—do not fall in love with me. It is simply too dangerous. I am devoted to my art. But I will receive your homage.”

“I shall be glad to give it.” He bowed.

“I know it is cruel of me to forsake you,” she said, “but I must have my rest.” With that, she made her exit stage left.

Johanna was regarding him with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Now you have met Irene,” she said.

“And I’m not likely to forget her.” He sat down and crossed his legs. “She actually was an actress, wasn’t she?”

“Yes. I believe she had a brief career with some modest potential. But she chose to accept the protection of an admirer who promised great things and delivered none of them.” She hesitated, obviously thinking better of confiding further in him. “He abandoned her. Eventually, she became as you see her now. She has been with us, here and in the east, for ten years—one of my father’s more recalcitrant cases. She does not truly wish to emerge from her delusional world.”

“And one must want to be healed,” Quentin said.

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