Next time she woke she was in a new bed, a very soft bed, and there was music playing, a lovely song from Romberg’s The Student Prince. It was the “Serenade” that long ago Uncle Lestan had sung to her. If her eyes had not been wrapped tight, they would have filled with tears. Maybe they did fill with tears.

“Don’t cry, precious dear,” said the doctor, the doctor with the accent. She felt his silken hand on her forehead. “Our medicines are healing you. By tomorrow this time, your vision will be restored.”

Slowly it dawned on her that her chest no longer hurt. There was no pain in her throat. She swallowed freely for the first time in so long.

She was dreaming again, and a soft tenor voice, a rather deep voice, was singing Romberg’s “Serenade.”

Morning. Rose opened her eyes very slowly, and she saw the light of the sun coming in the windows, and gradually the deep sleep left her, falling away from her as if veils were being drawn back, one after another.

It was a beautiful room. A wall of glass looked out on the distant mountains, and between here and there was the desert, golden in the burning sun.

There was a man standing with his back to her. At first the image of him was indistinct against the bright distant mountains and the deep blue sky.

She sighed deeply and turned her head easily back and forth on the pillow.

Her hands were free and she brought them up to touch her face. She touched her lips, her moist lips.

The young man came into focus. Broad shoulders, tall, maybe six feet tall, with luxuriant blond hair. Could it be Uncle Lestan?

Just as his name rose to her lips, the figure turned to face her and came towards the bed. Oh, how completely he resembled Uncle Lestan, but he was younger, definitely younger; he was the image of Uncle Lestan in a young boy.

“Hello, Rose,” he said, smiling down at her. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

Suddenly her vision dimmed, blurred, and a pain shot through her temples and her eyes. But it was gone, this pain, as quickly as it had come, and she could see again. Her eyes were only dry and itching. She could see perfectly.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Viktor,” said the boy. “I’m here to be with you now.”

“But Uncle Lestan, is he coming?”

“They’re trying to find him. It’s not always easy to find him. But when he finds out what happened to you, I promise you, he will come.”

The young boy’s face was cheerful, fresh, his smile generous and almost sweet. He had large blue eyes so like Uncle Lestan’s, but it was the hair and the shape of his face more than anything that locked in the resemblance.