Let my spirit seek You that it may find its source and good in You.

And the sounds went on. Finally, when Megan thought she would be unable to bear it an instant longer, they stopped.

But there were other noises keeping her awake. The sounds of the forest ricocheted around her. There was a cacophony of mating birds and crickets and the chattering of small animals and the guttural growlings of larger ones. Megan had forgotten how noisy the outside world could be. She missed the wonderful silence of the convent. To her own astonishment, she even missed the orphanage. The terrible,

wonderful orphanage…

Ávila

They called her "Megan the Terror." They called her "Megan the Blue-eyed Devil." They called her "Megan the Impossible."

She was ten years old.

She had been brought to the orphanage when she was an infant, having been left on the doorstep of a farmer and his wife who were unable to care for her.

The orphanage was an austere, two-story, whitewashed building on the outskirts of Ávila, in the poorer section of the city, off the Plaza de San Vicente. It was run by

Mercedes Angeles, an Amazon of a woman with a fierce manner that belied the warmth she felt toward her wards.

Megan looked different from the other children, an alien with blond hair and bright blue eyes, standing out in stark contrast to the dark-eyed, dark-haired children. But from the beginning, Megan was different in other ways as well. She was a fiercely independent child, a leader, a mischief-maker.

Whenever there was trouble at the orphanage, Mercedes Angeles could be certain that Megan was at the bottom of it.

Over the years, Megan led riots protesting the food, she tried to form the children into a union, and she found inventive ways to torment the supervisors, including half a dozen escape attempts. Needless to say, Megan was immensely popular with the other children. She was younger than many of them, but they all turned to her for guidance. She was a natural leader. And the younger children loved to have Megan tell them stories. She had a wild imagination.

"Who were my parents, Megan?"

"Ah. Your father was a clever jewel thief. He climbed over the roof of a hotel in the middle of the night to steal a diamond belonging to a famous actress. Well, just as he was putting the diamond in his pocket, the actress woke up. She turned on the light and saw him."

"Did she have him arrested?"

"No. He was very handsome."

"What happened, then?"

"They fell in love and got married. Then you were born."

"But why did they send me to an orphanage? Didn't they love me?"

That was always the difficult part. "Of course they loved you. But—well—they were skiing in Switzerland and they were killed in a terrible avalanche—"

"What's a terrible avalanche?"

"That's when a bunch of snow comes down all at once and buries you."

"And my mother and father both died?"

"Yes. And their last words were that they loved you. But there was no one to take care of you, so you were sent here."

Megan was as anxious as the others to know who her parents were, and at night she would put herself to sleep by making up stories to herself: My father was a soldier in the Civil

War. He was a captain and very brave. He was wounded in battle, and my mother was the nurse who took care of him.

They married, and he went back to the front and was killed.

My mother was too poor to keep me, so she had to leave me at the farmhouse, and it broke her heart. And she would weep with pity for her courageous dead father and her bereaved mother.

Or: My father was a bullfighter. He was one of the great matadors. He was the toast of Spain. Everyone adored him. My mother was a beautiful flamenco dancer. They were married,

but he was killed one day by a huge, dangerous bull. My mother was forced to give me up.

Or: My father was a clever spy from another country…

The fantasies were endless.

There were thirty children in the orphanage, ranging from abandoned newborn infants to fourteen-year-olds. Most of them were Spanish, but there were children there from half a dozen countries, and Megan became fluent in several languages. She slept in a dormitory with a dozen other girls. There were late-night whispered conversations about dolls and clothes,

and as the girls grew older, about sex. It soon became the primary topic of conversation.

"I hear it hurts a lot."

"I don't care. I can't wait to do it."

"I'm gonna get married, but I'm never going to let my husband do it to me. I think it's dirty."

One night, when everyone was asleep, Primo Condй, one of the young boys at the orphanage, crept into the girls' dormitory. He moved to the side of Megan's bed.

"Megan…" His voice was a whisper.

She was instantly awake. "Primo? What's the matter?"

He was sobbing, frightened. "Can I get into bed with you?"

"Yes. Be quiet."

Primo was thirteen, the same age as Megan, but he was small for his age, and he had been an abused child. He suffered from terrible nightmares and would wake up in the middle of the night screaming. The other children tormented him, but Megan always protected him.

Primo climbed into bed beside her, and Megan felt the tears running down his cheeks. She held him close in her arms.

"It's all right," she whispered. "It's all right."

She rocked him gently and his sobs subsided. His body was pressed against hers, and she could feel his growing excitement.

"Primo…"

"I'm sorry. I—I can't help it."

His erection was pressing into her.

"I love you, Megan. You're the only one I care about in the whole world."

"You haven't been out in the world yet."

"Please don't laugh at me."

"I'm not."

"I have no one but you."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you too, Primo."

"Megan—would you—let me make love to you? Please."

"No."

There was silence. "I'm sorry I bothered you. I'll go back to my bed." His voice was filled with pain. He started to move away.

"Wait." Megan held him close to her, wanting to ease his suffering, feeling aroused herself. "Primo, I—I can't let you make love to me, but I can do something to make you feel better. Will that be all right?"

"Yes." His voice was a murmur.

He was wearing pajamas. Megan pulled the cord that held his pajama bottom up and reached inside. He's a man, Megan thought. She held him gently in her hand and began to stroke him.

Primo groaned and said, "Oh, that feels wonderful," and a moment later said, "God, I love you, Megan."

Her body was on fire, and if at that moment he had said "I want to make love to you," she would have said yes.

But he lay there, silent, and in a few minutes he returned to his own bed.

There was no sleep for Megan that night. And she never allowed him to come into her bed again.

The temptation was too great.

From time to time a child would be called into the supervisor's office to meet a prospective foster parent. It was always a moment of great excitement for the children, for it would mean a chance to escape from the dreary routine of the orphanage, a chance to have a real home, to belong to someone.

Over the years Megan watched as other orphans were chosen.

They went to the homes of merchants, farmers, bankers,

shopkeepers. But it was always the other children, never her.

Megan's reputation preceded her. She would hear the prospective parents talk among themselves.

"She's a very pretty child, but I hear she's difficult."

"Isn't she the one who smuggled twelve dogs into the orphanage last month?"

"They say she's a ringleader. I'm afraid she wouldn't get along with our children."