"Yes," Kesley said. "There were."
"I feared as much. But it was the best I could do, at the time. I took the precaution of webbing in a pain-threshold that would keep you from probing your own past too deeply. Then I had you transported to Iowa Province, safely out of Winslow's way, and established you as a farmer there. It was a secure, rhythmic life; tied to the soil, you would remain healthy and unmolested. Later, perhaps, I would be able to take you from the farm and restore your identity.
"I returned to Chicago. My daughter asked where you were; I found it necessary to block her memories of you to prevent unhappiness. They can be restored as well, when the time comes. Curiously, you and she came together again later, neither knowing who the other was—and the result of the meeting was the same as before." Daveen smiled. "This, I think, should amply prove the strength of your love, at any rate."
Kesley coughed. Nervously he said: "So you left me in Iowa. You never came to get me—or were you van Alen, too?"
"No. I was not van Alen. My plans were interrupted; Winslow discovered how you had been freed, and in anger ordered my execution. I fled; Narella was given to Miguel as a plaything."
"He calls her his daughter," Kesley pointed out.
"Fortunately. Miguel is going through a paternal cycle; for the moment, he no longer feels fleshly desires. Narella was sent to be his mistress—but became his adopted daughter instead. Dukes are difficult to fathom in advance."
"I know that well."
"To continue: I fled. You remained in Iowa Province. Those who loved you sought you, finally found you."
"You mean van Alen? He tried to bring me here—to Antarctica."