This has become too strange for words. “Because my very existence offends you?”
She’s on her feet between one second and the next. Puzzlement twists her expression, yet she retorts, “You’re covered in bandages, so I would strongly suggest you restrain yourself, otherwise you’ll bleed out and cause more work for the rest of us.” Pivoting, she strides for the door.
The sight of her retreating back sparks panic in me. “Wait.” I attempt to sit up, yet cry out as my flesh tugs beneath the bandages. “What happened? Why am I injured?” The inside of my head holds only darkness.
She turns, blue gaze narrowed over her perfect nose. “You don’t remember?”
“Obviously not.”
Her confusion resurfaces far too readily. I am used to Harper’s cruelty. Rarely her uncertainty. “Fiona and Isobel found you in thevineyards. You were…” Then she stops. Swallows. “Mother Mabel says you were attacked by a bear.”
My jaw slackens. “A bear?”
She moves toward the shuttered windows, hauls back the heavy drapes to reveal the mountain’s crown edged in warm sunlight, the River Twee a distant silver band nestled in the hillside. “Apparently, they found you just in time.”
Stunned, I rest my fingers against my chest where the ache unfolds. The wound feels raw, as though the skin has been recently sutured.
“You’re certain it was a bear?” They’re scarcely found on the mountain, likely avoiding the strange power flowing through its heart. “Could it have been one of the fair folk?”
“It was a bear. Isobel saw it run off.” She sniffs, leans against the windowsill. “You’re lucky they found you in time. You could be a tad more grateful.”
A bear attack? It doesn’t sound plausible. Stranger things have happened, I suppose.
A thought suddenly comes to mind. “What day is it?”
“The Holy Day.” Harper fiddles with her cincture, tracing the three knots secured at her waist. I blink in shock. When did Harper become an acolyte? “They brought you in mid-week.”
Either she misspoke, or I’ve yet to cast off the fog dampening my thoughts. “Why would I have been in the vineyards?” I say. “I don’t work the vineyards in the spring.” My forge burns for the majority of the day and well into the night once the cold season passes.
Harper goes still. “Brielle,” she says. “It’s the harvest season.”
“What?” It cannot be. It is most certainly the growing season, when the foothills burst into riotous color beneath the frost. “I don’t appreciate the deception.” It’s bad enough I’ve awoken in the infirmary without any recollection of how I got here. But this is a new low, even for Harper.
She sighs. “Why would I lie?” There was a time when any minor slight against her might cause a furious outburst, yet the tranquility Harper exudes takes me aback. I do not recognize this unruffled woman.
“I don’t know. Because that’s what you do? Lie and scheme?”
Obvious hurt darkens her eyes. “Look closer.” She gestures to the open window—Carterhaugh’s leaves tipped in red, the edges browning. Autumn in glorious luster.
My heart thuds sickeningly. Any attempt at recollection sends me ramming into a mental block I cannot breach. “Was there head trauma?” It would explain the memory loss.
“Not that I’m aware of, but you were out for a few days. The injury was contained to your chest.”
“I don’t remember.” My voice catches. “Why don’t I remember?”
Arms crossed over her stomach, Harper studies me from where she loiters near the window. “Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for you.”
Someone must have answers. If not Harper, then Mother Mabel. If not Mother Mabel, then Isobel, or Fiona, or one of the other women working the vineyards that day. “Don’t you think it’s strange I was attacked? Or that I can’t remember what happened?”
She plucks a sprig of barley from the windowsill, twirls its stem between her fingertips, then releases it to the wind. “It is odd, admittedly. I’m sure there’s an explanation.” She can’t quite meet my eyes. “Hopefully it isn’t permanent,” she adds. “The memory loss.”
I stare at Harper until the silence grows uncomfortable. She seems to care for my well-being, though we both know that’s not possible. Then there is the strange lack of anxiety I experience in her presence. I do not understand it.
Harper clears her throat, pushes off the windowsill. “If that’s all, I will inform Mother Mabel you’re awake.” She departs, closing the door behind her.
Alone, I take stock of my faculties. I retain all my limbs, every finger and toe, yet no matter how deeply I search my memory, I hit a wall. There is only darkness. A massive, sucking pit. Nothing lives within it.
Who are we if not our memories?
