Knowing who I was meant very little if I couldn’t remember becoming that person. I could notpossiblybe this close to everything I’d ever wanted, yet have no memory of how I’d gotten there. No understanding of how to move forward.
“What happened to me? Why can’t I remember?” I cleared my throat and forced a bit more iron into my tone. “And…am I late for something?” Hearing the rush of steps past my door had left an itching anxiety in my hands, which wanted to start gathering up my belongings. In my legs, which wanted to rush me off to…somewhere. “For class, I suppose?”
“Yes, of course.” Desmond exhaled heavily. “But you can hardly attend in this condition.” He turned to Wilder. “Head straight to the Conservatory and ask for Dr. Winhoof.”
I blinked at him. “Winhoof, as in—”
“The director of the Panacea Project.” Wilder turned to his brother, his jaw stiff. “But I don’t take instruction from you. And an issue of this magnitude should go straight to the Bluehelm.”
Desmond huffed. “The Bluehelm doesn’t see students without appointments, and she’s not the expert in this field.”
“No oneis an expert in this field,” Wilder insisted. “She should know that one of her star students has—”
“Amnesia is anillness,” Desmond snapped. But his words echoed hollowly, with Wilder’s assertion still ringing in my ears.
I was a star student. At the Alchemary. At least, I had been, before…whatever this was.
“Or it’s an injury,” Desmond continued. “Regardless, what Amber needs is not an academic administrator but an alchemical physician.” He turned to me, despite Wilder’s narrowed eyes, with utter confidence in his own conclusion. And I will admit, I felt a bit of the younger brother’s irritation.
I was fairly certain I didn’t take instruction from Desmond Gregory either. Yet I could poke no holes in his logic.
“Agreed.” I lifted the garment still clutched in my fist. “Though I should dress first. Is this what I’m meant to wear?”
Desmond nodded. His jaw clenched as his gaze skimmed my nightshirt, then landed on my eyes with an inscrutable weight. He opened the door and aimed that coppery glare at his brother.“Out.”
As the door closed behind them, I heard Desmond put an end to Wilder’s whispered questions with a single guttural grunt, and I turned to the wardrobe.
I changed into a fresh cream-colored linen shift, then I plucked a gold-trimmed charcoal-gray frock from its hook. The dress was of a simple cut, with front lacings and narrow sleeves that ballooned a bit around the wrist. It was functional for a student, and the only extravagance, other than the masterful and even pigmentation of the cloth, was the distinctive gold stitching—an Alchemary signature.
The frock fit perfectly, its hem barely brushing my feet.
I held my breath as I swung the gold-trimmed black cloak over my shoulders. The materialswooshed, then it settled with a familiar and comforting weight, draping over my dress and my arms to trail just past my knees.
There was no looking glass in my chamber, but in staring down at myself I could see how the rich, thick black material framed the gray dress, all of it accented in gold. The triangle of the Alchemary creed lay over my heart, just to the left of my sternum.
I slid my arms through reinforced slits in the cloak and exhaled slowly. It was odd, how familiar the gesture felt. Like waking to the sound of an echo, with no memory of its source.
My uniform feltright. It was of an orderly shape and pleasing appearance, the dress cinched neatly at my waist, beneath the voluminous richness of the distinctive cape. Wearing it felt… momentous.
Had it felt this way the first time?
My heart ached for the bare cupboard of my memory. For the experiences I’d lost.
I can get them back.
Iwillget them back.
Determined, I set about plaiting my hair, and though I had no memory of how I typically wore it, my hands began the job as if out of habit. Quickly, efficiently, they combed my long, dark hair and braided a thick length along the curve of first one temple, then the next, trailing down and back, picking up more strands along the way, so that the braids held hair away from my face and could be tied together at the back of my head.
The result felt neat and fetching.
When I opened the door, only Desmond was waiting for me.
I stepped out of my room expecting a torchlit hallway. Instead, I found myself on a broad landing set into a spiral-shaped stone staircase that curved both upward and downward from where Desmond stood. Behind him, the expected torch was mounted to the wall, flickering with a warm golden glow.
Despite the daylight shining into my room through the open shutters, this spiral stairwell was a nest of shadows that trembled with each flicker of the torch, ebbing and flowing without ever truly receding from places the light couldn’t touch.
Mine was the only room that opened onto the landing, but when I looked to the right, down the stairs, I saw an identical torchlit landing and an identical door, which rose in height to the middle of my own.
