“Well, this is fascinating,” Dr. Winhoof declared as he stepped back from the table to better assess me, wispy strands of his straight white hair stirring with the motion. “Total loss of all recent memory, with no known injury or illness. Was there any sort of shock, perhaps? Psychological, or…traumatic?”
I blinked at him, unsure how I could be expected to answer.
Dr. Winhoof laughed, thin arms practically flapping at his sides, billowing his long black robe. “Why in the heavens am I asking you?” He turned to Wilder and Desmond. “Well,didshe suffer any sort of physical, mental, or psychological shock last night?”
The Gregory brothers shared a meaningful glance, but I couldn’t tell whether it indicated an unspoken question or a silent admission.
Maybe they were thinking—as I was—of the fact that Wilder and I had woken up in my bed, indecently dressed, and that Desmond had seemed wholly unprepared for that sight. Which seemed to imply either that I hadn’t informed him of the nature of my relationship with his brother, or that the nature of that relationship had changed too suddenly for disclosure.
But would that have been enough to shock my mind into abandoning every memory I’d formed in adulthood?
“I can’t think of anything that would account for this,” Desmond finally said, arms crossed over his gray tunic. “But then, I wasn’t with Amber when she lost her memory.” He turned a pointed scowl upon his brother.
Wilder stared back almost defiantly. “As far as I know, she did nothing last night that she hasn’t done many times before.”
My face burned hotter than the lanterns positioned around the room.
Desmond shifted—a subtle realignment of his entire form, without moving an inch from where he stood—and the effect was like storm clouds rolling across the sky. A threat gathering on the horizon.
But before the storm could break, the door behind him opened, and the fraternal tension was dispelled.
A young woman stood in the threshold, holding a stylus and a wax tablet. She wore a student’s uniform identical to my own, except that beneath her gold-trimmed black cape her frock was a deep blue, belted at the waist with an embroidered rust-colored fabric.
I stared in surprise for a moment. Was gray not the standard color?
The student was my age, with brown skin, a pouf of shoulder- length reddish curls, and smoky-gray irises ringed in a striking darker shade. Her gaze lingered on me for a second, brows dipping almost imperceptibly. Then she stepped back to hold the door open.
An older woman stepped into the exam room, her distinctive black robes almost shimmering in the glow from the lanterns. Her elaborate gold-embroidered collar trailed to form stiff, thick, formal lapels among copious folds of a fine material. Her dark eyes stood out against pale skin, her cheekbones sharp above gaunt shadows.
“Thank you, Cressa,” she said, nodding at the student aide, who stepped inside and closed the door behind them.
“Bluehelm.” Dr. Winhoof’s small, mildly amused smile blossomed into a tooth-filled half-moon that took up the lower third of his face. “How wonderful of you to drop by. We have the most intriguing case, involving one of the Seminary’s most accomplished pupils.”
“So I’ve heard.” The Bluehelm’s voice was soft and rich, yet unquestionably commanding.
Though I could not have said whether it was from a latent memory or logical deduction, I understood that she was head of the Alchemary, in charge of the Seminary and its students as well as of the Conservatory and its researchers. Given how busy she clearly was, I could not imagine how or why my condition had drawn her attention.
“Amber Fallbrook,” the Bluehelm said. “I understand you’ve come down with a peculiar ailment.”
I nodded, unable to tell from the greeting whether or not the Bluehelm and I had met before.
Dr. Winhoof stepped in front of me to address her. “Catastrophic memory loss. No known cause, including injury, trauma, or illness. We were about to assess the scope of the loss, but I expect that to be a lengthy process.”
The Bluehelm placed one hand on the doctor’s shoulder and firmly directed him to the side. Training her dark-eyed gaze on me, she asked, “What is the most recent thing you remember, before you woke up this morning?”
“It’s not that simple a process, I’m afraid,” Dr. Winhoof interjected with an animated one-handed gesture. “We’ll have to—”
“This will suffice for an initial estimate.” The Bluehelm’s focus held mine. “Amber?”
“I’m not certain,” I admitted with a frown. “I woke up with no idea where I was or how I’d gotten there, but I wasn’tsurprisedto be there. I cannot remember most of my adulthood, but neither do I feel like a child. There is no one distinct memory I can identify as the most recent I can recall. It isn’t as if I went to sleep in my childhood bed, then woke up at the Alchemary. The reality is less clearly defined.”
“What is it like,precisely?” she demanded.
Nearby, Cressa waited with her stylus poised over the wax tablet.
I closed my eyes, trying to collect my thoughts, suddenly afraid that my future at the Alchemary might be determined by what I said next.
Whatwasthis like?
