My face flames as I stare at the toes of my boots. “Youpromised.”
“To giveyouspace, yes. Your linens are fair game.” He’s watching me, amused. “The words in the jar,” he says casually. “What are they for?”
“An assignment from Dr. Bartlett. He’s the specialist Lady St. Laurent insisted I see.”
“Of course. To make up for the…right. Yes. Did it help?”
“A bit.” I lower onto a bench.
It became a secret hobby of mine, compiling large words in that jar and practicing in private, hurdling over their syllables like a horse clearing a fence so they don’t trip me up later.
It’s one unseen aspect of memory loss—you still possess instinctual knowledge like lifting fork to mouth, placing one foot before the other, but those frilly extras in life—like larger, more impressive words—fall off the overcrowded mountaintop of your memory. Youknowwhat they mean, but the exact description is just out of reach.
“You managed to recall your name, at least.”
“Not exactly. There was a man who’d been traveling beside me on the train when I arrived in Cheltenham. He saw theaccident and told them I’d introduced myself to him as Merrynsomething. So I had that much, at least, to begin with.”
“Sounds like this expert was a waste, then.” He props his feet onto the top of his worn valise.
“Almost.” Exactly one memory clarified itself in his stuffy old office, and it haunts me again now, menacing and dangerous.
I can still picture his odd face coming far too close to mine. “Think of your subconscious imaginings,” he prompted. “I’m guessing you remember no names, no details. Am I correct? What you recall is context. Sights, sounds, smells.” Dr. Bartlett, a balding man with dark eyebrows that winged up over inquisitive eyes, was extremely interested in the particulars of my case. “Now. Tell me. What do you see?”
I did as he asked, and a lovely, dark-haired woman materialized in my mind—gentle curves and twinkling eyes, bending near and speaking softly. The vague memory surfaced like a bubble, prismed with color and light, and I dared not speak the details aloud for fear it would burst. Yet it’s only right to tell AJ about her. “There was a woman. Someone from my childhood. He helped me pull out memories of her.”
“Mother?” asks AJ.
“Perhaps. But let’s not talk about the past. There’s so much to discuss—such as, where are we going?” This man doesn’t normally haveplans,he hasfun.
“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.” He slides toward me on the bench, sneaking one arm around me from behind. “So,wife, where are we going?”
I look out over the crowds of people, all with places to go. A past…and a future. Roots. Yet my past was always a ghost that haunted me rather than a treasure to be recovered. “I suppose I should visit that physician again. See about more treatments to restore my memory.”
AJ studies me. “Or not.” He leans back and tips his hat forward to shade his face. “It isn’t hurting anything, is it? You going about your life as it is, past or no past?”
My soul aches to embrace his apathy, the easier route. I’ve been happily choosing that route for three years now.
“Come now, luv, let’s start a new life. Rid ourselves of the past.”
I shake my head. Perhaps if there was no Sabine. If Cecil had…anyone. “Sabine will surely win.”
“You’re right.” His nostrils flare. “I willnotlet her take what’s ours. We’ll simply have to find a way.”
The sudden firmness in his voice gives me a chill. “You think any judge would award me an inheritanceanda small child under the circumstances?”
“You’re notinan asylum yet. They’ll have to prove you mad first.”
“And if they do? How often do they release a person deemed mad?”
He shifts on the bench. “I’ve not tracked the cases.”
Never. It isnever.Once the stain of madness is upon a person’s name, it can only spread. “They’ll lock me away. For good.”
“Hire a solicitor. Fight fire with the same.”
“Withwhat money, Ansel?”
“Oh, who can tell? It’ll work out, though. These things always do.”
