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Collapsing back onto the lumpy mattress, he stared up at the crumbling plaster ceiling, gripping the thin wool of his blankets. Clenching his teeth against a moan of pure animal fear.
Someone would come. They would tell him what had happened. Why he was here.
Who he was.
The latch lifted, the door swinging open on a figure shrouded by the dim light of the corridor beyond. Stepping into the room, she paused.
And he caught his breath on a startled oath.
Here stood the woman. His one and only memory.
She was called . . . he blanked.
“Please. What’s your name?” he croaked, praying she wouldn’t be insulted he couldn’t remember.
Instead she smiled, turning her solemn face into something iridescent, and, crossing to sit beside him, placed the tray she carried on the bench. “I’m Sabrina. But, actually, I was rather hoping you could tell me your name.”
Oh gods, she didn’t know him. She couldn’t fill in the holes. The truth kicked his last hopes out from under him. He was alone. On his own. And he hadn’t a damned idea who he was.
She stared, head tilted, expectant, eager.
He shook his head, hating to disappoint. Hating the sick, horrible dread pressing him with a weight as crushing as the oblivion that preceded it. “I don’t remember.”
In the weak glow of the moon, he studied himself as he might a stranger. Beginning with details such as his heavy, calloused hands, a mole just below his collarbone, the tip of his left ring finger missing.
When no feature stoked a memory, he moved outward in ever more general circles. The strength of his body, his lean, powerful build. Long legs. Strong arms. Was he soldier? Sailor? Irish peasant? What life would result in such work-hardened toughness?
He came last to what most intrigued and most disgusted—the web of scars lacing his body. What horrible accident had caused these? Or had they been the result of an accident at all? Perhaps the disfigurement had been deliberate. What battles had he waged to earn such wounds? Or what crimes had he committed to bring about such punishment? Was it something he hadn’t done? And did the architect of these injuries still hunt him?
He squeezed his eyes shut, pounding a fist against his forehead in frustration. Trying to knock even the slimmest of images from a mind blank as sand washed clean upon a beach.
Nothing.
So if pushing to remember brought naught but a headache, begin with the only image that did remain.
The woman.
Long after she’d left him, he still pictured her—slender as a willow withy, she moved with a lithesome grace no amount of modest garb could disguise. Her dark hair parted demurely and tucked beneath a snowy kerchief, vibrant blue eyes, upturned pert little nose, mouth a tad wide for her face, and the soft, rounded chin complete with a dimple that appeared when she laughed.
He knew this face. He’d seen it in his dreams. And yet, she looked upon him as a stranger.
Why? Why lie about knowing him? Or was he simply imagining things? Was he so starved for a past he’d grasp at any straw no matter how feeble?
The questions spun endlessly, but brought no answers. Only more questions. His hot, dry gaze traveled over the tangled scars of his arms. The long, angry slashes marring his torso. Repulsed, he closed his eyes.
No, the woman Sabrina was the key to unlocking his forgotten past. Among all his uncertainties, he knew that much with rare conviction. But what door would she open? And did he really want to know what lay behind it?
“Powea raga korgh. Krea raga brya.”
Reaching out with her mind, Sabrina projected calm. Tranquillity. Health. Muscles relaxing. Chest clearing. It took only a few moments before the spell eased the consumptive coughs tearing at the frail priestess. Slowed her breathing to a peaceful, steady rhythm.
Satisfied, Sabrina broke the gossamer connection. Drew the blanket up to Sister Moira’s chin. It would be hours before the old woman’s congested lungs began to labor again. Until then, she would sleep.
She was the last on Sabrina’s list. Sister Netta slept, her spiked fever slowly cooling. And Sister Clea needed only to be pointed back to bed should she rise disoriented, asking for her brother, Paul. A fisherman lost at sea some fifty years ago. Yet in her delirium Clea remained twelve years old, the decades since nothing more than a dream to her clouded mind.
Would it be the same for the man they’d pulled from the ocean? They’d given him back his life. But not his memories. Those remained lost. For days? Weeks? Forever? It was impossible to predict and so she’d explained to him, his face graying with her every word, a bleak desperation crowding the corners of his black eyes.
He’d fought to remain calm in her presence, but his tension had crackled the air like a storm, his fear thrumming the space between them. It made her ache for him as the helplessness of others always made her hurt. She loathed being in a position where nothing could be done. She needed to be doing. Fixing. Making it better. And this man’s sickness was s
