Chapter 2
“You really don’t remember anything?” Wilder dropped into the green armchair, fully dressed but for his boots.
Beyond the window, birds dove toward the glittering water far below. I inhaled the salty ocean scent, attempting to synchronize my pulse with the peaceful crash of the waves. Trying to breathe past the tension in the room.
Wilder’s attention was an almost physical sensation—an uncomfortable pressure, like a hand pressed to an open wound.
Desmond’s felt like a sunbeam directed through a lens. His copper-hued eyes were trained on me intently. Skeptically. The arms crossed over his broad chest emphasized the sentiment.
“Nothing recent.” I sank into the wooden chair, my back to the desk.
How often had I sat in this very spot? Shouldn’t the chair at least feel familiar if it were mine?
“I remember being a child.” I closed my eyes, letting memories of the past rise through the enigma of my present.
Relieved by how many there were. “I remember growing up in Innswood. We grew up together. All three of us.” I opened my eyes as the rest of the memory solidified.
“You’re brothers,” I said, turning to include Desmond.
Gregory. Their surname was suddenly…accessible.
Desmond nodded, but his expression was inscrutable, like an instructor administering an examination. A young but unforgiving instructor with a piercing gaze. The kind that could terrify any student.
The kind one wanted, instinctively, to please.
My focus returned to Wilder. “And you’re my best friend. At least, you were.” The fact that he’d been essentially naked in my bed suggested that, at some point, the nature of our relationship had changed.
As a youth, I’d indulged and abandoned crushes on the Gregory brothers as naturally as I’d slept and eaten. But I’d never acted on those feelings, and it seemed impossible that I could have forgotten the circumstance that had put Wilder in my bed. That warmed my face and drew my gaze to him.
Wilder’s attention flicked toward his brother, then back to me with a bold frankness. “We’re still…close.”
My gaze narrowed on the flowing black garment clutched in my left hand. Then on the row of gold-trimmed charcoal-colored dresses hanging in the open wardrobe. Then on the breathtaking sight through the window—a stunning and distinctive view. “We’re at the Alchemary.”
Wilder’s blue eyes widened. “Your memories are coming back?”
“No.” I huffed. “But I’m perfectly capable of deductive reasoning.
This is a university cloak, and the only kind of university I would attend is an alchemy academy.
There are several of those in the kingdom of Aethermere, but I would aim for the best, as would both of you.
Which means we could only be at the Alkahest Institute or the Alchemary.
And I know this motto,” I said, pointing at three words, skillfully embroidered in the shape of a triangle on the front left side of the black robe I held.
I traced the rich gold thread with one finger.
Mind, Matter, Spirit.
“And, of course, the Alchemary was always my dream.” I frowned, reconsidering. “Our dream.”
We’d had a plan, since the day the recruiter’s circuit had brought her to Innswood when we were children.
“Yes.” Wilder exhaled, elbows propped on his thighs, staring at his clenched hands where they dangled between his knees. “This was our dream.”
“And he…” My gaze narrowed on Desmond. On the distinctive, elegant collar of his asymmetrical cape. “He’s a professor.” Which meant he’d already graduated.
Wilder snorted as he slouched backward in the chair. “Des is just a staff researcher.”
There was no such thing as just a staff researcher at the Alchemary.
I knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Yet Desmond seemed completely unbothered by the insult.
He only stared at me. No, he was studying me, as if he could intuit the cause of my amnesia just from looking.
As if he were puzzling through the problem with the same systematic winnowing down and testing of possible causes and solutions that he’d used on every problem he’d faced since we were old enough to wander Innswood with the other village children.
As if no scientific mystery would dare confound him for long.
“Am I a professor?” I asked him.
Desmond’s eyes widened. His skepticism waned.
Wilder laughed. “You and I are students.”
I turned to him, more relieved than I would have admitted. The only thing worse than forgetting part of my alchemy education would have been forgetting all of it. “What level?”
“This is the first week of year three for both of us,” he said. Then he sat up as footsteps hurried past my closed door in the distinctive cadence of a stairwell descent. “In fact, it’s the first day.”
Year three. Mastery year. The final year of studies at the Alchemary.
Trials year.
“No.” It was difficult enough to believe that I had no memory of being admitted to the Alchemary. Of getting my father’s blessing to attend, considering his distrust of this place.
Or had I simply attended without his blessing?
Regardless, forgetting my application, interview, and admission was one thing, but the rest of it?
Two entire years of classes and research?
Both the Fundamentals and Proficiency years, lost to…
some strange phenomenon that had also stolen the memory of whatever Wilder and I had done last night.
Not to mention everything that had led up to it.
“No.” The anger on the surface of my voice masked a churning depth of fear. How could I not remember my own life? My own skills and accomplishments? My…relationships?
Knowing who I was meant very little if I couldn’t remember becoming that person. I could not possibly be 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 one is an expert in this field,” Wilder insisted. “She should know that one of her star students has—”
“Amnesia is an illness,” 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 material swooshed, 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 felt right. 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.
I will get 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.