Reaching Through Time

  A smile lit the angular planes of his face, making her knees weaken. “Good! Now make yourself comfortable. My home is yours.”

  She glanced at the books. “I guess I could read.” She looked up at him quickly. “Can people with amnesia read? Do we remember how?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  She went to a nearby shelf and pulled out a book. She flipped it open, but the words were a jumble of letters. She tried another book. It too was a mass of tangled letters she couldn’t decipher. Tears of disappointment filled her eyes. “I—I can’t.”

  Heath took the book from her hands and laid it on the shelf. “Most of my books are in Latin,” he said kindly. “A dead language.”

  “You read in Latin?” She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or embarrassed because she knew nothing about Latin. “Why?”

  “A family tradition. My father insisted that I have a classical education. This way I can go into medicine or law or teaching with a giant head start.”

  “No books in English?”

  “No English, but some are in French.” He walked to the other side of the room, pulled three volumes out of the case and brought them to her.

  She eagerly flipped open the top one. She couldn’t read it. She returned it to him. “No French.”

  He looked sorry for her. “Don’t be sad. I’ll keep you busy.”

  A chill ran through her. How else could she learn about the world? If she couldn’t read, what was there to jog any memories locked inside her head?

  As if hearing her thoughts, he said, “I’ll be your guide. My house, my grounds, my time are devoted to you. Surely over time something of your past will come to you—first a trickle and then a flood.”

  More than anything she longed to believe him.

  “Now,” he said, taking her arm and hooking it through his. “It’s time for lunch. The dining hall is this way.”

  She went, not because she was hungry, but because she had nowhere else to go and no one else to lean on except Heath, a boy-man, so totally in control of his world and now hers that she had no choice but to follow him.

  3

  He led her out of the library, across the marble floor and into a room with an impossibly long table with rows of chairs on either side. The table was set with pewter plates, ornate silverware, glass goblets and soaring candelabras. She stopped short. “Expecting company?”

  He laughed. “This is the banquet hall, but we won’t be eating in here. We’ll walk through it to get to the morning room.”

  He led her through another doorway and into a much smaller room with leaded-glass casement windows on three sides. The table was set for two and topped with dome-covered platters. He pulled out a chair. She sat and he took the chair directly across from hers.

  “I hope you’ll like the food.” He lifted a dome and revealed a neatly sliced ham. Other platters held roast potatoes, cooked cabbage and carrots.

  Oddly, she knew the names of the foods, and a tingle on her taste buds let her know she had eaten them before. Or foods like them. “Looks yummy,” she said, surprised by the uptick in her appetite. “I think I like ham and potatoes.”

  He spooned some roasted vegetables onto her plate. “A memory?”

  She wasn’t sure. “The food just seems familiar. That’s all.”

  “See? I told you that your memory would return gradually.”

  “I’d rather know my name,” she said, slicing some ham and tasting it.

  “We could give you a name.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I want to remember on my own. Everyone has a name.”

  “I’m sure yours will fit you perfectly.”

  She heard an intimate tone in his words, but didn’t meet his gaze, looking instead over his head and out the window into the swirling mist. “Is the weather always like this? Does the sun ever shine?”

  “You’ve arrived during a dark part of the year, but yes, the sun will shine again.”

  “And you’ll show me all around when the sun comes out?”

  “If you like.”

  She ate her food, listening to the clank of the silver against the fine china plates. Heath wasn’t eating much, only gazing from her to a window. She became self-conscious and slowed her eating. She searched for something to say to him, something neutral that would shift the topic of conversation from her. “When will I meet your father?”

  Heath looked at her blankly.

  “You told me this was your father’s estate.”

  Heath straightened. “He’s away on business. I never know when he’ll return.”

  “So are you by yourself?”

  “Usually.”

  “No mother? Brothers, sisters?”

  “Only me.”

  “Well, who takes care of this place? It seems huge.”

  “I have help.”

  She looked around, listened carefully for sounds of life from any direction. “Who?”

  “They come and go. It isn’t their habit to be seen.”

  This sounded creepy to her. She also realized that without others in the great house, she was alone with him. She cleared her throat. “I guess it makes sense that this food doesn’t appear by magic.”

  “It appears. That’s all that matters to us.”

  Her stomach tightened. He’d said “us.” What did he mean? “I don’t belong here,” she told him. “I came from … well, from someplace else.”

  “Of course, you’re right. This is my world, not yours.” He stood abruptly. “I still have some work to do.”

  She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.

  “You can finish your lunch.”

  “I’m full.”

  He studied her. “I shouldn’t be too long. Feel free to explore. Come get me if you’re bored.”

  She experienced again the feeling of wanting him to leave and wanting him to stay. “I’ll just poke around.”

  He tipped his head and left the morning room.

  She sat at the table listening to the silence. The place was eerie and made her feel confined despite its spaciousness. Finally she arose, walked back through the banquet room and out into the hallway. From there she turned into another room filled with tapestries, large sofas and slouchy chairs, and on one wall, a fireplace so massive that it took her breath away.

  She approached the hearth made of blackened brick and laid with fresh logs waiting for kindling and a match. She stepped up on the raised hearth, but although she stood on tiptoe, her fingertips could only brush the bottom of the stone mantel. She moved to one side to examine one of the posts holding up the great mantel. They too were made of stone, and chiseled so elaborately that it took her a few minutes to figure out what she was seeing. On the right-hand side, from top to bottom there were figures of winged creatures hovering above people toiling over crops or harvesting sheaves of wheat, of men in fishing boats and of men in armor on horses, carrying waving banners. Every inch of the old stone post was covered with carvings.

  She crossed to the left side of the mantel and saw carvings of mythical creatures, most fearsome and hideous: wolfmen, vampires, flying bats and gargoyles. She shivered. And yet she recognized the carved images as monsters and demons by name. Why? How could she know what they were but not be able to name herself?

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you.” Heath’s voice from behind startled her so much that she fell backward off the hearth. With lightning speed, he was there to catch her and stand her upright.

  “Y-you scared me!” she cried.

  “Then I owe you another apology. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

  She twisted in his hold and glanced into his face, which now looked boyish and ashamed. His irises were as clear as water. “I understood that you have work to do.”

  “I have nothing to do that’s more important than making you feel comfortable. I know that you’re lost and confused. Perhaps my world seems strange to you.”

  An understatement, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud
. “Your home is amazing,” she said. “Like this fireplace.” She touched one of the cold stone carvings. “So lifelike.”

  “Always been one of my favorites. I used to sit and study it for hours, seeing something different every time I did. It was created for the estate over many years by the same family of stonecutters. It represents the work of many hands.”

  “Why are the two sides so different?”

  “One side represents the spirituality of mankind; the other, his mythology and stories. Both sides make up the human spirit. At least, that’s the family lore. I think it was just a way for the stonecutters to stay busy for a few hundred years.” He smiled, mischief in his expression.

  She studied the spiritual side more closely and saw the Star of David beneath the feet of one winged being, and a many-armed god that sat cross-legged beneath the feet of another. “It’s very beautiful,” she said.

  “I love beautiful things.”

  She felt heat rise in her neck.

  He took her hand. “Come on. Let me show you around. You’ve barely seen my home.”

  “You mean your castle.”

  A smile flirted with the corners of his sensual mouth. “It’s called the Chateau de Charon.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Parts of it were begun in the twelfth century. It was modernized somewhat—you know, indoor plumbing and heating. Inefficient heating, I’m afraid. No electricity, though. A few ancestors thought that too modern for its history.”

  “And after my tour?”

  “Dinner and sleep.”

  “Didn’t we just eat lunch?”

  “We ate more than three hours ago.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “But—but—I haven’t been in this room more than a few minutes.”

  He helped her off the hearth. “Not really. You’ve been in here for several hours. I’ve been working and feeling guilty about leaving you alone.”

  She shook her head as if to unstick something. She was certain he was wrong. Only minutes had passed since lunch. And yet she was growing hungry. Could he be correct? Had hours passed with her totally unaware of it?

  “Come,” he said, clasping her hand. “Time can sneak up on you in this place. We’ll sit together in the library. I have a fire going in there.”

  She went without a word, afraid that time would again get away from her. So long as she was with him, she had an anchor. She needed an anchor in this mysterious place.

  They spent the afternoon, or what seemed like an afternoon to her, in the library in front of a roaring fire that took the chill off the room. He read. She sat almost as if in a trance, staring at the flames. At some point Heath announced that dinner was ready—she hadn’t heard anyone come into the room with the news, but she went with him. They ate together, still with only each other and no other people. The food was perfectly prepared and utterly delicious. Heath tried to lighten her mood, but she was sad and couldn’t make herself feel cheerful. Too many unanswered questions. Too many unexplainable things on her mind.

  When Heath said goodnight, he walked her up the staircase, handed her a candle. “Your bed’s turned down and your fireplace lit,” he said.

  When? Who? “Thanks,” she said.

  “I promise tomorrow will be better,” he said softly. His eyes were like pools of liquid silver and totally mesmerizing.

  She struggled to break their hold on her. “And sunny?”

  “And sunny.”

  She clutched the candle, hurried into the bedroom, her heart pounding and her breath rapid. She set down the candle, saw that the room was bathed in the glow of a blaze in the fireplace. A soft white nightgown lay across the bed for her. Her hands shook as she removed the dress and put on the gown. A lump clogged her throat and she wanted to cry.

  Cry for what? she asked herself. I’m safe. She blew out the candle and climbed under the fresh rose-scented covers. Her eyelids grew heavy, as if weights had been placed on them.

  She felt herself drifting toward sleep, was almost asleep … when soft whispering voices emerged from the shadows, calling, “Sarah … Sarah … come back to me.… I love you.”

  4

  “My name is Sarah.” She made the announcement as she walked into the morning room, where Heath was already seated at the table.

  His eyes, pale gray in the light, bore into hers. “How do you know that?”

  She hesitated to tell him about the whispering voices she’d heard throughout the night, though she wasn’t sure why—Heath was trying to help her. Still, she held back the information. The first mysterious voice had been joined by others: a man, a woman, a buzz of words that seemed to float in and hover above her bed. The voices had said the name too many times for her to believe that it wasn’t hers. They had soothed and comforted her, like salve on the wound of her lost memory. “I—I just know.”

  Heath’s smile broke across his handsome face. “Good. Then I’ll call you Sarah.” He stood, pulled out her chair. “Eat breakfast with me.”

  Sarah sat, feeling relieved to finally have put a name to her face.

  “Look,” he said, gesturing to the windows.

  The glass was opaque, but she saw brightness through the panes. “Sunshine?”

  “As promised.” He tipped his head at her.

  Her heart leapt. “We can go outside?”

  “We’ll go riding.”

  “Riding? In what?”

  He laughed. “On horses.”

  “I—I don’t think … I mean, I don’t know if I can ride a horse.” Her memory circuits shut down, and the thrill she’d felt over learning her name faded.

  “You’ll be able to ride,” Heath said. “Trust me.”

  What choice did she have? She couldn’t stand the idea of being cooped up one more minute. “All right.” She looked down at the gray dress she was wearing, the same one as yesterday. “I don’t think I can ride in this.”

  “After breakfast go up and change. I’ll meet you at the foot of the stairs.”

  She hurried through the meal, bounded up the staircase. In her room, she threw open the doors of the wardrobe and blinked. Every item from the day before was gone, and in its place were jeans, T-shirts, turtleneck sweaters and fleece jackets. Her skin went cold. When had the clothing been changed out? Had someone come into her room while she slept? Maybe while she was at breakfast …

  Ignoring her internal questions, she grabbed jeans, a tee and a jacket, threw off the dress and tugged on the new clothes. Immediately she felt a kind of familiarity about the perfectly fitting outfit. She found boots that also fit at the bottom of the wardrobe. She bounded back downstairs, where Heath waited.

  He eyed her head to toe in a way that made her heart thud. Such compelling eyes. “Ready?” he asked.

  They went outside and into a world of rolling green lawn, clipped hedges and flower beds that stretched as far as Sarah could see. She stopped short and blinked against the brightness of the sun. “Wow. It’s beautiful out here.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Where to now?”

  “Up for a walk to the stables?”

  She couldn’t wait to walk in the warm sunlight.

  They took a footpath that wound down a hillside toward a building in the distance. Her gaze darted every which way, taking in the extraordinary beauty of the grounds. “Where are we?” she asked.

  “At my family estate,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, but where? What country? If I know, maybe it will jog a memory.”

  “My country is unimportant.”

  “Does your family own a country too?” she asked, irritated. She was bothered by his information hoarding. Didn’t he realize that every clue was important to her?

  “I’m not trying to annoy you. It’s important that you recover memories on your own.”

  “Is that something you read in one of your moldy books in Latin about amnesia?”

  He stopped and turned her to face him. His black hair spilled over his pale forehead, an
d his eyes darkened. For a moment she regretted her sarcasm. “You remembered your name. You’re sure of it. Go slowly.” His voice was soft, beguiling.

  Looking into his eyes made her feel spellbound. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she said.

  He grinned, leaned forward and kissed her forehead. His lips were cool, but the spot where they had pressed her skin felt hot. Deep in her memory, the shadow of another’s kiss darted just out of reach. Warm lips on hers. A pang of longing shot through her for—

  “You all right?” he asked, looking concerned.

  “Fine,” she lied. “Can we get to the stables? I’d love that tour you promised.”

  He stepped back, his expression intense. “Come with me.”

  The stable was clean and sweet-smelling, heavy with the scent of fresh straw and horseflesh. At one stall a great gray horse stuck his head over the door and neighed at the sight of Heath. He reached up and rubbed the horse’s nose.

  “Titan, meet our guest,” Heath said to the horse, which blew out through his nostrils and shook his head.

  Sarah laughed. “Hello, Titan.”

  Heath led Titan from his stall and walked to another. “This one’s yours.” He opened the door and ushered out a smaller red roan with a thick black mane. “Lethe,” Heath said. “One of my finest mares. Gentle as a kitten. No need to be afraid of her.”

  Sarah had drawn back. Her blank memory held no information about horses.

  In minutes, Heath had both horses saddled and bridled. He cupped his hands and urged Sarah to step into them. “I’ll give you a leg up.”

  Sarah hesitated, but then stepped into Heath’s hands and swung her leg over the back of the red horse. The second she settled into the saddle, she felt as if she were one with Lethe. Why couldn’t she recall ever riding before? Being in the saddle felt natural to her.

  They left the barn, riding out into the sunlight. “I know where I want to go,” Sarah said. “Please take me to the place where you found me unconscious.”

  Heath said, “There’s nothing to see.”