One
She opened her eyes to darkness. Not the inky blackness of night, but the brushed charcoal that was a harbinger of dawn. For a long moment, she did not move. Something was... wrong. Beneath her cheek was not the softness of a pillow but a damp, gritty surface. Her feet were cold. Well, all of her was cold, but her feet especially. She wiggled her toes and realized they were wet.
She was wet.
Her gown—not a nightgown, as she could feel the restriction of her stays tied beneath the soggy fabric—was a heavy weight on her legs. In the distance, she heard...waves?
Slowly, and with great effort, she sat. Her head throbbed. She touched the locus of the pain, her fingers gingerly passing over a swollen knot on the back of her head. Her fingers came away wet. From blood or—she touched her tongue to her lips—saltwater?
She tried to remember where she was.
Blackness.
She closed her eyes and pressed a finger to her temple. The blackness did not recede.
Suddenly, a rush of cold water swept in around her, rising almost to her waist. She jumped up, regretted the action immediately as it made her world spin, and reached out for something to take hold of. Her bare hand landed on cold, slick rock. A cave? Was that where she was? A sea cave?
The water swirling about her ankles receded, but it would be back. The tide was coming in, and she had no idea if this cave would flood. She had to get out. Tentatively, she turned her head one way and then the other. She lifted her cumbersome skirts and began to move toward the watery gray light. Her hands clutched at the wall of the cave, until she was thrown back against it as another wave of seawater washed in. Now that she was standing, the icy water reached to her knees. The sea withdrew again, sucking her with it. She welcomed the momentum as, somehow, she knew the tide would lead her out.
Two more waves crashed inside, the second wetting her hips, before she finally emerged from the cave. Outside, the sky was the pale blue of dawn with a hint of orange on the horizon. She tripped once, fell to her knees on the rocks outside the cave, then limped to the beach further inland. Out of breath, her head pounding, she sat down on the soft, dry sand and watched as the waves filled the cave where she’d been...what had she been doing there?
She looked about the empty stretch of beach and spotted nothing but gulls picking at crabs and the odd patch of seaweed. Where had she come from? Where was she now? She had a bed and a home somewhere, but the name was trapped in the blackness inside her mind.
And then she realized that her own name was trapped in that blackness. She tried to push through the murkiness, but it felt impenetrable.
Either that, or nothing was behind it...just a great void of emptiness.
Panic began to rise in her chest, constricting her lungs and making it difficult to draw in air. Her heart pounded as she closed her eyes and tried, in vain, to remember who she was. What was wrong with her? Even the smallest child knew his or her own name. Why could she not recall?
She clenched her hands into fists and attempted to slow her breathing. Opening her eyes, she said all the words she could think of. “Beach. Ocean. Dress. Hands. Legs. Feet. Gull. Shell. Sand. Boots. Sky. Clouds. Sun.” She knew more words, but her throat was ragged, and she realized she was thirsty. How could she know what thirst was, know all the words for her surroundings, and yet not know where she was or who she was? Dread threatened to overwhelm her again. She was shivering from wet and cold. She was hungry and thirsty. The throbbing in her head was all but unbearable. She wanted to go home, but she didn’t know where home was.
She heard a voice on the wind and turned to see if she could place which direction it came from. But she saw no one. She wrapped her arms about her waist. Calm down, she told herself. Take a breath. You are not allowed to go mad.
Her arms tightened. There was that voice again. This time she looked to the south. She didn’t know how she knew that direction was south, but she did. Rocky cliffs jutted out that way with no clear path to the summit. Beneath the cliffs was a narrow strip of beach not yet covered by the rising tide. A person walked along that strip. A man, she decided, seeing the way his dark greatcoat whipped about in the wind. She hadn’t seen him before because his form had blended in with the landscape, but as he moved closer, she could discern his form more clearly. He wore no hat, and his dark hair whipped about his tan face.
“Marjorie!” he called.
She turned to look behind her, to see if anyone else was present. Was she Marjorie?
“Marjorie!” He was walking quickly now, his long strides eating up the distance between them. She stared as his facial features became more apparent. Under dark brows he had light eyes, crinkled with concern. His nose was straight and slightly red from the cold. His cheeks, prominent with subtle hollows beneath, were also pink from the cold. He did not have a beard, but he was not exactly clean-shaven. She could not remember the word for the dark stubble on his jaw. Stubble, perhaps that was the word, though her mind reached for another, more accurate.
“What the devil, Marjorie?” he said as he reached her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve been up all night, pacing until I wore grooves in the floor. What happened?”
His hands, encased in dark gloves, were warm, and the heat seeped through her wet sleeves. She looked up at him, as he was a few inches taller than she, and recognized that same warmth of concern in his blue eyes—sea-blue eyes, she thought, eyes that almost matched the lighter color of the shallow water near the shore.
He bent his head to look into her eyes. “Marjorie? Are you well?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice sounding like it came from far away. At first, she wasn’t even certain she’d said the words aloud.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
He blew out a breath then released her and unfastened his coat. “You’re freezing. Let’s get you inside.” He dropped his coat over her shoulders, and she was immediately embraced by warmth and an oddly familiar scent. She picked out the smell of old books and ink, but there was something else there she couldn’t identify.
Under his greatcoat, he was dressed in dark breeches and black boots, a silk scarlet waistcoat, and a blue coat of superfine. He looked as though he’d just left his club, not dressed for a walk on the beach. He put an arm about her and began to guide her the way he’d come. She hesitated, unsure she should trust him. But she knew his scent. Surely, he was someone she was accustomed to, someone she could trust.
“Where are we going?” she asked, giving in to the light pressure of his hand on her back. He gave her a sharp look as though she should know that.
