Page 9 of Once Upon a Midnight Dream
The man cleared his throat.
“May I inquire who you are?” he asked, since no introduction seemed to be forthcoming, and he could not very well call her Tiny Mouse Woman.
Blue eyes twinkling, she grinned. “Maudie Bletchley, but everyone calls me Mrs. B.”
With that surname, he could well understand why.
“Now we shall finally know who our patient is.” She adjusted the godawful shawl—probably a castoff donated to the home. “We had no choice but to burn your clothing. However, even filthy and tattered, they conveyed quality and refinement, as does your speech.”
“You rambled a great deal in your delirium,” Miss Granger put in by way of an explanation. “Though, truth be told, much of what you said was not distinguishable, and what was, made no sense.”
“Indeed. A great deal of blathering, shouting, and swearing.” Without missing a beat, Mrs. B continued. “Your eyepatch suggests you are a military or seagoing lad.”
Hardly a lad.
Perceptive deductions, but were they accurate?
“Your name, good sir?” The petite woman held no qualms about prying, it seemed.
Three pairs of eyes gazed at him kindly but expectantly.
“I am…” He racked his brain for a name. “That is, I am…”
Devil take it.
Who am I?
He opened his mouth again, then snapped his shut.
Well, this is beyond troublesome.
Forehead furrowed as he stared at the coverlet, he piled through the archives of his mind for any sign of who he was. Any vestige of a memory or recollection that might help him with his identity.
Not a single name or nuance came to mind.
Not even the merest wisp.
He had absolutely no clue what his name was.
Amnesia. Blast it all.
He had amnesia.
At last, he accepted the harsh truth, and shrugging, raised an apologetic gaze.
“Unfortunately, I cannot tell you who I am.”
What a bloody, sodding inconvenience.
“O-oh?” Mrs. B drew the exclamation out into two syllables, her voice raising an octave on the last.
Miss Granger and Dr. Montrose regarded him with mild concern.
He produced a cynical smile. “I regret that at present, I possess no memory beyond the moments before I collapsed in the meadow.”
Three
Kelston Hall Children’s Home’s welcoming kitchen
