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“She has amnesia.”

“She can’t remember who she is?” Charity said.

“Or where she came from,” the nurse said.

Charity turned and looked Ann Chambers in the eyes.

“You’re Ann,” she said softly. “Ann Chambers, remember?”

Ann blinked her eyes, and when she opened them again, Charity was convinced she saw some sign of recognition, some acknowledgment.

And even if there wasn’t, there will be eventually.

“She kept muttering, ‘Sara, Sara,’” the nurse explained. “And she would write it down. We thought that that meant she was trying to tell us her name.”

Charity’s and Grace’s eyes met.

“Then what happened to the other woman?” Grace said. “The one who died of the aneurysm?”

“We have our own cemetery, and a full, appropriate burial service was performed,” the nurse said. “Was that a mistake also? We were told there were no relatives.”

“In this case,” Grace Higham said, “that was true about Sara.”

“It wouldn’t be with Ann,” Charity added softly, looking down at her. “She has plenty of family…including me.”

Charity turned to the nurse. “She’s well enough to travel?” she said, more a statement than a question.

“Oh, no. The doctor said that she needs quiet time to recover.”

“No,” Charity said evenly. “You misunderstood me. What I said was: She is well enough to travel. I’m taking her home. Right after I pay my respects to Sara. Can you show me her resting place?”

Grace Higham felt a lump form in her throat.

Oh, how I like this Yank!

Not only is she taking charge of her friend, she’s taking the time for Sara, too—not at her “grave” but at her “resting place.”

Ann Chambers, you are indeed one fortunate soul to have such a friend.

[TWO]

Whitbey House Kent, England 2150 4 April 1943

Charity Hoche surprised herself at how fast she made the return trip to Whitbey House. She realized that that was in part thanks to Grace Higham’s having arranged for a runner to shuttle her back to Great Glen, saving Charity a two-hour round-trip, and putting her—with Ann Chambers in the backseat—that much closer to Kent.

When they had arrived, Charity had not exercised a great deal of self-control. She had been impatient; she found it difficult not to bark at anybody who she felt got in her way or who did not immediately do what she asked of them in a manner she considered satisfactory.

Bob Jamison had had to delicately take her aside and say that he would handle the details, including getting Ann down to the dispensary.

“You just went through a hellish emotional roller-coaster ride,” Jamison had said. “Catch your breath and let me worry about the little things.”

When Charity had looked him in the eyes, Jamison saw a fury mixed with fear.

Then, slowly, her eyes softened, her body grew less tense, and she nodded.

“Thank you, Bob.”

“She has a mild amnesia,” Major Richard B. Silver, M.D., said to Charity Hoche and Bob Jamison. He held the medical file that the staff at Manor House had put together on Ann Chambers and given to Charity. “It’s a dissociative amnesia.”