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Lindsay turned her attention to the woman, searching her hazel eyes for some sign of familiarity. Harper was five or six inches shorter than Lindsay with chin-length auburn hair and distinctive features. A memorable face. Why couldn’t she recognize it? Or anyone? She hated the unrelenting unfamiliarity of virtually everything and everyone she met.
    Sinjin stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders as if she could recognize his touch. “Harper made a pot of chicken-and-vegetable soup. It smells really great. Why don’t you come in and eat something?”
    Lindsay nodded and walked with them up the steps to the cabin door. She stopped in the threshold and gazed at a painting of a woman from some past age looking over her shoulder at whoever enters this house. It had soothing, subtle hues. Had she selected it to welcome guests into her home, or to welcome herself after a hard day? She followed Sinjin into the living room, her eyes desperately searching for something familiar. The room was furnished with simple oak and leather furniture. A painting of Mandrake hung over a rock fireplace. Cozy, warm. She liked it. It rang no bells.
    “I’d like to clean up first,” she said, without looking at anyone.
    Sinjin, John, and Harper exchanged glances before Harper spoke. “Shall I show you where your room is?”
    Lindsay shook her head. “Let me try to find it.” She walked back to the entrance hallway. There was a door opposite the living room and a staircase. Which way? Fifty-fifty. Flip a coin? She put a hand on the stair railing and forced herself not to look back for reassurance. She started up the stairs. Steep stairs. Had to be, with the narrow dog trot. Dog trot? Where did that come from? A memory?
    No one said anything as she climbed, and she heard someone start up the stairs behind her. Up on the balcony, she looked down at John and Sinjin, still following her with their eyes. They smiled at her, relieved, perhaps, that she had chosen correctly. But then, there had been an even chance that she would. Maybe more than even. From the balcony it wasn’t hard. There was only one door, and it led to a bedroom.
    I have simple tastes, she thought as she looked at a quilt-covered white cedar bed in the corner of the room. There were a desk, a bookcase, a night stand, and a chest-of-drawers, all of white cedar. Atop the chest-of-drawers, across from the foot of the bed, sat a television—its remote control on the night stand. The room didn’t have carpet, but shiny hardwood floors with green-and-white wool rugs. It’s good , she thought. I like it.
    “Why don’t you look around your room?” suggested Harper. “Maybe something will tickle your memory. Come down when you’re ready.”
    Lindsay nodded, still looking at the fan pattern in the bedspread, wondering if she had purchased the quilt or if someone in her family had made it. How odd it felt, almost dizzying, to be cut loose from all connections to the past. John said she had been an archaeologist. There must be some irony in that.
    Harper left her alone. She stood for several moments staring at each piece of furniture in turn. Her gaze passed a closet. There first. An image out of the corner of her eye startled her as she opened the closet door—herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
    The closet contents were neatly arranged. Shoes were in little pigeon holes at the bottom. She squatted, pulling some of them out. Running shoes, loafers, heels—a few fairly high. Somehow that seemed odd. She didn’t think of herself as the high-heeled shoe type. She stood and examined the clothes on the racks. Tweedy pantsuits, sweaters, and blouses seemed to be the preferred style. But there were also jeans and T-shirts.
    Several garment bags hung near the end. She unzipped the first one. It contained a long-sleeved evening dress of blue silky material with a sequined bodice. Very elegant. The next bag held a short black dress with a full skirt and