Wings of Morning by Kathleen Morgan

they’d know what to do.
    She opened her mouth to speak her name when a terrifying realization struck her. It was indeed worse than she had first imagined. Her mind was blank. She had no memory of a name or a family or even of a past life. It was as if she had never lived.
    “I . . . I don’t know!” The cry was wrenched from the depths of her being. “I don’t know my name. I don’t know who my family is. And when I try to remember, everything’s black!”
    She reached out, grasping at empty air, seeking to latch on to something—anything—solid and sure. Hands captured hers, held them tight. The human contact seemed the only anchor left her, securing her to the tattered remnants of her rapidly shredding sanity. So she clung to this unknown, unseen woman with all her might and sobbed until she finally slipped back into exhausted, blessed oblivion.

    “We’ve a wee problem, lad.”
    Brush in hand, Iain turned from his horse. It was early evening, and he had just returned a few minutes ago from his ride out to the drainage ditches. As was his way, he had immediately seen to the care of his horse.
    “We do, eh? And what’s the problem this time, Mither? Have vermin been found in the food stores again? Or is someone sneaking down to the cellar to tap off a few more pitcherfuls of wine?”
    Mathilda gave a snort of disdain. “As if I couldn’t handle such minor difficulties on my own! Nay, it’s the wee lass. She finally awoke about an hour ago.” She sighed. “Her poor face is so bruised and swollen now she cannot even open her eyes. At first, she imagined she was blind.”
    Iain’s heart filled with compassion. “But that problem will surely abate in time. What matters is do ye think she’ll live?”
    “Aye, if all goes well and she doesn’t catch a chill from being out all night in the rain, the chances are good. She doesn’t appear to have suffered any internal injuries.” Mathilda paused. “That isn’t the problem I was speaking of, though. The lass has lost her memory. She recalls naught—not who she is or where she came from.”
    He grimaced. “Now that does pose a difficulty. In time she may well regain her memory—and we can easily care for her here until that occurs—but, in the meanwhile, her family will be frantic, not knowing where she is. Not to mention we haven’t any idea what to call her.”
    “I’ve found something on her that might give us a wee clue in that regard.”
    His mother extended her closed hand and turned it palm up toward him. In it was a nearly two-inch-long, embellished silver cross on a silver chain. At its center, where the crosspiece met the upright bar, Iain could make out a tiny hinged compartment. He carefully flipped it open to find a scrap of folded parchment in its depths.
    “I removed that while we were bathing her,” his mother continued. “Most other times, I’d never have pried into what might well be a private matter, but once I knew she’d no memory, I thought this one time to take a wee liberty in hopes it might tell us something about her.”
    He glanced up. “So ye’ve taken out the parchment and read it?”
    “Aye. On it was written ‘Dear Lord Jesus, be ever near my beloved daughter Regan.’ ”
    Iain frowned. “And do ye think that’s her name then? Regan?”
    Mathilda shrugged. “It seems as likely as any. Though she’s young, she’s old enough to be a mither. But why would she be wearing such a prayer, rather than giving it to her own daughter to wear? And the parchment seems well aged, so I’d wager it was written for her when she was but a child.”
    “But there was no surname? Nothing else we could use to at least attach her to some neighboring clan?”
    “So ye’re convinced, are ye, she’s not a Campbell?”
    He shrugged. “Nay, just that she’s not ours. And several clans border us, ye know. She could just as easily be a Menzies, Murray, Moncreiffe, or Stewart. And that’s assuming she hasn’t come from farther