Laurel felt her chest tighten and time seemed to crawl as Aurora turned the knob and pushed the door open. It glided on silent hinges over a plush, crème-colored carpet and revealed a large room with one wall made completely of glass. The other walls were draped in pale green satin that stretched from ceiling to floor. A skylight opened over half the room, shining down onto an enormous bed covered with a silk spread and enclosed by sheer curtains so light they ruffled in the hint of a breeze that came through the doorway. Modest but obviously well-constructed furniture — a desk, dresser, and armoire — completed the room. Laurel stepped inside and gazed slowly around, searching for something familiar, something that felt like home.

But though it was one of the most beautiful rooms she had ever seen, she didn’t remember it. Not a wisp of a memory, no trace of recognition. Nothing. A wave of disappointment crashed over her, but she tried to hide it as she turned to Jamison and Aurora. “Thank you,” she said, hoping her smile wasn’t too tight. What did it matter that she didn’t remember? She was here now. That was the important thing.

“I’ll let you unpack and freshen up,” Aurora said. Her eyes flitted over Laurel’s tank top and jean shorts. “You are welcome to wear whatever you like here at the Academy; however, you might find the clothing in your wardrobe a bit more comfortable. We guessed your size, but new clothing can be tailored for you as early as tomorrow, if you like. Those…breeches…you’re wearing — the fabric looks like it would chafe terribly.”

A small chuckle from Jamison made Aurora stand a little straighter. “Ring this bell,” she said, pointing, “if you need anything. We have a full staff to attend you. You may do as you will for an hour, then I will send one of our fundamentals instructors up to begin your lessons.”

“Today?” Laurel asked, a bit louder than she had intended.