My first test was a garden party.

In hindsight, this was a mistake. Garden parties were full of fragile people-men with egos made of spun sugar, women with opinions about teacups, and social rules so delicate you could shatter them by breathing wrong.

Which meant, of course, they were perfect.

I stepped onto the gravel path wearing the most dramatic dress I could find in Beatrice's wardrobe-deep burgundy with black lace that screamed "I'm here to ruin your afternoon"-and felt it immediately.

Eyes.

Everywhere.

Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Teacups paused halfway to lips. A lady actually gasped.

They would, of course. I'd gone all out with the makeup-deep red lipstick, dark eyeshadow, the kind of bold, beautiful look definitely not expected of my class in polite society.

Imagine my delight when I'd discovered makeup existed in the 1940s. Beatrice's vanity was a treasure trove.

This world never did stick to one century properly-titles from one era, fashion from another, manners stitched together by whatever the author thought looked pretty.

I lifted my chin and smiled like I owned not just the garden, but the air everyone was breathing.

A young man-barely twenty, hair slicked into submission with enough pomade to waterproof a ship-looked at me approvingly. His gaze snagged on my dress, lingered a bit too long on my neckline, then flinched when he caught my eyes.

"Lady Beatrice," he greeted awkwardly, flushing.

My lips curled up in practiced disdain. "Lord...?"

"Edmund. Edmund White."

"Ah." I looked him up and down slowly. "I was hoping someone here would bring some substance besides hair gel."

He flushed deeper. Though young, his expensive tailoring suggested he wasn't used to being addressed like that by anyone, let alone a woman.

"Bold choice of dressing," he bit back, loud enough for others to hear. "I didn't realize mourning was back in fashion."

Oh.

There it was. The opening.

Original Beatrice would have gone for the throat. Insulted his mother. His bloodline. Possibly questioned his masculinity in graphic detail.

But I had finesse.

I glanced at a silver tray drifting past, laden with petit fours so delicate they probably had emotional support servants.

Without breaking eye contact, I plucked one up, admired it for half a second, then leaned forward and pressed it directly into his perfectly styled hair.

The squish was obscene.

The garden went silent.

For one beautiful, crystalline moment, no one breathed.

Then-

"Oh my God!"

Gasps rippled outward like shockwaves. Someone dropped a teacup-actual porcelain shattering on stone. A lady clutched her pearls like they were life-saving flotation devices.

Lord Edmund froze, eyes crossing slightly as frosting dripped down his temple.

I smiled sweetly. "I'm so sorry. I thought you said you needed more color in your life."

DING!

HATRED POINTS +50

CURRENT TOTAL: 50

Oh. Oh, that felt good.

Worth it. Absolutely worth it.

Edmund sputtered, face turning the color of boiled beets. "You-you can't-!"

"Oh, hush," I said gently, patting his shoulder and getting more frosting on his coat. "You'll upset the roses."

I smiled, moving on before he could form a coherent sentence.

This was going to be easy.

Laughter burst from somewhere behind me-quickly strangled, but I heard it. People wanted to laugh. That was important. Hatred was best harvested when mixed with secret admiration and envy.

I drifted away, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing servant and letting my gaze roam.

Targets everywhere.

A woman with a pug tucked under her arm was scowling at me like I'd personally offended the concept of small dogs.

Perfect.

I glided over, all charm. "Lady...?"

"Darlington," she said stiffly.

"Lady Darlington! How brave of you to bring that creature out in public."

Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean-" I peered thoughtfully at the pug, which was staring at me with bulging eyes, "-I've heard some pets resemble their owners, but this is uncanny."

The pug snarled.

Lady Darlington went crimson.

DING!

HATRED POINTS +10

CURRENT TOTAL: 60

Delicious.

I moved on, feeling like I was playing the world's most entertaining video game.

At the card table, a group of older gentlemen were mid-game, whispering conspiratorially about something. One of them-Viscount Greymont, according to Beatrice's memories-glanced up at me with a tight smile.

"Lady Beatrice. What a... surprise."

"Careful, gentlemen," I said lightly, gesturing at their cards. "I hear cheating ruins the thrill. Or is that only when you're caught?"

Viscount Greymont's impressive mustache twitched. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, do," I said earnestly. "I absolutely insist."

DING!

HATRED POINTS +75

CURRENT TOTAL: 135

I was on a roll.

The System helpfully began organizing my success in a neat little mental ledger:

Lady Darlington: offended on behalf of pug

Viscount Greymont: publicly implied to be a cheat

Lord Edmund White: emotionally destroyed by pastry

I sipped my champagne, feeling victorious.

Villainy, I decided, was an art.

DING!

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: IMPORTANT PLOT POINT AHEAD

ONE OF THE FOUR MALE LEADS IS CURRENTLY AT THIS PARTY

QUEST: GET THE FEMALE LEAD NOTICED AT ALL COSTS

REWARD: BONUS HATRED POINTS

I straightened. This was it. Time to show how truly wicked I could be.

I glanced around, trying to spot any man brooding handsomely by the corner-probably seven feet tall with shoulders as wide as the ocean and a tragic backstory you could see from space.

My gaze glittered around the garden-

Then I felt it.

Eyes on me. Heavy. Assessing.

I turned slowly and locked onto a tall, imposing man standing at the edge of the flower beds, partially shadowed by a rose trellis.

Okay. I took a breath. The author had questionable logic, but I had to admit-she knew what women found attractive.

Tall. Military bearing. Well-built and impeccably dressed in what looked like a captain's uniform. Dark hair. Sharp jawline. And he was watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

He'd been watching me before I noticed him.

Probably cataloging every mean thing I'd done.

If he was one of the male leads, this was perfect. I'd cement how wicked I was before he met Maryann and inevitably fell for her gentle, suffering nature.

And speaking of her-

Oh. There she was.

Maryann stood near the refreshment table wearing a pale blue dress that screamed fragile protagonist. Guests surrounded her, cooing. Even the porcelain teacups seemed to lean in her direction.

The sun-again of course it did-found her through the trees and highlighted her pink hair like she was in a Renaissance painting.

And she was holding a cat.

A fluffy white cat cradled gently in her arms.

(God, I missed my cat so much.)

As I watched, she carefully passed the cat to an elderly woman, who patted Maryann's hair and smiled warmly.

Quiet applause rippled through the nearby guests.

"Such a sweet girl. That's His Grace's second daughter, isn't it?"

"And such a lovely disposition! Is she an angel?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain.

Okay. Time for the big show.

I glanced back at the military man. Still watching me with those intense dark eyes.

Right. Watch carefully, sir. I'm about to bully your future lover so badly she'll need emotional support for decades.

I walked toward Maryann, my heels clicking purposefully on the stone path.

"Maryann, darling."

Every head turned.

She looked up, eyes bright and innocent. "Yes, Beatrice?"

God, even her voice was irritating. Soft. Musical. Designed to make people want to protect her.

I smiled. Not a kind smile. The kind of smile you gave right before stepping on a bug.

"I was just wondering," I said pleasantly, loud enough to carry, "if you've finally decided what it is you do all day."

The garden stilled.

Conversations died. Forks paused. I swear even the birds stopped singing.

Maryann blinked, confused. "I-excuse me?"

"I mean-" I tilted my head thoughtfully, "-you don't manage the estate. You don't oversee the staff. You don't handle correspondence or attend council meetings. So I assume you must be doing something useful with all that free time."

A ripple of discomfort passed through the assembled guests.

Maryann flushed. "I-I help where I can-"

"Oh?" I leaned forward, genuinely interested. "Where would that be exactly? Moral support? Decorative breathing?"

Someone choked on their tea.

DING!

HATRED POINTS +320

CURRENT TOTAL: 455

Oh. Immediate massive payout. I loved this.

Maryann's smile wavered. "I read. I learn. Father says-"

"Father says many things," I interrupted smoothly. "Most of them incorrect."

I glanced back toward the military man, checking if he was watching.

He was. His expression had darkened considerably.

Good.

Wasn't that mean enough? Should I push further?

I looked back at Maryann, ready to deliver another cutting comment-

And froze.

Her eyes were filled with tears.

Actual, genuine tears welling up and threatening to spill.

"I'm-I'm sorry, Beatrice," she whispered, voice breaking. "Please. I'll do better. I promise I'll-"

Wait. What?

DING! DING! DING!

HATRED POINTS +12

HATRED POINTS +75

HATRED POINTS +67

HATRED POINTS +43

The points rolled in rapidly from all directions.

Maryann's tears spilled over, trailing down her cheeks.

I didn't even touch you! I wanted to scream. I just made a comment!

I raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused.

Then-as if summoned by damsel-in-distress pheromones-a shadow fell over us.

A man appeared at Maryann's side, his face furrowed in concern, his expression pained like he'd been physically wounded by witnessing her tears.

DING!

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:

FIRST MALE LEAD INTRODUCED:

NAME: JAMES HARTFORD

AGE: 29

TITLE: MARQUESS OF RAVENHILL

ARCHETYPE: THE PROTECTIVE HERO

THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE

COMPATIBILITY WITH HEROINE: 94%

Wait.

James Hartford? This was the male lead?

Then who was-

I looked back toward the rose trellis.

The military man was gone.

Vanished like smoke.

But I was sure he would be one of the leads. Everything about him screamed main character energy.

DING!

ONLY ONE MALE LEAD IS PRESENT AT TODAY'S EVENT: JAMES HARTFORD

THE MAN YOU NOTICED WAS CAPTAIN THEODORE ASHFORD

CLASSIFICATION: WILD VARIABLE

ROLE: UNPREDICTABLE

Theodore Ashford. The name was familiar-not a male lead, but someone in the novel. I just couldn't remember his role.

Curse those 2,500 chapters. Half of them were filler anyway.

DING!

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'VE SUCCESSFULLY EVOKED PITY FROM MALE LEAD FOR FEMALE LEAD

QUEST COMPLETE

BONUS: +500 HATRED POINTS

CURRENT TOTAL: 1,152

YOU MAY REST NOW

Like hell I can.

James was staring at me with open disgust, one arm wrapped protectively around Maryann's shaking shoulders. He pointed at me, his voice echoing in the suddenly silent garden.

"Beatrice! Haven't you taken this far enough? This poor girl is crying!"

Oh hell no.

"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton, you've found a way to bring shame to my name once again!"

Duke Alaric's hand shot out, finger pointed like a sword. Spittle flew in an arc.

I leaned back. Dodged it cleanly.

"Father, your projection-"

"Don't you dare lecture me on elocution right now, young lady!"

The garden guests had evacuated fifteen minutes ago. Now it was just me, consequences, and an angry Duke. A tale as old as time.

I stared at the ground. Focused hard. Didn't blink.

When I looked up, my eyes were appropriately glassy.

"But Father-" My voice broke perfectly. "-Maryann started this. I was only defending our family's reputation-"

Duke Alaric's finger lowered. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

I kept my face very still.

Hehe.

DING!

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: YOU LOOK UNHINGED. ADJUST IMMEDIATELY.

I softened my expression into something more trembling-daughter, less serial-killer.

"Well." Duke Alaric deflated like a punctured balloon. "Next time, perhaps-don't-I mean, you could-"

"Ah!"

Maryann's scream cut through the air like a dinner bell.

My hands clenched around my skirts. I turned slowly-so slowly-toward the sitting area.

Maryann sat with one delicate hand pressed to her chest, the very picture of distress.

Don't roll your eyes. Don't roll your eyes. Don't-

My eyes rolled. Hard. I think I saw my own brain.

James Hartford hovered over Maryann like a particularly brooding umbrella, one hand patting her pink hair while he shot me looks that could curdle milk.

Hey, System. Quick question. Isn't James supposed to be MY fiancé?

DING!

CORRECT. ENGAGEMENT ESTABLISHED AT AGE EIGHTEEN. VERY MUCH IN LOVE.

UNTIL MARYANN ARRIVED TWO MONTHS AGO.

JAMES'S ATTENTION SPAN: REDIRECTED.

Ah. I blinked. Oh.

The pieces clicked together. This wasn't in the novel-not explicitly-but I could see it now. Some random girl gets plucked from obscurity, becomes your instant sister, earns universal sympathy, and steals your fiancé while everyone calls her brave.

No wonder the original Beatrice went nuclear.

I studied Maryann with new eyes.

The timing of her tears. That smug little smile when I'd fainted. The way she always, always knew exactly how to position herself as the victim.

Was this happening because I'd entered the story? Or had Maryann been playing everyone from the start, and I'd just been too busy rage-reading at 2 AM to notice?

"Beatrice!"

I snapped back to attention. "Yes, Father? My dear, handsome, exceptionally patient father?"

Duke Alaric's ears turned pink. He tried to look stern. Failed. "You can't charm your way out of this one. Apologize to your sister. Now. Or I'm adding this to your permanent record."

System. Will that dock points?

AFFIRMATIVE. BEATRICE WOULD RATHER CHEW GLASS THAN APOLOGIZE TO MARYANN.

HOWEVER, BEATRICE ADORES HER FATHER. CANNOT DIRECTLY REFUSE HIM.

SUGGESTED STRATEGY: TACTICAL STALLING.

You're actually useful for once.

I started walking toward Maryann. Each step took approximately seven years.

Honestly? I didn't want to apologize. I'd heard worse from clients in my past life-screaming, entitled, wrong-on-every-level clients. My comment to Maryann was a gentle tap. Not my fault her tear ducts were set to maximum sensitivity.

James watched my approach like I was a criminal heading to the gallows.

So supportive. Really feeling the love here, darling.

"Your Grace-" A servant appeared in the doorway. Divine intervention in human form. "-dinner is served."

Oh, thank God.

"Dinner!" I pivoted immediately, practically skipping toward the dining room.

"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton!"

"My lady!" Rose's voice rose to a scandalized pitch. "One does not skip indoors! Or outdoors! Actually, don't skip anywhere-it's not befitting your station!"

"Apologies, Father!" I called over my shoulder. "But there are pressing matters! Like food! Which is hot! And getting cold! Priorities!"

Fifteen minutes later, we sat at the long dining table. Roasted duck, glazed vegetables, the works.

I rubbed my hands together.

Say what you want about getting isekai'd into a villainess role-the food was exceptional. No instant ramen. No sad desk lunches. Just quality cuisine prepared by people who actually knew what they were doing.

Pro tip for anyone getting isekai'd: always choose rich. Always.

Maryann, being the perfect female lead, immediately started helping everyone despite the maids literally trying to do their jobs.

"Let me pour that for you, Father-"

"Ah, thank you, my dear daughter." Duke Alaric's face softened.

James looked like he might swoon. Handsomely. Broodingly. But definitely swooning.

"Thank you for having me, Your Grace," James said.

Duke Alaric waved this off. "Nonsense, Marquess. You're practically family already. You should visit more often-Beatrice has been asking about you."

Have I, though?

James didn't even glance my way. His eyes slid to Maryann instead.

She smiled at him. Sweetly. Demurely.

Could you two BE more obvious?

"The wedding is in seven months," Duke Alaric continued, cutting into his duck. "You were betrothed young, but I let you choose your own date-generous of me, really. Back in my day, we married the moment we came of age-"

"Yes, Father." I smiled fondly, pulling from Beatrice's memories. "You've mentioned it. Several times. Many times. Frequently, one might say."

Duke Alaric chuckled. "That's my girl!"

I took a bite of duck. Chewed. Swallowed. "Father, who was that absolutely stunning military man at today's party?"

"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton!"

Oh, here we go.

"You should find NO man handsome except your fiancé! And don't speak with your mouth full-I raised you better than that!"

James scoffed.

Out loud.

I set down my fork carefully. "Something to add, Marquess?"

His eyes widened. "Nothing."

"Sounded like something."

"It was nothing."

"Because it sounded-"

"You're pretending you don't know him," James said flatly. "You had a crush on Captain Ashford when you were eight years old. Don't play coy."

I stared at him. My fork was still in my hand. It would be so easy-

DING!

SYSTEM WARNING: VIOLENCE IS OUT OF CHARACTER.

DESPITE JAMES'S MORALLY QUESTIONABLE BEHAVIOR, BEATRICE WOULD NEVER CONFRONT HIM DIRECTLY. SHE TARGETS MARYANN INSTEAD.

BEATRICE IS IN DENIAL ABOUT JAMES'S FEELINGS.

I set the fork down. Carefully. Very carefully.

Duke Alaric cleared his throat. "Captain Theodore Ashford. Fine man. War hero. Been back for a while now, but only recently started attending social events. I imagine Beatrice simply forgot-it's been years."

I nodded absently. So Theodore was important. Good to know attractive men existed outside the love interest category. Refreshing.

"Speaking of the Ashfords-" Duke Alaric wiped his mouth with a napkin. "-they're hosting a garden party next week. I can't attend. Business in the capital. Beatrice, you'll go in my stead."

"Of course, Father."

DING!

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: PLOT PROGRESSION DETECTED

CRITICAL QUEST UNLOCKED

OBJECTIVE: ENSURE MARYANN ATTENDS THE ASHFORD PARTY

REWARD: 1,000 HATRED POINTS

I straightened immediately. "Father, may I bring Maryann?"

The dining room went silent.

Forks stopped mid-air. James froze. Even the servants paused.

Everyone stared at me like I'd just announced my plans to become a nun.

Duke Alaric's face transformed. Pure relief. Joy. Hope for his daughters' relationship. "Of course! Yes! What a wonderful idea, Beatrice! This is excellent! Growth! Development!"

"I'll escort you both," James said immediately, his whole demeanor brightening.

I'm not planning her murder. Everyone relax.

We ate in silence for approximately ninety seconds before-

"Sister." Maryann's voice was soft. Sweet. Calculated. "You really should spend more time with James before next month's garden party."

I looked up slowly.

Maryann rarely initiated conversation with me. She was scared of Beatrice. This was off-script.

"Why that party specifically?" I asked.

Maryann blinked. Recovered smoothly. "Oh, these large events are so important for engaged couples. Public appearances. Perception. You understand."

But her eyes flickered with something else.

Knowledge.

Next month's garden party.

I searched my memories-

Oh.

Oh no.

That was where the original Beatrice's engagement imploded in the novel. Public humiliation. James ending things in front of everyone. Social destruction.

How would Maryann know to mention that specific event?

I studied her face. Really looked.

Her timing was too perfect. Her reactions too calculated. And now she was referencing plot points that hadn't happened yet.

"Sister," I said quietly. The conversation around us faded. "I'd like to speak with you after dinner. Privately."

The table went still.

Maryann's smile faltered-just for a heartbeat.

Then it was back. Perfect. Innocent. "Of course, Sister. Whatever you need."

But I'd seen it.

That flash in her eyes.

And I knew, with cold certainty:

I wasn't the only person at this table who'd knew this story.

"And I promise to visit more often, Beatrice."

James delivered this vow with the gravity of a man swearing fealty to the crown, then leaned forward to kiss my gloved hand. The lamplight from the entrance caught the angles of his face just so-all noble jawline and earnest brow.

I kept my expression placid. Venting inwardly, Your voice is rather loud for someone supposedly whispering sweet nothings to his betrothed.

Seriously, the servants three corridors over probably heard that declaration. I half expected them to start applauding.

Behind me, I could feel Rose shifting her weight.

James climbed into his carriage. The horses stamped, their breath fogging in the cool evening air. The wheels began their slow roll down the cobblestone drive.

He was still looking out the window.

Not at me.

At Maryann.

Oh, for crying out loud.

And she-oh, she was good-lifted her hand in the daintiest wave imaginable. Her pink hair caught the golden spill of light from the mansion's windows, making her look like something from a painting. The Foundling Daughter Bids Farewell to Her Sister's Intended While Said Sister Stands Right There Like a Potted Plant.

Some artist would have a field day.

The carriage disappeared around the bend.

She kept waving.

Girl, he's gone.

I crossed my arms, waiting for what seems like forever.

Finally Maryann lowered her hand. She turned, probably expecting me to have already swept back inside like any proper lady who'd just been humiliated.

Instead, she found me watching her.

She flinched.

"Sister?" Her voice came out small, uncertain. Wounded.

Give this girl an oscar award.

"You can retire for the night, Rose."

"My lady?" Rose's eyes darted between us like she was watching a tennis match. "Are you certain you don't require-"

"I'm fine." I softened my voice. "Truly. Rest well."

Rose hesitated, then she dipped into a curtsy, deeper than usual. "Very well. Goodnight, Lady Cruelton." A pointed pause. "Miss Maryann."

The distinction wasn't lost on anyone.

We stood in silence as Rose's footsteps faded, the heavy door closing behind her with a muffled thud.

I turned to Maryann.

"Follow me."

"Oh-" Her eyes went wide. "Okay."

Just like that, the kicked-puppy look materialized. Shoulders hunched. Head bowed. Hands clasped at her waist like she was bracing for execution.

DING!

The system's notification bloomed across my vision in cheerful blue text.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

I kept walking toward the side entrance, my skirts swishing against the stone.

DING!

THERE IS NO IMPORTANT PLOT POINT RIGHT NOW. YOU DON'T NEED TO BULLY THE HEROINE.

"Oh, shush it," I muttered under my breath. "You think I enjoy being the villain in this disaster?"

A series of dots appeared, hovering at the edge of my vision.

...

Oh, we're having a staring contest now? You're an omniscient narrative device, not a sulking teenager.

I mentally shooed it away like an annoying fly.

"Sister?" Maryann's voice came from behind me, careful. Probing. "Did you say something?"

Wonderful. Now I'm the madwoman talking to herself.

I waved dismissively. "I said walk beside me. Unless you plan to skulk behind me all night like a guilty conscience."

"Oh-okay."

She scurried up, her smaller frame appearing in my peripheral vision. And of course-of course-she smelled like vanilla and fresh linen. Like sunshine somehow got distilled into perfume and bottled by cherubs.

Typical protagonist energy.

"Come to think of it," I said, keeping my tone conversational, "where is your room?"

Maryann's step faltered. When I glanced at her, her eyes had gone wide again, but this time there was something else underneath. Calculation, maybe. Or fear.

"If-if there's any way I've wronged you, Sister-" Her voice trembled perfectly, like a violin string played by a master. "I'll be willing to do anything to make amends. I never meant to cause offense-"

"Oh, shush." I waved a hand. "Can't I bond with my sister anymore? What kind of family would we be if we didn't engage in late-night bonding sessions?"

Maryann's brows drew together, confusion flickering across her delicate features.

DING!

SYSTEM WARNING: OUT OF CHARACTER

BEATRICE CRUELTON WOULD NEVER WILLINGLY CALL MARYANN HER SISTER.

Right. Of course. Can't have character growth, that would be crazy.

I cleared my throat, letting my expression harden into something crueler. "Show me where you sleep, you peasant." I added a sneer for good measure, though it felt ridiculous. "Before I decide you're too much trouble to keep around."

Was that too much? That felt too much.

The system's blue glow dimmed, apparently satisfied.

But I caught something in Maryann's expression-a flash of relief, there and gone in an instant. Like she was more comfortable with my cruelty than my kindness.

Well that's depressing.

Being transmigrated into a novel wasn't the worst fate, really. It was like being in a stage play where the spotlight followed Maryann, and my job was to stride out during my scenes, deliver my villainous lines with appropriate hair-flipping, then exit stage left while everyone gasped and clutched their pearls.

The boring parts-the weeks between plot points-those were mine. Time I could use however I wanted, as long as I showed up for my cues.

It's basically improv theater with higher stakes and worse costume design.

"It's so nice to spend time with you, Sister."

Maryann's voice cut through my thoughts, sweet as honey poisoning.

"Father looked so happy when you called me your sister at dinner."

There it is.The reminder that Duke Alaric was watching. That Beatrice's cruelty was supposed to be confined to the shadows, never performed where Father could see.

It felt less like family bonding and more like a veiled threat wrapped in silk.

I said nothing.

We passed a mirror-my purple hair and her pink hair like a confectionery nightmare. Best not question the world's logic.

A maid emerged from a side corridor, took one look at us walking together, and nearly dropped her basket of linens. She scrambled back, eyes wide as saucers.

"-together?" I caught her whispered to another maid who'd appeared like a ghost.

"-Lady Beatrice being nice-"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

We climbed the stairs-the servant stairs, I realized, not the main ones. These were narrower, dimmer, the wallpaper plain instead of printed. The gaslight here came from simple brass fixtures rather than crystal.

Of course her room is in the servants' wing. Why give the long-lost daughter proper accommodations when you can stick her in the attic like Cinderella?

Though to be fair, this mansion was so enormous that the "servants' wing" was probably nicer than most noble houses.

Finally, Maryann stopped in front of a plain wooden door. Nothing like the carved mahogany monstrosity that marked my chambers.

She pushed it open.

I walked in without waiting for invitation.

The room was... normal.

Better than I'd expected, honestly. The author of this mess had such an obsession with the "suffering heroine" trope that I'd half-anticipated finding Maryann sleeping on a bed of nails in a converted broom closet, probably with a single candle and a crust of bread for company.

But no-there was a proper bed with a quilted coverlet, a small wardrobe, a writing desk positioned near the window, a washstand with a porcelain basin decorated with tiny flowers.

Simple, but comfortable. Cozy, even.

I moved through the space slowly, cataloging details. A lamp with a painted shade. Curtains in pale blue cotton. Books on the desk-primers, by the look of them. The alphabet kind.

Then my attention snagged on something at her bedside table.

A photograph in a simple wooden frame. Not a painting-an actual photograph, which meant it was probably precious. The image showed a younger Maryann-maybe nine or ten-with her arm slung around a grinning boy's shoulders. He had dark hair, a gap-toothed smile, and they both looked happy in that unselfconscious way children do before life teaches them to guard themselves.

I picked up the frame, studying it.

"Pay it no mind, Sister." Maryann's voice had gone soft, almost dreamy. "When I still lived in the slums, a family was kind enough to take me in before they-" She paused, swallowing. "Before they died. That was their son."

Ah.

I thought so.

Male Lead Number Three. The childhood sweetheart archetype. According to the novel's glacial timeline, he and Maryann would reunite around chapter five hundred-which, given that the author needed five chapters to describe a tea party, might not be as far off as it sounded.

I studied the photograph, then glanced at Maryann. Her expression was perfectly melancholic. Wistful. The picture of a girl mourning her lost family.

Except I'm certain this boy isn't actually dead.

Because in these novels, dead childhood friends had a remarkable tendency to show up later as brooding love interests with revenge plots and smoldering gazes.

Now. How do I get her to slip?

Because I was almost certain now-she knew. She knew this world. Knew the future. Knew the plot.

Had she transmigrated like me? From twenty twenty six? Or had she arrived earlier?

I set the frame down carefully and moved closer to her.

She flinched.

But the timing was off-delayed by a second, maybe two. Like she'd remembered she was supposed to be afraid rather than actually being afraid.

Got you, you sneaky little-

Now I just needed to confirm it. I'd start with something universal. Something anyone from the modern world would recognize.

Time to play a game I liked to call "Spot the Time Traveler."

"Harry Potter?"

The words dropped into the silence like stones into still water.

The room went absolutely quiet.