"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.

"Harry Potter?"

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

The room went absolutely quiet.

Maryann's expression didn't change. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. Her face could have been carved from marble.

Then she smiled-sweet and blank and utterly uncomprehending.

"Are you perhaps telling me to check out a new pottery shop? I'm afraid I don't know any shops by that name, Sister. Though if you're interested in pottery, I believe there's a lovely ceramics merchant near the-"

"Stop." I held up a hand. "Just stop."

If she's pretending, she deserves an award. A big one. With a ceremony.

I paced, thinking. The floorboards creaked under my feet.

If she's a reader like me, there's no way she wouldn't recognize Harry Potter. Unless-

Unless she was that good at lying. Or unless I was completely wrong about everything and I was actually losing my mind.

Let's try something more specific.

"What about fanfiction?" I tried again, watching her face like a hawk. "You know-X Reader stories? Those self-insert narratives where you imagine yourself with fictional characters?"

Maryann's eye twitched.

Just once. Barely perceptible. But I saw it.

Her smile became slightly strained, like a crack forming in porcelain. "I don't understand what you're saying, Sister. Perhaps I've offended you somehow and this is-"

There. That twitch. Time to go for the throat.

"The Secret Princess: Which Man Does Maryann End Up Choosing?"

Silence.

Absolute, deafening silence.

I could hear my own heartbeat. The distant tick of a clock somewhere. A dog barking in the village beyond the estate grounds.

"The webnovel," I continued, watching her face. "The story we're currently living in. All two thousand five hundred plus chapters of melodrama and questionable pacing. Who will Maryann marry? Which male lead wins the romantic lottery?"

"For the love of heaven, cut it out, will you?"

The words exploded out of her-sharp and frustrated. Her sweet voice cracked like fine china hitting tile.

"If anything, you should be more worried about who you're gonna marry! You're getting on my last nerve and I-"

She stopped mid-sentence.

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes going wide with horror.

Gotcha.

"Oh-oh no." The words tumbled out in a rush. "I'm so sorry, Sister, I didn't mean-I don't know what came over me-please forgive my terrible rudeness-"

I couldn't help it.

I burst out laughing.

The sound erupted from somewhere deep in my chest, doubling me over. It was the kind of laughter that came from relief and vindication and the sheer absurdity of everything. Here we were, two time travelers pretending to be characters in a badly-paced romance novel, having a confrontation in a servant's bedroom while the rest of the house slept.

This is my life now. This is actually my life.

Maryann stopped her frantic apologies mid-grovel, her expression shifting from panic to annoyance to something harder to read.

"You're not Beatrice, are you?"

Her voice cut through my laughter-cold now. Calculating. All traces of sweetness evaporated like morning dew.

Oh, so we're doing this now. Cards on the table time.

I straightened up, wiping at my eyes. Then I deliberately turned away from her and started examining her bookshelf, trailing my fingers along the spines of her primers. The Alphabet for Young Ladies. Introduction to Reading. Basic Arithmetic.

"That's bold talk," I said lightly, "for someone who isn't Maryann either."

"But I am Maryann."

I glanced back at her, raising an eyebrow. "Sure. And I'm the Queen of England. Show's over, pretender. I'm in the same boat as you, so you can drop the wounded-orphan act."

Her face twisted into something between confusion and anger. "Pretender? What are you talking about? Same boat?"

Oh, now she's trying to salvage the situation. Nice try.

I crossed to her bed and collapsed onto it dramatically, not even bothering to remove my shoes because apparently I was feeling petty. The coverlet was softer than I expected. At least Duke Alaric sprung for decent linens.

"The performance is done. You can drop it."

"Get your shoes off my bed."

The words came out cold. Clipped. No sweetness. No trembling. Just pure, undiluted annoyance.

Oh?

I raised an eyebrow at her, genuinely impressed. This wasn't the kicked-rabbit routine she'd been performing earlier. This was someone genuinely offended that I'd violated the sacred rule of No Shoes On The Bed.

Finally. A real emotion.

"No can do." I shrugged, deliberately crossing my legs and pressing my shoes further into the coverlet. "I'm comfortable."

She gasped-an actual, genuinely offended gasp. The kind you'd make if someone had just insulted your grandmother and kicked your dog.

"No shoes on the bed!"

Before I could react, she rushed over and yanked my shoes off-surprisingly strong for someone so delicate-looking-then immediately started fussing over where my feet had been, smoothing the fabric and muttering under her breath.

"-completely uncivilized-no sense of basic hygiene-tracking outside dirt onto clean linens-"

I watched her, fascinated.

So that's why there were inconsistencies.

Her hiding behind Duke Alaric's leg when I first came here-that wasn't terror. That was strategy. She knew it would make her look vulnerable.

Her smug little smile when I'd fainted-that wasn't surprise. That was satisfaction. She'd been pleased to see Beatrice suffer.

The way she weaponized her tears with perfect timing-that wasn't natural innocence. That was practice.

She's been playing us all like fiddles.

"When did you transmigrate?"

The question came out blunt.

She stopped smoothing the coverlet. "Transmi-what?"

"Don't play dumb now. We were doing so well."

"You've been saying unclear words since you came to my room." Her voice was careful again, measured. Back to the script. "I don't understand half of what you're-"

"Oh for-" I sat up, exasperated. "Why are you trying to backtrack? Hey!" I snapped my fingers. Her eyes followed the motion instinctively. "I'm not Beatrice. Well, I am Beatrice, but I was Beatrice Whitmore before this. From 2026. You know-the future? Modern world? Internet? Smartphones? Any of this ringing a bell?"

"You're..." She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You're really not Beatrice?"

Oh my God. If this girl is deliberately trying to get on my nerves, she's doing a masterful job.

I took a deep breath, counting to ten internally. Patience. You need information. Don't strangle the protagonist.

"Okay. I'll explain this to you like you're five years old and also possibly concussed."

She nodded slowly, her expression going serious.

"Did you read The Secret Princess webnovel? The story we're currently living in? The one with the four male leads and approximately seventeen thousand plot points?"

"No." Flat. Final. Matter-of-fact. "I have not. I am illiterate-I never had an education."

Oh.

She said it so casually, like commenting on the weather or observing that the sky was blue. No shame. No self-pity. Just a statement of fact.

And it was true-in the novel, one of her love interests taught her to read. Chapter eight hundred something. After a lengthy subplot about the importance of education that somehow took fifty chapters to resolve.

So she's not from outside the book.

I leaned forward, studying her face. "Then how did you know about the garden party next month?"

The one where James planned to publicly humiliate Beatrice by calling off their engagement in front of half the aristocracy.

She glanced toward the window, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "That was a slip of the tongue."

"You're not as smooth as you think." I kept my voice levelled. "I know about James's plan. I know he didn't tell you anything about it-he wouldn't, not yet. The timeline doesn't work. So tell me: how do you know?"

The silence stretched between us like pulled taffy.

I waited. Let her think. Let her decide how much to reveal.

Then she sighed, her shoulders dropping in a way that seemed genuinely exhausted.

"I have lived this life before."

I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

Of all the explanations I'd been expecting-possession, transmigration, prophetic dreams, a very specific form of fortune-telling-that hadn't been on the list.

"I'm saying-" She met my eyes directly now, no performance, no sweetness, just bone-deep weariness. "When I died, I came back to the past."

I stared at her. Opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"You mean you were reborn? Like... actually reborn? You died and then-" I made a rewinding gesture with my hand. "-whoosh, back to the beginning?"

"Yes. Something like that." Her voice went quiet. "I woke up back on the day Father discovered me as his missing daughter. The day it all started. Again."

Oh.

Oh no.

That was the very beginning of the novel.

Oh this is so much worse than I thought.

Understanding crashed over me like a bucket of ice water.

She wasn't some random person who'd transmigrated into a novel like me, reading along and trying to survive. She was the real Maryann, reliving her life with full knowledge of everything.

Isn't that great.

"Well." I cleared my throat, trying to find words that wouldn't sound completely insane. "That's... that's actually really-"

Maryann stood up abruptly, walking toward the door with rigid shoulders.

"If you're satisfied with your interrogation, please leave now."

"Wait, what?" I scrambled off the bed, my stockinged feet silent on the wooden floor. "Hold on. Shouldn't we team up? We both know what's coming. We could help each other avoid the bad parts-"

"Never."

The word came out like a slap.

I stopped moving. "I don't understand. We're both in the same impossible situation-"

"I don't care how you came back." She turned to face me, and her expression made something cold settle in my stomach. It was finality. "I don't care if you were reborn, if God himself gave you a second chance. You made my life a living hell, Beatrice."

"But I'm not-"

"I won't forgive you just because you have another chance at life too."

Her hands trembled at her sides, even as her voice stayed level.

"Look, you're not understanding-I'm not the original Beatrice. I'm from a completely different world. I didn't do anything to you-"

But she wasn't listening. She'd stopped listening the moment she heard I'd somehow come back.

How do I explain this? 'Hi, I'm actually from Earth where you're all fictional characters'? Yeah, that'll go over well.

"It's a shame you're also reborn." She took a step toward me. "But it doesn't change anything. You were born wicked, Beatrice. And you still are. So do as you've always done."

"Now hold on-"

"Do you know what you said to me at Father's spring gala?" Her voice cracked slightly. "Right before you spilled wine on my dress?"

I didn't. Of course I didn't. That was the old Beatrice's crime, not mine.

"You told me I looked like a peasant playing dress-up. That no matter how many jewels Father hung on me, I'd always smell like the gutter he found me in."

Oh god. Original Beatrice was a piece of work.

"That wasn't-"

"And when I started crying?" She laughed, but it was hollow. "You told everyone I was being dramatic. That I was manipulating Father for sympathy. That I was calculating."

She was right in front of me now, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in her eyes. The tiny scar on her chin. The set of her jaw that said she was done with this conversation.

"I will do as I've always done too."

"Hey, wait-hear me out!" I held up my hands. "Damn it, think about the big picture! We could work together! Change things! Make it better for both of us!"

Just listen for five seconds-

"I've heard enough from you to last two lifetimes, Beatrice."

She grabbed my arm-not gently-and started dragging me toward the door. For someone who looked like she'd blow away in a stiff breeze, she had an iron grip that would make a blacksmith jealous.

"You're not listening! Hey! Hey!" I tried to dig my heels in, but stockings on polished wood gave me exactly zero traction. "I'm serious! I can prove I'm different! Just give me a chance to-Ow!"

"I'm done listening to you." She yanked the door open with her free hand. "I listened for months. Every cruel word. Every cutting remark. Every time you humiliated me in front of Father or the servants or James."

"But that wasn't me-"

"Every time you told him I was lying about my headaches. Every time you 'accidentally' knocked my books into the fountain. Every time you invited guests and 'forgot' to tell me so I'd look foolish showing up underdressed-"

Jesus Christ

"I know it looks bad, but-"

"Every time you-"

She shoved me out into the corridor with surprising force.

Clack.

The door slammed shut in my face, the sound echoing through the empty hallway like a gunshot.

For a moment, I just stood there in my stockings, staring at the plain wood.

Then anger surged up, hot and indignant.

Fine. FINE. If that's how we're playing this!

"Fine then!" I yelled at the door, not caring if the entire household heard. "Have it your way! So we both cheated death? Stay out of my way!"

Silence from the other side.

"Did you hear me?" I added, because apparently I couldn't leave well enough alone.

"Only after you break it off with James!" Her voice came muffled through the wood, but I could hear the steel in it. No trembling now. No sweetness.

Ugh. Who cares about him anyway? He's about as interesting as unflavored porridge!

"Fine!"

"Fine!" she shot back, and I could hear the finality in her voice. The door was closed, literally and figuratively.

I stood there for another moment, breathing hard, my face hot with frustration.

Well. That went spectacularly badly.

A maid appeared at the end of the hallway-young, freckled, carrying a stack of linens. She took one look at my face, and immediately flattened herself against the wall like I was about to breathe fire. Her eyes went wide as dinner plates, and the linens wobbled dangerously in her arms.

"M-my lady."

I swept past her without acknowledgment, because apparently I had an image to maintain.

At least being dramatic is on-brand for Beatrice.

"Have a pleasant evening," I muttered under my breath, then immediately regretted the sarcasm when the poor girl squeaked.

More servants scattered as I passed through the main corridor-pressing themselves into doorways, ducking into side rooms, one man actually diving behind a large potted plant. I could see his boots sticking out beneath the fronds.

Good grief. Do I breathe fire regularly? Why is everyone treating me like a dragon?

Word must have spread that I was in A Mood.

Damn it. I didn't even get to take my shoes from her room.

I paused in front of a large portrait hanging near the main staircase. Some ancestor with disapproving eyes and an elaborate wig stared down at me, looking vaguely constipated. Or perhaps that was just the fashion of the time.

You look how I feel, buddy.

I turned slowly, looking back down the dim corridor toward where I'd left her.

"Wait."

My voice came out quiet, talking to no one but myself.

The gaslights flickered, casting dancing shadows on the wallpaper's endless roses.

"Wait."

My pulse picked up speed.

Something wasn't adding up. Something important. Something I should have caught immediately but was too busy getting dragged out by my sleeve to notice.

"Wasn't it supposed to be a happily ever after?"

The novel. That novel. I'd read the entire thing.

It was a romance. A happy ending. Maryann got everything-the four male leads' love, the title, her father's affection, a beautiful estate. The book ended with her standing on a balcony, watching the sunrise, the four male leads standing protectively near her.

Saccharine. Perfect. Alive.

Romance novels don't kill their protagonists. That's not how this works. Not ever.

So... how did Maryann die?