"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?

"Please stand properly, Lady Cruelton."

The tailor's voice came out strained, like he was trying to reason with a wild animal. He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief that had seen better days. "This part requires precise measurement."

I shifted my weight and shot him a look that could curdle milk.

"Huh?"

He squeaked

"Not-nothing, my lady!" He turned away hastily, fumbling with the tape measure around my waist. His hands shook slightly as he worked.

DING!

+100 HATRED POINTS

CURRENT BALANCE: 5,467

The blue notification hovered cheerfully at the edge of my vision, like a proud teacher announcing test scores.

Another one for the collection. At this rate, I'll hit my weekly quota before dinner.

Rose materialized at my side with that preternatural ability of hers to appear exactly when needed. Her weathered face was composed, patient as stone.

"Lady Cruelton," she said gently. "Please stand properly for Master Pemberton. He cannot complete his work if you continue to fidget."

I whipped around to face her, making the poor tailor yelp as his tape measure went flying.

"Oh, so you're telling me I'm unreasonable?" I let my voice rise, sharp and cutting. "Is that what this is? You think I'm so immature that I can't even stand still for five minutes like a proper lady?"

Rose's expression didn't change. Not a flicker. Not a twitch.

Curse this woman and her unnaturally calm demeanor.

"No, my lady." Her voice remained steady, almost soothing. "I would never think such things. I was simply noting that the Ashford garden party is tomorrow." She paused delicately. "And we've been unable to complete your dress fitting all week due to... various circumstances."

Various circumstances. That's one way to describe my week-long reign of terror.

I'd been absolutely vicious this past week. On Monday, I'd criticized a maid's cleaning so harshly she'd burst into tears-200 points. Tuesday, I'd thrown a teacup at a wall during breakfast because the eggs were quoted "prepared by peasants who clearly had no concept of proper temperature"-550 points. Wednesday had been particularly productive: I'd gone down to the stables and painted a face on one of the horses with expensive imported rouge.

The horse had looked ridiculous. Duke Alaric had been furious. The stable master had nearly fainted.

1500 points, thank you very much.

Thursday through today had been a blur of snide comments, door-slamming, and general unpleasantness that would've made the original Beatrice proud.

And yet, despite my best efforts to be absolutely horrible to everyone in a ten-mile radius, there were exactly two people I hadn't managed to earn a single hatred point from.

Rose, standing before me with the patience of a saint.

And Duke Alaric, who seemed to view my behavior as either amusing or concerning, but never truly hateful.

This steady-as-a-mountain character is going to be the death of me.

I let out a long, theatrical sigh and straightened my posture.

"Fine."

Master Pemberton approached cautiously, like I might bite. To be fair, given my behavior this week, it wasn't an unreasonable concern.

He resumed his work, carefully avoiding eye contact as he measured and pinned and made little marks on the fabric with chalk. His hands still trembled slightly.

Maryann wanted me to continue being the villain? Fine. I'll give everyone exactly what they expect.

She'd said it herself: "Do as you've always done."

Perfect. That's exactly what I'll do.

DING!

The system notification bloomed across my vision, larger than usual.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: YOU'RE ON A ROLL. KEEP BEING THIS EVIL AND IN NO TIME YOU'LL HAVE NO ONE ON YOUR SIDE.

CURRENT TRAJECTORY: MAXIMUM ISOLATION ACHIEVED IN APPROXIMATELY 3 WEEKS.

Oh, now the system wants to be snarky with me?

"I don't remember asking for your commentary," I muttered under my breath. "Shoo. Go away. Your opinions are neither needed nor welcome."

Master Pemberton froze mid-measurement. "My lady? I-I didn't say anything."

Oh no.

Rose's eyes sharpened, assessing me with that look she got when she was trying to figure out if I was ill or just being dramatic.

Then, smoothly, she turned to the tailor. "Pay it no mind, Master Pemberton. My mistress receives prophecies on occasion. It's best not to listen when she's in the midst of a vision."

Master Pemberton's eyes went wide as saucers. He looked at me with newfound wonder, like I'd suddenly transformed from terrifying noblewoman to mystical oracle.

"Of course, Lady Cruelton!" He bowed so deeply I thought he might topple over. "Pardon my manners. I had no idea you were blessed with the sight."

Prophecies. Rose just told him I see prophecies.

I shot her a grateful look. She inclined her head the tiniest fraction-acknowledgment, but not quite approval.

DING!

Another notification, more insistent this time.

SPEAKING OF WHICH...

I narrowed my eyes at the blue text hovering in my vision. Speaking of which, what?

YOU NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN CURIOUS ABOUT MARYANN.

My jaw tightened. Oh, now you want to have a conversation?

Master Pemberton glanced at my face and immediately looked away, redoubling his efforts with the hem of my dress.

You know what? Fine. Let's have this out.

I took a deliberate breath, keeping my voice low enough that it would sound like muttering to anyone listening.

"You didn't tell me Maryann was reborn."

YOU DIDN'T ASK.

"That seems like rather important information to withhold, don't you think?" My whisper was sharp. "What's the point of all this roleplaying if we both know what each other are doing? We're just actors performing a play we've both memorized."

YOUR CURIOSITY MIGHT HAVE DERAILED THE PLOT.

"Derailed-" I bit off the words before I could shout them. Master Pemberton was already looking nervous enough. "The plot is already derailed. She died the first time around. Clearly, something went wrong with your precious narrative."

The system's blue glow flickered.

...

THAT WAS DIFFERENT.

"How? How was it different?"

THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF HER DEATH WERE... COMPLICATED.

"Oh, that's wonderfully vague. Thank you. So helpful."

YOU'LL UNDERSTAND WHEN-

"'When the time comes,'" I finished mockingly. "Yes, I've heard that before. You're about as useful as a chocolate teapot."

Master Pemberton cleared his throat nervously. "My lady? I'm finished with the measurements. If you'll just remain still for one more moment while I mark the final hem..."

I forced myself to stand perfectly still, even though I wanted to pace. Or possibly throw something.

Fine. The system won't give me answers. Typical.

But there was one thing that had been nagging at me all week.

Maryann.

I hadn't seen her since that night. Not once. Not at breakfast, not at dinner, not passing in the hallways. It was like she'd vanished into thin air.

Where is she?