The sun had barely kissed the gardens when the damned bell rang somewhere in the beyond. Lígia woke up with a muffled groan on her feather pillow, cursing the sunrise and all alternative realities.
"Ma'am, the bath is ready," announced a sweet but firm voice from beside her.
Lígia mumbled something unintelligible, which sounded like "let me die in peace." But the maids, three young women dressed in pastel colors and military discipline, looked at her with towels, perfumes and non-negotiable intentions.
The warm water in the bath was a comfort. Only then did Lígia have time to observe and be amazed again by her body in this new reality.
Each strand of hair was an aesthetic heresy that would have made the old her cry with envy. Her skin looked like the work of a mythological goddess with skincare based on unicorn tears.
But what disturbed her most was how everything seemed... comfortable. As if that skin wasn't just borrowed. It was hers. In some strange way, her body accepted it.
Of course...she, little by little, began to accept it too.
The moment of peace, of course, was interrupted by a...corset.
"This is an instrument of torture," she protested, gasping, while one of the maids pulled the ribbons with murderous enthusiasm.
"It's a noble standard, milady. It enhances your posture, your bust and your... composure," the older woman replied, with a slight smile.
"It enhances my desire to throw you to the alligators...if there are any here in this world," she grumbled.
After a sky blue dress, so tight that it could be mistaken for a promise of early fainting, and shoes that shone more than they should, Lígia was finally positioned in front of the mirror.
The reflection left her momentarily silent. She was stunning. Like an oil painting that came to life just to break hearts and cause intrigue in the main characters.
"Okay. That's unfair. I'm beautiful. I forgive those who brought me into this world... a little." She sighed, enchanted by her appearance.
The jewelry was discreet. A pair of teardrop-shaped sapphire earrings and a crimson rose-shaped brooch on her chest.
Wow.
The image was perfect. But it was still just that: image. The content needed to keep up. And that was why she was on her way to her first class.
Crossing the halls of the mansion with firm but still hesitant steps. The walls were covered in tapestries, golden frames and portraits of ancestors who looked like they were ghosts. The white marble floor echoed with each step.
Today's etiquette tutor waited in a room lit by arched windows, with a table set for tea and a stack of books with titles like "The Charm of Social Submission" and "Smile with Grace, Not with Your Teeth."
When she entered, the tutor, a thin gentleman with a sharp mustache and the look of a social inquisitor, stood with a slight bow of his head.
"Miss d'Argêntea. What a pleasure to see you up and…alive."
"The pleasure is almost mine," she replied, sitting down with all the care of someone who fears her dress will burst, it's so tight.
This study room smelled of ancient parchment, dust from old books, and stifling aristocratic expectations.
He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. "We'll start with the basics: posture, intonation, and how not to spill tea on someone else's skirt during a passive-aggressive confrontation in society."
"Ah, practical lesson then," she smiled.
He hesitated.
She kept her smile.
"I see I'll have work to do." He commented.
"But think on the bright side. You'll become famous. 'The master who tamed the infamous Crimson Rose.' You'll even be the title of a book." She suggested as if it were a promotion to her status.
He smiled slightly and sat down in his chair. As he opened the etiquette manual and prepared the first lesson, Ligia straightened her back, lifted her chin and mentally thought about her new motto:
"If you're going to play the game, then do it with a crystal glass in one hand and a war plan in the other."
Well... that motto was thrown out of her mind as the class progressed.
After a horrible class, Ligia came back from class dragging her feet like a tragic heroine after a war against teaspoons and poorly executed repetitive curtsies.
She entered the hall of the east wing of the mansion as if gasping for air, her back aching from the tight corset, her feet throbbing inside her pretty, murderous little shoes, and her mind buzzing with rules about how to sit, how to smile, and how to exist without dishonoring seven generations of dead nobles.
She grumbled, "If anyone else tells me that tilting your chin is immodest, I'll—" Before she could finish her internal threat, footsteps echoed in the white marble hallway, announcing a presence.
She looked in the direction and saw a man walking towards her.
Dorian d'Argêntea... Her brother.
The firstborn, the heir, pride and rigidity personified.
Tall, elegant, with precise movements as if the world were a dance and he was the only one who knew the choreography. He wore the silver-gray military uniform with the Flaming Rose on his chest, his black hair short and discreet.
His eyes, like hers, of a cold and intense violet, met briefly.
"Sister," he said, with a slight nod. His tone was polite, almost diplomatic, but his gaze hesitated for half a second too long.
Ligia hesitated too. Part of her wanted to smile, part wanted to run away.
Dorian was like an expensive painting hanging in a silent room: beautiful, imposing, and hard to read.
"You're back from your inspection early, brother." She said, managing a fake smile.
"The weather didn't allow us to continue... Blizzards." Pause. "And I heard about... your recovery."
She shrugged, trying to sound light. "Still adjusting to... everything."
He nodded, not understanding her meaning.
"If you need anything, there are servants available." He said it like someone offering a pillow on a sinking ship.
"Thank you." She tried to keep her smile.
He nodded again, a little slower this time. Then he continued on his way, his boots echoing until they disappeared around the bend in the hallway.
Ligia stood there for a moment, breathing.
She realized that he cared about her. He just didn't know how to show it without looking like he was signing a peace treaty.
She sighed and, as if guided by instinct or by the desire for space, headed North.
The walls of the mansion ended in arches covered in flowering ivy, and soon her steps touched the white stone path lined with roses and camellias. Small fountains murmured among marble statues—nymphs, knights.
The air was fresher there!.
She immediately loved that garden. It was as if the very soul of the house was there, whispering stories in each flower.
Ligia sat on a white-painted iron bench, under the generous shade of a late cherry tree, thinking "Here, I can just be... me."
Her dress was still tight, the system still floated in some corner of her consciousness, but for a moment, everything seemed bearable. Even beautiful.
She looked at the sky. "For now... let me pretend I'm just a girl in a garden."
The flowers didn't respond, but the wind did. Blowing through her hair with a gentle, almost familiar affection.
And for a moment, Ligia believed that maybe... just maybe... this new world could be hers too.