"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.