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?