The first thing I felt was warmth—a comforter, the smell of pine, and a dull throb in my head. My eyes slowly opened to a stream of golden light spilling through velvet curtains. For a moment, I thought I was in a hotel. Or a hospital. Maybe I had a weird dream.
Then I sat up.
The bed was queen-sized, carved from dark wood with embroidered sheets. A fireplace crackled across the room. There were no beeping monitors, no sterile white walls. Just oil paintings, candelabras, and the soft rustle of silk.
I really did get into my book... no—Elena's book. That bitch!
A maid entered quietly, carrying a silver tray. Her black uniform reminded me of what I'd seen in period dramas. She curtsied.
"Good morning, my lady. I'll inform Lady Lisbeth you're awake."
No. I needed time—time to register what was happening, what had happened. Maybe the accident had put me in a coma, and this was just some elaborate dream. The betrayal. The event. It must have messed with my head.
"Please don't," I stopped her.
"Are you still feeling unwell?" she asked. "Should I call the physician?"
"What year is it?" I blurted.
She looked at me, visibly concerned.
"I'll go get your mother," she said, walking to the door.
I jumped out of bed and dashed to block her path, slamming the door shut.
Then I realized—I ran. My legs didn't ache. They didn't resist.
"I can walk," I whispered. Amazed.
"Yes, my lady. I can see that," she said, clearly puzzled.
This had to be a dream.
"I just need to know what year it is," I insisted. "Drowning can make your mind a bit foggy."
"It's the Year of Steams," she replied, gently guiding me back to bed.
"I knew that," I lied. Anything to keep the other characters away from me. I needed time to recollect myself... and maybe wake up. Maybe if I went back to sleep.
"I'll be going back to bed. All that kicking made me tired," I said with a fake laugh.
She looked even more worried but nodded.
"I would like not to be disturbed—and please don't mention this to Lady... my mother."
She left as quietly as she came.
I got out of bed again and scanned the room. A bookshelf stood in the corner. My fingers twitched with the hint of a memory—a sentence, a scene, a name. Above the fireplace was a marble crest: two wolves beneath a crescent moon.
This dream had taken the book's details too seriously.
I walked to the window, parting the curtains. The snow was melting. Winter was over. Summer would be here soon. Outside, I saw a frenzy—servants in black shoveling snow, others walking toward the trees with dogs in tow.
"Your sister is gone," a voice whispered behind me.
I turned. Lady Lisbeth stood, staring at one of the paintings near the door. How had I not heard her come in?
"She must be dead by now," she said without care. "Well. Good riddance."
Lisbeth Hartglow—the mother who worshipped perfection and everything that sparkled. Her firstborn, a son, was her pride. Her second child, her purpose. But the third—Rebekah—was a stain.
She had a speech impairment. A terrible limp. But what angered Lisbeth most was the beauty the gods had given her. Rebekah's hair was thick and dark. Her eyes were amber and striking. Even still, she looked like a doll. Iris, her twin, had ordinary brown hair and eyes.
Lisbeth felt robbed. She visited an alchemist. Tried everything to fix Rebekah. But nothing worked. Because Rebekah was cursed. A living reminder of Lisbeth's sin—killing the Count's pregnant wife. So she found another way. She duplicated Rebekah's beauty... and gave it to Iris.
"She must be scared out there," I said, heart aching for the poor girl.
"She robbed you of what belonged to you," Lisbeth spat. That's how she survived her guilt—by rewriting the truth.
"Do you really believe that?" I asked softly.
She marched toward me, fury in her face. Her breath quickened. Her hand lifted.
I flinched.
Wait… she slapped me before, didn't she? And it stung. I remembered the sting.
Could a dream do that?
She lowered her hand and huffed.
"Slap me," I said.
She stared at me, eyebrows raised.
"Please. I need to know if I'm dreaming. Slap me. Pinch me. Smash a vase over my head."
She rushed to the door and shouted for the physician. Then she dragged me to sit on the bed.
"Ena… did that man steal your purity?" she asked, yanking my hair.
It hurt.
It really hurt.
This wasn't a dream.