The dining hall was grand, adorned with heavy tapestries and an elaborate oak table that stretched the length of the room. The long table was filled with platters of bread, cured meats, stewed fruits, and porridge. All her life, she hadn't seen that much food in one sitting. It was not a breakfast; it was a feast.
The second thing that made her pause by the dining hall door were the two people who were already seated there. One was clearly a tall man, seated at the head of the table, wearing a dark military uniform who paused in the act of drinking his coffee to look at her. He was strikingly handsome. His dark, wavy hair neatly combed. His brilliant blue eyes piercing. The other was a well-dressed little boy, seated on the man's left, and was eating porridge.
"Good morning, Mother." The boy greeted her warmly.
"G-good morning," she shyly replied with a smile.
Wait.
M-mother??? I…uh, Bettina… has a baby?!! With this man? She couldn't mask her shocked expression as she looked back at the handsome man who was looking at her with a raised eyebrow. For a moment, she just stared in wide-eyed fear at the man who was evidently an authority figure.
Was he…Bettina's husband, then? He seemed to be angry at her. Were they not on good terms with each other? Wait…we're not going to have sex later, right??!
"Will you be standing there all day?" The man asked her sardonically.
Hesitantly, blinking away her shock and trepidation, she walked forward and pulled a chair on the right side of the man. She paused in the act of sitting at the soft gasp of the maids behind her. Did I do something wrong? She looked back to the man whose eyebrows raised even higher at her.
She noticed two men in uniform arranging plates and cutlery on the other end of the table. One of them pulled out the chair in front of it and gestured for her to sit there. "My lady?"
She could feel her cheeks burning, acutely aware of the eyes that discreetly observed her as she walked carefully to the proffered place setting. That must be her seat. One head of the table was for the lord and the other head of the table, on the other end, was for the lady of the house. She should remember this. So… That man, then, must be the earl.
The earl went back to eating as if she wasn't present, only speaking to the boy beside him.
She looked down on the table in front of her, stomach tightening with panic. There were too many spoons and forks. Which one should she use? How was she supposed to manage this without making a fool of herself?
A servant placed a bowl of porridge and a goblet of spiced cider before her. She looked down and wondered which spoon to use. Maybe the biggest one. She looked up to one of the men. "May I have coffee, please?"
The servant looked surprised at her request, but still gave her the requested beverage.
Ew. That one spoonful of the porridge was bland and tasteless. She almost spat it out. It tasted like cardboard. She had to force herself to swallow it. She had never tasted oatmeal this bland before. Looking around the table, she saw a small porcelain pot of honey and poured a generous helping on the oat porridge. Much better.
She reached for the bread, about to slice it with a table knife, only to realize that the other two were tearing it with their hands. Suppressing her modern instinct to request for butter or jam, she mimicked their actions, breaking the bread with deliberate grace. She dipped it lightly in the stew, avoiding the urge to grimace at the unfamiliar taste of heavily spiced meat.
Sarah stood by the wall, observing her with subtle amusement. Mary Jane looked away, unable to confront the insolent maid. Instead, she continued eating, as if this fine dining style was second nature to her. What a very uncomfortable breakfast. The huge room was silent save for the soft clinking of cutlery on glazed, hand painted, ceramic plates. Thankfully, someone spoke up to break her mounting tension.
"How are you mother?"
She smiled at the boy. "I'm fine. How about you?"
The earl suddenly stood up before the boy could respond. "I'm finished. Let's go, Jason." And he walked away without any other word to her.
The boy placed his napkin on the table and stood up. "Goodbye mother."
"Goodbye," she smiled once more to the child who waved at her before skipping out.
Mary Jane allowed herself a quiet breath of relief. She had survived her first Renaissance-era-like breakfast without scandal. But as Sarah refilled her goblet, the maid murmured with a sly smile, "My lady seems... most refined this morning. One would think you were learning the ways of civility anew."
Mary Jane met her gaze evenly. "I think the true mark of civility is knowing when to hold one's tongue."
Sarah bowed; her expression neutral. "Of course, my lady."
The disrespect was unmistakable. The lady of this house was not welcome.
*****Two hearts seek vengeance; two minds burn bright*****
"Jason."
"Yes father?" The boy stopped right behind his father. They had just finished breakfast where he met his mother again for the first time. The last time he saw mother was before he got really sick that he had to stay in bed for many, many days.
It has already been months since he got better. And yet, he was still not allowed to see his mother.
"Do you remember what I told you about your stepmother?"
"That I am not allowed to go near her." Jason sulked. She may be his stepmother, but he had no memory of his real mother. His real mother died right after he was born. Father said, it was not his fault. And for many years, it was just Father and him, together. But then, Father remarried. And so, he knew no other mother except Countess Bettina.
"And why did I forbid you to go near your stepmother?"
"Because she's dangerous," he looked down kicking his foot at an imaginary stone. He didn't know how she could be dangerous and why he should remember that. Adults are so hard to understand sometimes.
"Never forget," Earl Whitman went down on one knee and kissed his forehead.
"Father!" Shyly, he wiped his forehead. Sometimes, father still treated him like a baby. He blushed, looking around to see if there were any witnesses. He wanted to look dignified just like his father. He will be the future Earl of Whitman after all.
His father chuckled and hugged him. Well, he didn't hate his father's affectionate displays. He smiled and hugged him back.
"Well now, I'm sorry I have to leave for work again. But I'll be back as soon as I can and we can play all day once I return."
"Promise?"
"I promise. Now, run along to your study, your tutor is waiting for you," The earl turned him in the right direction and playfully swatted him on his bottom.
He turned back and watched his father walk out of the grand doors, down the front steps, and climb his carriage. Then, he turned to look back in the direction of the dining hall where his mother may still be eating. Longing to run back there and talk to her.
He couldn't believe what everyone was saying. How could Mother be dangerous? All he knew was that mother had always been nice to him. At first, she ignored him. But eventually, she read books to him and even tried to play with him. He wanted to play with his mother again. But he also couldn't disobey his father. Father may always be busy with work, but he also made sure to spend time with him. He was nicer than the fathers of his friends who were too strict and hit them when they misbehave. He suppressed the urge to go back to the dining hall. And with heavy steps, walked to his study and start his lessons.
*****Bound by justice, forged in night*****
Though the breakfast in the grand dining hall had passed without incident, Mary Jane still felt the heavy silence clinging to her shoulders like a woolen cloak soaked in rain. The servants had been polite—but distant. Eyes followed her as if trying to decipher the changes in her very soul. And perhaps, they weren't wrong to stare. She had changed. They just didn't know how utterly and completely changed the countess was.
A light breeze whispered through the open glass doors as she stepped outside, her elegant slippers brushing against the stone pathway leading into the garden. The scent of lavender and roses drifted on the wind, but the beauty of it all couldn't chase away the knot of fear lodged in her chest.
Where am I supposed to begin?
Her thoughts churned like restless waves. Nothing in this world belonged to her—not the silk gown she wore, not the manor whose halls echoed like a cathedral, and certainly not the name "Countess Whitman," which now hung about her like a borrowed title she hadn't earned.
The whispers followed her everywhere.
"The countess is awake again?"
"How came she to survive such a fall?"
"She fell from the third-floor window."
"By what sorcery did she live through that?"
"Truly, it would seem even Hell had no room for the likes of her."
Snickers.
"Here she comes."
"Better not look her in the eye... you know how she is."
No one asked if she was feeling better. The venom in their tones were clear. She was the villain here.
She felt her cheeks burning red with every whisper about her appearance and presence. Whispers that were intentionally loud enough for her to hear.
She walked slowly, her hands gently grazing the low hedge that bordered the path. Birds chirped from the trees above, carefree in their morning song. But Mary Jane's heart remained heavy.
Everyone keeps looking at me as though I've lost my mind—as though I was about to do something crazy at any moment. They seemed to be either in fear of or in disdain of her. Some of them even looked like they were bracing themselves for what she was about to do next. How could she tell them that she's not the real countess?
The face she saw in the mirror earlier that morning was unfamiliar. A pale and delicate beauty, framed by curls the color of golden hay. Even her voice had sounded strange to her ears—melodic, refined, foreign. She didn't know the language they spoke, yet somehow her lips moved in harmony with theirs, like her mind had absorbed it overnight. Thanks to that magic circle.
But the worst part wasn't the house full of strangers or the haunted halls.
It was the man she had just faced during breakfast.
The Earl… my supposed husband. What kind of man is he?
She had overheard murmurs in the corridor—whispers laced with something between fear, respect, and awe. Some servants avoided even saying his name aloud. As if his name was sacred. That alone chilled her.
If he's cruel… if he finds out I'm not who they think I am—
She shook her head quickly, refusing to let that thought bloom. Panic would get her nowhere. She needed to think, to plan, to survive long enough to find a way back home.
But what if…
She stopped walking.
What if there is no way back?
The thought struck her like a thunderclap.
When one dies, do they get reincarnated to a different world in some other part of the universe? Is that what happened to her?
That was such a scary thought. Her vision blurred with the sudden sting of tears. She blinked them away quickly and turned down a path lined with tall hedges, needing to hide, needing space to breathe.
The path opened to a secluded clearing—a quiet little gazebo wrapped in ivy and the soft pink blossoms of climbing roses. It looked like something out of a painting. She stepped into it slowly and sat on the wooden bench inside, the quiet hum of bees and rustling leaves surrounding her.
She was all alone in the gazebo. And there, for the first time since awakening in this strange new world, she allowed her heart to break.
Her trembling fingers reached to clutch the folds of her skirt as the sobs rose from her chest. Silent at first, like raindrops falling unnoticed—but soon they shook her shoulders.
"Ethan…" she whispered.
The name clung to the wind, too soft for the world to catch.
Her sweet little brother. The boy she had protected for as long as she could remember. The boy with wide, hopeful eyes and bruises he never deserved.
He's alone now. Back in that house. With that monster.
Her stepfather's face flashed in her mind—red with rage, breath stinking of stale whiskey, knuckles always ready to hit. Mary Jane had tried everything to shield Ethan. She had fought, lied, taken the beatings herself. And in the end, she had died for him.
But what good was that now?
She was in a world of nobility and titles, with ballrooms and stables and embroidered handkerchiefs. A world where her brother was nothing but a fading shadow of a distant life.
She buried her face in her hands, her tears now flowing freely.
"I don't belong here," she murmured. "I need to go back. He needs me."
The roses rustled as if the garden itself heard her anguish. But no answer came. Only the wind, and the echo of her heart breaking in silence.
Yet, as she sat there—small and sorrowful in a world not her own—a tiny ember of resolve stirred in her chest.
I can't give up.
If there was even the slightest chance of finding her way back to Ethan, of protecting him again, she would take it. She didn't know how yet. She didn't know where to begin. But one thing was certain.
She would survive.
For Ethan. For herself.
And once she returns back to Earth, she will take Ethan's hand and run away.
She took a deep breath to compose herself.
Ah, I want to take off my corset! It was so tight it slightly constricts her breathing. And the length of her gown was too long! She was sure it would trip her up at any time. She needed a bra and some real underwear. Not to mention, shorter skirts.
Well, she was pretty handy with her hands since one of her jobs was at a handicraft manufacturing store back home. She sewed clothes for little dolls, built wooden toys with screws and hammers, and she repaired electronic cars and robots brought by their customers. It was also cheaper for her back then to just mend their clothes and furniture by herself because her devil of a stepfather always took all of her hard-earned money. Maybe she could sew her own clothes here or alter whatever's available.
Her flow of thoughts was getting more erratic, jumping from one subject to the next. She needed to find a way to organize her thoughts. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could find a way out of this mess.
Even in a world of shadows and whispers, where every path was unfamiliar and every face held questions, Mary Jane would find her way.
*****What was shattered, now made whole*****
Jason sat at his small desk, swinging his legs under the chair as his tutor droned on about numbers and kings. He tried to listen, he really did, but the sun was shining too bright through the tall window, and the chalk felt squeaky and sharp in his ears.
Bored, he glanced outside, hoping for a bird or a butterfly—anything more interesting than sums and scribbles.
That's when he saw her.
Down in the gardens, inside the white gazebo, sat Lady Whitman. She looked small from the window, almost like a doll. But even from up here, Jason could tell—she was crying.
His heart jumped in his chest.
She's crying? Why is she crying?
He leaned closer to the glass, pressing his forehead against the cool pane. Her shoulders were shaking, and one hand covered her face like she didn't want anyone to see. But he saw. And it made something twist in his tummy.
He hadn't talked to her in a long time. Not really. Not since… well, since everyone started whispering. Since Nanny and the maids started keeping him away from her. They said things—scary things. That she was bad. That she didn't love him. That she might've wanted to hurt him.
But Jason didn't believe that. Not deep in his heart.
Because Lady Whitman, Mother, used to smile when she saw him. She used to hold his hand when they walked through the rose garden. She made funny voices when reading stories and tickled him under the chin when he pouted. She even let him sit in her lap once when he scraped his knee and cried like a baby.
He missed that. He missed her.
He didn't know what happened. One day she was there, warm and soft and full of sunshine—and then suddenly, cold. Quiet. Distant. Like someone had drawn a line between them that he wasn't allowed to cross. And then, she too got sick and became bedridden after got into an accident.
Jason blinked hard, trying to stop the sting in his eyes. He wasn't a baby.
Why's she crying all alone? Did someone hurt her feelings?
Does she miss me too?
His throat felt tight. He wished he could run outside and hug her. Climb into her lap again and tell her it was okay. That he didn't care what the maids said. That she was still his mother…not just stepmother. Still the only mother he'd ever known.
But he didn't move. His tutor was still talking. And he wasn't sure if he was allowed to go to her. No one had said he couldn't, but… no one had said he could either.
Jason looked back out the window.
Her hands were in her lap now, and her eyes were staring at nothing. Her face looked so sad it made his own chest ache.
I'll go to her later, he told himself. I'll sneak out after lessons and bring her the yellow flowers she likes. The ones that smell like sunshine. She used to smile at those.
And maybe… she'd smile at him again too.
*****One body, one will, one immortal soul*****
The gravel crunched softly beneath Mary Jane's slippers as she walked back toward the manor, her sleeves damp from wiping away tears. The sun had risen higher now, brushing gold across the high windows and stone columns, casting shadows that danced along the path. The breeze tickled her cheeks, carrying the sweet scent of roses.
She was still thinking about Ethan. Wondering if he'd eaten. If he was safe. If the neighbors had heard anything when her stepfather yelled…
She, as Lady Whitman, stepped through the grand double doors of the manor, her boots quiet against the marble floors as the cool shadows of the hallway swallowed the last of the garden sun. Though the inside air was warmer, the weight in her chest hadn't lifted since she left the gazebo.
She turned a corner and paused.
Ahead, sunlight poured in through a tall arched window, casting golden stripes across the corridor. A young housemaid, no older than sixteen, was just inside the window alcove, holding a wooden ladder steady as a boyish footman balanced atop it, struggling to reach the upper panes.
The footman was scrubbing furiously, exerting so much strength in his muscles that he huffed and puffed with every wipe. His rag-streaked water bucket swung from a hook on the side. As he leaned forward, the ladder rocked slightly. The maid's hands tightened, her wide eyes flashing with panic.
"Careful!" the girl said. "You'll topple it—"
"Hold still, I almost got it—"
The ladder gave a dangerous lurch.
Before anyone could shout, Mary Jane rushed forward.
"Watch out!" she called, grabbing the side of the ladder just in time to steady it.
The footman froze. The maid blinked at her in disbelief.
"Your—Your Ladyship?" the girl stammered, clearly expecting a scolding for allowing such a near accident in the hallway.
Mary Jane exhaled, her heart pounding. "That was far too close. Are you alright?"
The maid bobbed a hurried curtsy, face flushed. "Yes, m'lady. Beg pardon, m'lady. He said he didn't need help, and I—I—"
"I didn't mean to cause any worry, Lady Whitman," the footman said nervously, still balancing on the stool.
Mary Jane gave a tired but kind smile. "No harm done. But there might be a better way than all this heavy scrubbing." Her gaze drifted to the streaked glass. "All that effort, and it still looks like a ghost sneezed on it."
The maid gave a startled little gasp before biting her lips, unsure if laughter was allowed.
"Do either of you know where to find old newspapers and some vinegar?"
They both exchanged confused looks. And they stared at Mary Jane as though they'd just witnessed a pig reciting poetry.
"I—I think Cook uses vinegar in the pickling pantry," the maid offered cautiously. "And we collect and burn old newspaper in the hearth—"
"Perfect," Mary Jane nodded. "Fetch some vinegar and as much newspaper as you can spare. I'll show you something better than endless scrubbing."
Though reluctance were clearly visible in their countenances, the two servants followed her request.
Moments later, with a bowl of vinegar diluted in water and crumpled pages of old broadsheets in hand, Mary Jane demonstrated. The situation reminded her of the times she would show her young brother on how to complete tasks and homework easier back home.
"Ball it up like this—yes—and dip it in lightly." She wiped a slow circle across the lower pane. "No need for hard polishing. No smearing, no scratches, and no need to break your backs."
The maid hesitated, then copied her movements.
Her eyes went wide as the glass gleamed, reflecting the hallway behind them like a silver mirror.
"Saints above…" the girl whispered. "It's sparkling."
Their reactions helped Mary Jane relax a bit in this strange household. She chuckled. "I promise, it works every time."
The footman peered over her shoulder. "What trickery is this, then?"
"No trick. Just a secret passed down from… an old housekeeper I knew once," she said, sidestepping the truth of her otherworldly origins.
The maid paused again, blinking up at the countess. Her brows knit in confusion.
"You… erm… thank you, m'lady," she said hesitantly.
"Thank you, my lady," the footman said, voice quiet but sincere. "For the ladder… and for this. I didn't expect… well…" He trailed off, his eyes flicking away.
Mary Jane patted the side of the bucket. "Try it on the others. See what your housekeeper says."
The two workers nodded slowly, something uncertain flickering in their eyes — surprise, wonder, or maybe the first fragile threads of trust.
As Mary Jane stepped away, her skirt swishing lightly against the polished floor, she heard the maid whispering to the footman behind her.
"…She smiled at me."
"At me too!"
For the first time since waking in this strange world, someone talked normally to her, listened to her, and looked at her—not with anger or veiled hostility, but from a good place in their hearts.
Still. It wasn't home. Not yet.
But maybe, she could carve a little light into it.