The next time she saw him again, it was past lunch time, and Mary Jane wasn't prepared.
She just came back from her trip in the capital. The earl stood at the far end of the dining hall, seemingly finished with his own meal, speaking in low tones with the steward. His navy coat fit perfectly over his broad shoulders, the silver embroidery of his family crest glinting in the faint afternoon light. Dark hair, sharp features — he might have been handsome if not for the cold detachment in his piercing blue eyes.
Her husband.
Her stomach twisted painfully. The pleasure of her outing dissipating in the air. Whether this pain was from her own wariness of him or from Bettina's own feelings toward her husband, she didn't know.
He glanced her way, his expression flickering — surprise, perhaps, that she suddenly walked in the dining hall — before his face smoothed into indifference.
"You've been out and about," he said flatly. "I thought you'd spend another day in hiding."
The words stung more than she expected. Mary Jane's fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt, but she forced her voice to remain steady.
"I believe I have a right to go anywhere I want, my lord." Good job, me! She felt a little proud of herself for gaining some courage to speak up. Especially to a big man she was wary of, one who had ultimate authority in this household.
He didn't reply right away. His gaze swept over her, lingering for a moment longer than necessary — as if searching for something familiar. Whatever he was looking for, he clearly didn't find it.
"If you're well enough to walk, you're well enough to be useful," he said, turning back to the steward. "This household doesn't need idle mouths to feed."
A flush of humiliation crept up Mary Jane's neck. She bit down hard on the retort rising in her throat. The old countess might have spat poison back at him — but Mary Jane wasn't her.
Not anymore.
"Yes, my lord," she murmured instead, turning her back to him and walking to her seat to start on her meal.
The steward stared hard and long at her behind the earl's back, as if he was trying to measure her. Mary Jane's nails dug into her palms. They were waiting for her to snap — to play the villainess they'd come to expect.
But she wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Not yet.
As the earl strode away, Mary Jane sat in the echo of his absence, her heart pounding in her chest. The hatred in his eyes was palpable — but there had been something else flickering beneath it.
Doubt.
He didn't trust her. But he wasn't entirely sure what to make of her, either.
It was a small victory... but a victory nonetheless.
Let them think what they want of me.
After her meal she went back to her rooms and, with an outward show of busyness, she began her sewing project. Her plan was that, by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, she would first pretend to go to bed, and then, while the house slept, continue on her search in the most inconspicuous manner as she could. Mary Jane had learned something in her first life:
Even shadows could be defied.
If this world wanted to bury her in silence, she would dig her way out.
She had fought to protect her brother once.
She could fight again.
****One heart, one mind, one path divine*****
It was afternoon and, instead of his steward, his son, or the other servants, it was Jane, the Countess's attendant, who was now standing in front of him. He had just left the Countess in the dining hall. He had asked Ferguson to bring Jane to him for some questioning, the one who accompanied Bettina on her outing today. The very first outing that the Countess went to after waking up from her coma.
She had just finished telling him about the events that transpired during their morning stint in the business district.
"So, you are telling me that she did not recognize Grand Duke Chambers and asked for his name?"
"Yes, my lord."
"In your eyes, did the Countess genuinely treat Chambers as a stranger or was it mayhap an act to avoid any contact with him?" He remembered that Chambers had once publicly announced his very low opinion of Bettina. Meanwhile his negative feelings were reciprocated by her.
"It did not look like an act to me, my lord." The maid tilted her head as if trying to recall the events that transpired this morning. "After asking for his name, my lady did allow the Grand Duke to accompany us for the rest of the morning."
"I see." No, he did not actually see since he was still making sense of everything he had been receiving so far. "Anything else of note that has happened?"
"My lady did not seem to know how to make a payment in the mercer's shop."
"She did not know how to make a payment?"
"Yes, my lord. She handed me a small pouch of coins so I could make the purchases for her and, when I told her of her banking sigil, she touched it as if seeing it for the first time."
He leaned back in his chair on this new information. Pretending not to recognize a person whom one should be familiar with was one thing. But, being unfamiliar with a simple, everyday knowledge such as making payments?
Come to think of it, the Countess also displayed some awkwardness with common dining etiquette.
"What else did you notice?"
"She also looked as if she was seeing the capital for the very first time. The amazement was very evident on her face as she stared at the grand cathedral and the square."
"How could you prove that your claimed observations were accurate?" He wanted to be sure.
"My lord, the Countess was staring wide-eyed at the business shops as though she had never laid eyes upon them before, calling them 'charming' and 'quaint,' as if she were a traveler from some foreign land. And the church—why, she gasped at the sight of it as though she beheld a palace of gold, declaring it most 'picturesque.' It was… most peculiar, my lord, as if she had never been there before nor seen these things in all her life."
He leaned his elbow on one arm of his chair and started massaging the bridge of his nose. "And what do you make of these changes in your madam's behavior?"
"I fear, my lord, that it may be because of her fall from the third-story window. She may have…" she looked reluctant to continue.
"May have what?"
"If I may, my lord... I fear her ladyship may have lost her memory, or so it appears."
****Still your soul*****
Her precise and methodical hand-stitching, on her newly purchased fabric, stopped as she looked through her slightly open bedroom door.
What she saw made her put down her sewing to stand up and peek out of her bedroom doors and into the hallway.
The lights along the hallway walls dimmed slowly, followed by the chandeliers overhead. Putting on her listening ears, she could surmise that activity throughout the manor had lessened to a hush. She watched with fascination as the lights faded on their own—no switches, no hands, no sound. Just… dimmed. By magic.
She knew that the lights were operated by magic. She knew that magic does exist in this world. But, for Mary Jane, seeing them in action were still so… magical.
She double checked the time on the mantel clock atop her fireplace. It was pretty late now. Everybody must be in bed by now. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of her bedroom. Time for another manor exploration.
It always amazed her how massive this place was. Whitman Manor must be the same size as the other noblemen's houses that she saw outside this morning, but compared to her original home back on Earth, this place was simply like a palace to her.
Each hallway stretched on forever, and she had no idea where she was going. She had left her wing in the manor and just entered the opposite wing. Then, somewhere in the distance, a soft chime echoed. Drawn by curiosity, she followed the sound to a room that reminded her of a cozy sitting area—or maybe a miniature library, judging by the waist-high bookshelves lining the walls.
Inside, the flickering fireplace bathed the room in a warm amber glow. Small lamps mounted on the walls added just enough light, casting gentle shadows across the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a moonlit garden outside. Everything was quiet, peaceful.
She wandered closer to the bookshelves but paused just short of picking one up. Instead, her gaze dropped to the carved wooden drawers beneath them. Curiosity tugged at her fingertips. If this world was anything like the historical dramas she'd binge-watched back home, there was no telling what secrets might be tucked away in places like this.
Gently, she pulled open the top drawer. Inside, a small collection of writing tools lay nestled in velvet lining—a few trimmed quills, glass bottles of ink sealed with wax, and a stubby little knife she assumed was used for sharpening. She picked it up, running a finger along the delicate curve of the blade. A penknife? How quaint. No ballpoint pens, no stationery kits—just ink, feathers, and endless patience.
She was about to reach for the next drawer when her eyes wandered to one of the small wall lamps nearby. Curiosity got the better of her. She approached it, trying to find a hidden switch. There wasn't one. When she touched the glass cover, expecting warmth, she was startled—it was cool. Cool, despite the light.
Carefully, she twisted and removed the opaque covering.
A tiny flame danced inside. Yellow-orange with a blue center, flickering from a bronze tube mounted to the wall. But the flame wasn't hot. It was cool, like the touch of a glass of ice water.
Completely fascinated, she reached closer. The fire gently curled toward her finger—and a piece of it followed her. When she drew her hand away, the small flame clung to her skin like a flicker of light. Not painful, not hot. Just… there.
Her eyes widened. What is this?
Then—
"What are you doing here?"
She jumped and instinctively hid her glowing hand behind her back. A tall figure stood at the doorway, his tone sharp and demanding.
"Well?" he asked again.
It was him again. Jason's father. The owner of this house. He was dressed simply—a dark robe over comfortable trousers and a white linen shirt—but nothing about him looked ordinary. His short, wavy brown hair framed a face that was all hard lines and sharp cheekbones, his eyes a piercing sapphire blue that seemed to glow under the lamplight. He was really handsome. Ridiculously so. Noble. Intense. And clearly annoyed.
Her surprise at his sudden appearance made her forget her wariness of him.
"Are you going to keep gawking, or are you going to answer me?" he snapped.
"I—I…" she stammered, then realized her hand was still lit. "Oh, shoot—!" She blew on it, waved it, shook it.
"Say derivo," he instructed coolly.
"Sorry?"
"Derivo. Repeat it."
"D-derivo," she echoed uncertainly.
The little flame blinked out instantly.
Her eyes sparkled with wonder. Unable to help herself, she exclaimed. "That was so cool! Was that a spell? Did I just do magic?"
"No," he replied flatly.
She blinked. "But—"
"You didn't cast a spell. The magic is embedded in the wall lamp. It reacts to arcane phrases."
"But the fire was on me."
"It was part of the flame from the lamp. It responded when you touched it."
"Oh…" She processed that. "That's… honestly still amazing."
He gave her a hard look. "I asked you a question. Why are you here?"
"Am I not allowed in this room?" she asked, cautiously.
"You're not allowed near me," he said coldly.
That stung more than it should have. She bit her tongue and dropped her gaze, trying not to look as hurt as she felt.
He scowled. He hadn't meant to be so harsh. But seeing her—this version of her—with wide eyes and wonder, barefoot and clutching a feather quill like a lost kitten, threw him off balance. It didn't match the elegantly vicious woman that he remembered.
And that unsettled him more than he liked.
The countess he remembered was nothing like the woman who stood before him now.
Bettina Anne Whitman, feared mistress of sharp hands and sharper words, would never dare to leave her chambers without her face powdered and lips tinted, her hair sculpted into those elaborate coils that screamed wealth and status. Yet he had seen her go around with little to no makeup, her hair in either a simple bun or high ponytail. And now there she was, clad only in a nightgown and slippers, her face scrubbed clean and her golden hair falling loosely past her shoulders. Bare. Unpainted. And strangely… softer.
More disturbingly, it wasn't just her appearance that had changed.
Reports had trickled in over the past couple of months. First, the servants whispered that she spoke in a strange tongue — unfamiliar, almost foreign. Then came odd changes in her demeanor: a sudden gentleness, uncharacteristic patience, and humility. She even offered bizarre advice on housework—peculiar tricks no one had heard of, yet oddly effective. And through it all, there was an unsettling forgetfulness: of names, of places, of customs that should be familiar, of people she should have known.
Had the fall truly left her with no memories?
At first, he thought it was another one of her schemes. The Countess was no stranger to manipulation. But now, even he had to admit—if only privately—that her new behavior had been alarmingly consistent for nearly three months. Either she was playing an incredibly long game… or she had truly changed.
Feigning disinterest, he settled into the armchair near the hearth, raising his newspaper and crossing one leg over the other. He could feel her gaze on him—curious, hesitant. It lacked its usual sharpness. For a brief moment, he caught her eyes—those vivid violets—and was startled to find no hatred there. No scorn. Only… confusion. Wariness.
He snapped his newspaper open with deliberate force. "If you're not here to speak, then stop standing about like a statue. Unless you're here to fuck—in which case, I'd rather bed a common whore."
Her sharp gasp pierced the air. She fled, skirts whispering in retreat.
Good. Let her run.
Yet as the door thudded shut, that satisfying sense of triumph over a publicly renowned villainess quickly soured into something more irritating: curiosity. He didn't want to wonder about his wife. He had spent years making a habit of not wondering. But the household, once content to ignore her, was now abuzz. All because of her.
He tossed the newspaper aside, fingers drumming his knee. What was it that made him loathe her presence so deeply?
His thoughts drifted to the past…
He hadn't even spoken properly to Bettina until nearly a year after their wedding. Their marriage had been hastily arranged following the warehouse fire that claimed her parents' lives. His father—the former Earl of Whitman—had insisted it was his duty to honor a vow made to Bettina's father, his longtime friend and business partner. The girl, an only child, had no family left. No protection. The old Earl made it clear: marry her, and he would relinquish the title of the earldom as well as pass the entire Sutherland Trading Company to him.
He hadn't wanted to marry again—not after losing his first wife, Marguerite. But his father had argued that Jason needed a mother, and that the girl needed to be well provided for.
So, he agreed.
She wore black to the wedding. An attire that thoroughly shocked the guests, but that he ignored. She refused to speak. Clung to her maid like a ghost. And when she moved into the estate, she brought with her only a single trunk of belongings, a cloud of silence, and the fury of a woman who'd lost everything.
He'd pitied her. At first.
But that pity died swiftly. Once she emerged from mourning, she became a tempest. She ruled over the estate and the servants with impossible standards and unpredictable wrath. One misstep meant punishment. And her venom extended beyond the manor—visits to town, the earldom, and even in the capital, resulted in offended nobles, frightened merchants, and bruised cheeks.
He had spent a fortune cleaning up after her. Paying off complaints. Dousing the fires she lit with her tongue and pride.
And when he finally confronted her, she just focused on money.
"Where's my money?" She demanded with a blazing look of hatred in her eyes.
Her show of anger surprised him and he wondered where it was coming from. "Which money do you mean?"
"My dowry? My wealth? My business dividends?" She sneered back. "Am I not only your countess now but also a shareholder in my father's business?"
"You are," he slowly replied. He stared carefully at her.
"Then, am I not entitled to at least a larger monthly allowance as the lady of the house?" She demanded once more. "Isn't it supposed to be my duty to handle all household matters and budgeting as the countess?"
"Indeed, it is your duty."
"Then why haven't you sent me the household account books, the ledgers? Where's my money?!" Her hands balled up into fists at her sides as if wanting to punch him.
"It is all in the bank," he had answered calmly. "Ferguson can assist you with access. We've held off on handing over the household ledgers out of respect for your mourning."
"Well, I am done mourning. Send them."
He had refused—not out of cruelty, but out of caution. "We must ensure you're properly prepared. A merchant's daughter may have keen wit, but the estate requires one who understands noble protocols."
She had laughed—mocking, bitter. "My father gave me the best education money could buy. I know numbers, ledgers, and even your so-called noble etiquette. I know how to run a business better than most men. What have you done, my lord?"
It had been the most honest conversation they ever shared. The longest, too.
But even after he relented and sent the account books, she returned them within the week, untouched.
She then withdrew entirely. Stopped speaking to him. Stopped managing anything. She simply… existed, drifting through the estate like a phantom. Rarely attended social gatherings, and when she did, it was only to wreak more havoc in high society. Their marriage became a formality. He busied himself with the trading company, the earldom as well as his many estates, and Jason.
And still—despite her disdain—she never asked for divorce.
He sometimes wondered why. Was it the power? The wealth? The prestige?
He could live with her tantrums, her vanity, her coldness. But what he could not forgive—what finally hardened his heart—was what she had done to Jason.
His jaw clenched.
The boy had nearly died.
And all signs pointed to her.