Growing up without a mother, his son, Jason had clung to the hope that his father's new wife would fill that aching void in his heart. From the moment the boy heard of the Earl's remarriage, Jason spoke of her constantly—asking when he might finally meet his new mother.
But when they did meet, it had not gone as the boy had imagined. Bettina had brushed past him without a glance, ignoring the hopeful child clutching a book he'd wanted to share. Her only order that day had been to the servants: "Keep that boy away from me—if you don't want him hurt."
And so, for months, Jason merely watched her from afar—eyes wide and silent, arms wrapped around toys and stories he never got to share.
Then one day, without warning, everything changed.
She invited him to have a meal with her.
What followed was a complete reversal of her previous behavior. She began walking with Jason through the gardens, reading to him, even taking him out on visits to shops and restaurants. There were outings to the park, picnics in the spring air—days filled with laughter that had never existed between them before.
Ferguson had advised against it. He was suspicious. But others in the household—perhaps even he, Anthony, himself—wanted to believe she was finally healing. That, maybe, her grief had softened. That perhaps she was trying.
But they had all been wrong.
It happened while he was away, inspecting a new warehouse by the port. A message reached him—Jason had collapsed. Suspected poisoning.
He hadn't waited for his carriage. He took the nearest horse and rode harder than he ever had in his life.
When he arrived, he found his son on the brink of death—face swollen, lips blue, gasping for air, and vomiting uncontrollably. No priest. No physician.
It was the longest hour of his life.
Doctor Stein finally arrived—he'd been found en route to one of the Whitman villas in the countryside, apparently sent there on a sudden "vacation." The steward had dispatched riders to bring him back the moment Jason collapsed.
The doctor immediately prepared and administered life-saving potions. A priest arrived shortly after to assist with healing. By the gods, Jason survived. But Anthony would never forget the sheer terror of that night.
The investigation confirmed what he feared: Jason had drunk a milk mixture laced with powdered almonds and peanuts—substances known to trigger his severe allergies.
The prime suspect? His wife.
She denied everything, of course. Claimed ignorance of Jason's allergy. Claimed she didn't even know he had a nightly glass of milk. Claimed she had no idea Doctor Stein had been sent away.
But then came the most damning discovery—notes found in the chamber of her personal maid, Agnes which were almost destroyed. Half-burned pages listing Jason's daily habits… including his food intolerances.
It was also discovered that Agnes had arranged for the doctor's "vacation," claiming it was a gift from the Earl and Countess.
Agnes confessed. Said it was all her doing. That she had acted alone, and that the Countess had known nothing. She said she hated the Whitman family. That she wanted revenge. But why?
They never learned the answer. Agnes took her own life in the castle dungeons before further questions could be asked.
From that moment on, Anthony gave strict orders: Bettina was never to come near Jason again. If she tried, she was to be imprisoned in the dungeon.
For a while, peace returned to the Whitman household. Or something like it. Then, a few months after Jason's poisoning incident, came the news—Bettina had thrown herself from the third-story window of the countess's wing.
No one had seen it. No one had missed her. It was perhaps an entire day or two before one of the gardeners stumbled upon her broken body hidden beneath the shrubs. It took too long to discover her that her blood, which was splattered all over her body, had already dried up.
Her injuries were catastrophic—shattered bones, massive blood loss. By all logic, she should have died.
But the doctors and priests worked tirelessly. They healed her. Completely, in fact. No visible wounds nor scars remained.
And yet, she lay unresponsive. Breathing, yes. But empty. Silent.
They thought she would die in her sleep.
But she didn't.
Days have passed but eventually, she woke.
And when she did… she was different.
She spoke with uncertainty. She forgot names, places, old habits. She smiled. She stammered. She helped the maids with their cleaning. She limped into the dining room as if nothing had ever happened. She asked questions with wide eyes and stared at the world like she was seeing it all for the first time.
Now here she was, staring at him not with malice, but with wide, uncertain eyes.
Memory loss, they said.
But Anthony couldn't shake the feeling—was it merely her memory that had been lost?
Or… was this woman someone else entirely?
*****And hush your mind*****
Still breathless, Mary Jane leaned against the door, her fingers trembling on the cool wood. She had fled back to her room the moment she escaped that awful encounter downstairs.
Her husband—well, Bettina's husband—had made it crystal clear: he despised her. Every word he spoke dripped with disdain. The tension in his eyes, the bite in his voice… that wasn't a stranger's hostility. That was personal. Deep-rooted. And terrifying.
But then again, could she really blame him? She recalled that old newspaper article about the poisoning incident. If the man believed she'd tried to harm his son, well then, it's no wonder he couldn't stand the sight of her.
Still, what was he doing awake at that hour anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be away for business most days? Maybe she'd just had a streak of terrible luck.
With a long exhale, she collapsed onto the bed—only to jolt back up with a yelp. Something jabbed her from underneath. Sarah wouldn't stoop to putting thumb tacks under her blankets, would she?
Frowning, she ran her hands across the sheets, then slipped her fingers beneath them. Cold metal met her touch.
She pulled out a necklace.
It was exquisite—far too beautiful to be something she expected to find hidden away. The chain was a delicate braid of silver and pale gold, fine and glimmering like strands of moonlight. At its center hung a locket, framed in curling filigree that looked like ivy vines etched by fairy hands. The pendant featured a large gem that was a stunning violet-blue stone—Tanzanite, she guessed—mirroring the strange and enchanting shade of her own eyes. This necklace would probably fetch thousands of dollars if she would sell it on Earth. However, as she looked at it closely, she noticed that the chain itself seemed to be newer than the pendant. Like it was a replacement chain.
She walked over to the vanity, holding the necklace up to her throat. Against her pale skin, the gemstone shimmered like starlight, almost glowing.
This must've belonged to Bettina, she realized.
But why was it hidden? And under her bedsheets of all places?
Turning the pendant over, she noticed something peculiar: the pendant's loop wasn't just a small ring that would allow one to thread the necklace's chain through. It looked like something more. And the pendant…was actually a locket. She gently opened the locket and it became completely detached from the chain. And when the locket got detached, it revealed that the pendant's loop was actually the top of a tiny key. She examined the metal more closely.
Was this... an actual key?
Still holding her breath, she examined the separated locket. Inside were two small portraits, faded but distinct. A man and a woman. Their smiling expressions were soft, warm—familiar.
Too familiar.
She stared. And stared some more. Her heart froze. She knew these faces.
Her eyes widened as her mind whirred, flipping through the recesses of her most recent memory—until suddenly it hit her like a tidal wave.
A dream. No—a vision.
Two people. Lying on damp grass. A dirty sheet draped over them. A fire-scorched building looming behind.
The dead.
She had seen these people in her dream. Lying lifeless under the sheet. The man and woman from her vision. The same people now staring back at her from this locket. Reminding her of another piece of recent memory.
A chill swept down her spine.
She scrambled to her bedside table, ripped open the lowest drawer, and lifted the hidden panel. Her hands were already digging through the stack of old newspapers she had stashed days ago. Looking for one of the clippings that she previously ignored.
And there they were.
The article about the warehouse fire.
Her hands shook as she flattened it out and stared at the photo beneath the headline.
Them. It was them.
The same man. The same woman.
And just like that, a door inside her memory creaked open a little more.
She began to read.
-----000-----
THE BOLEUS GAZETTE
Published this day, 5th of Iter, in the Year of Our Lord 649
TRAGIC CALAMITY: WAREHOUSE FIRE CLAIMS LIVES OF ESTEEMED BUSINESSMAN AND WIFE
Flames Ravage the Sutherland Trading House—Several Souls Perished in the Inferno
From our correspondents in the city, a most dreadful misfortune has befallen the respected owners of Sutherland Trading Company, as a terrible fire consumed their grand warehouse, leaving destruction, ruin, and mourning in its wake.
It is with the heaviest solemnity that we report the passing of Mister Evert Sutherland and his wife, Wilhelmina Sutherland, esteemed figures of both commerce and society, who, on the eve of their customary inspection of trade goods, found themselves ensnared by a fire most swift and merciless. Several loyal workers who labored within the warehouse likewise met their unfortunate demise, the blaze giving no quarter to man nor stone.
Eyewitnesses describe a sudden eruption of fire, the flames devouring wooden beams with unnatural haste. The air was thick with smoke and the desperate cries of the trapped, yet despite the valiant efforts of townsfolk and guardsmen, the inferno could not be tamed before it reduced the grand structure to smoldering ruin.
Of great concern, whispers among merchants and laborers grow louder with speculation that the fire was no accident, but rather the work of ill-intended hands. The Sutherland warehouse, known for its vast stores of fine silks, imported spices, and rare commodities, was no stranger to rivalry and envy. It is said that fellow business partner of the Sutherland couple, Lord Whitman, was beside himself with grief for the loss of his friends. He himself had, not a fortnight past, spoken of unease regarding recent dealings and unseen adversaries.
As the ashes settle and mourning takes hold, the question lingers—was this a mere accident of fate, or a design most foul? The authorities, we are assured, have commenced inquiries, yet justice moves at a pace far slower than flames.
For now, the Sutherland home is left in shadows of grief, with its young heiress, Miss Bettina Anne Sutherland, inheriting not only a legacy of wealth but also of great tragedy.
May the departed find peace, and may truth yet rise from the embers.
-----000-----
Evert… Evert… She remembered hearing that name before, but she couldn't remember where. She wanted to pound her head. Perhaps shaking her head could help rearrange the contents within.
Mary Jane stared down at the pictures in the locket, then back at the newspaper spread across her lap.
Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland.
Bettina's parents.
The same people she had seen in that haunting dream. The ones who had died in a fire.
Her gaze flicked back to the article. The blaze might have been accidental—or it might not. There was no conclusive answer, but it left behind two corpses and a mystery. The article mentioned a business partner. Lord Whitman. A name she now recognized all too well: The Right Honorable Earl of Whitman.
Her eyes narrowed.
Was that why he married Bettina?
To gain full control of the Sutherland Trading Company?
Did they marry before the fire—or after?
Her fingers trembled as she folded the newspaper and tucked it, along with the locket, back into the hidden compartment inside her bedside desk. The drawer clicked softly shut.
She sat down, mind whirring with a hundred spinning thoughts, then flopped back on the bed with a heavy exhale—legs still dangling over the edge.
Did Bettina suspected her husband of orchestrating her parents' deaths?
Could that explain why she had supposedly tried to poison his son?
It made a twisted kind of sense. But even then, how could she have done that to a child?
Mary Jane's chest tightened. No matter the pain or betrayal, there could never be a justification for hurting someone so innocent.
Jason didn't deserve that.
She ran a hand over her face, frustration mounting. The story was far from complete. If the Earl was responsible for the fire, then why hadn't he been arrested? Was the investigation still open? Or had it been buried under money and influence?
She shivered.
I need to be careful.
The Earl of Whitman might be more dangerous than he looks.
But then, her thoughts took another sharp turn.
Wait… the locket.
Who put it under her bedsheets?
It couldn't have been one of the maids—they rarely go in here and only do so occasionally just to clean. Jane, on the other hand, helped her undress each night, and would always return her jewelry to the strongbox before laying out her nightgown. She would've noticed that locket… and yet she never had.
Because it was never there earlier today.
So, who placed it there?
Her spine stiffened as another memory resurfaced.
The note.
The black envelope. The magic circle that gave her the ability to read and speak the language of this world.
She hadn't even questioned it until now. The note used Earth's alphanumeric script. It wasn't something native to this realm.
Her breath caught.
Was it the same person? The one who left the note… and now the locket?
Her heart pounded. She glanced around the room.
Someone is watching me.
Someone unseen. Moving in the shadows. Helping her—or manipulating her.
Friend or foe?
The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine.
Should I start sleeping with a knife under my pillow?
She scrambled up the bed and crawled under the sheets, pulling the covers high over her head like a frightened child. Her pulse was racing, her breath too shallow.
Mary Jane, get a grip.
You survived worse.
Think of Ethan.
Her hands balled into fists.
I'm here for a reason. Perhaps I needed to untangle this woman's life.Maybe find out more about this warehouse fire?
I have a goal. I'll find a way home.
But right now, her head throbbed from all the questions that refused to be answered. She couldn't think anymore. The pieces of this mystery would still be here tomorrow.
For now, she would do what she could:
Close her eyes. Try to rest. And brace herself for another night of restless sleep.
*****Through threads unseen*****
The morning sunlight filtered through the tall arched windows of the dressing room as Jane was gently brushing Mary Jane's hair. Unable to help herself, she yawned widely and tried to cover it with her hand as several nights of restless sleep, especially the one last night, were beginning to take a toll on her. The soft tug of the bristles was oddly comforting — a welcome moment of calm. Then came a knock. A sharp one.
Knock knock knock.
Jane paused, brushing mid-stroke. The door creaked open without waiting for a response. Sarah stepped inside, her expression pinched with forced politeness.
"My lady," she said with a curtsy that barely bent. "There is a carriage waiting outside to take you to Lady Harrington's tea gathering."
Mary Jane blinked. "I'm sorry... what gathering?"
"You received the invitation three days past," Sarah replied coolly. "I mentioned it that morning when I brought it here. I presumed you'd want to attend, since it would be… unwise to keep refusing every social call extended to you."
Well, that's a loaded tone if I ever heard one, Mary Jane thought. She glanced toward Jane, whose eyes widened in silent apprehension.
"I see," Mary Jane murmured carefully. "But I'm still recuperating," she repeated the excuse she'd been using to refuse invitations to social gatherings.
"Well, Lady Harrington wrote that she was happy to learn you were already fully mended," Sarah smirked. "She saw you out and about just two days past accompanied by the Grand Duke."
"So…I suppose there isn't time to send my regrets?"
"The carriage is already waiting," Sarah said. "And Lady Harrington has always been… expectant of your presence. Some say she'd begun to take offense at your prolonged absence in social circles."
Oh great, Mary Jane thought as dread began coiling in her stomach. She'd spent the past weeks adjusting to a new world, a new face, and a new body. What she hadn't prepared for was facing a room full of sharp-eyed noblewomen who likely hated the former Countess — and wouldn't mind tearing her down publicly. She didn't think the sporadic corrections that Jane gave her whenever she would break protocols on decorum would be enough education for her to survive this social gathering.
Still, backing out now would only worsen Bettina's already-tattered reputation.
She exhaled slowly. "Fine. Jane, help me dress."
The inside of the carriage smelled faintly of lavender sachets and old wood. As it trundled toward Lady Harrington's estate, Mary Jane rehearsed basic greetings in her head, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands. She felt like a nervous intern about to enter a boardroom of sharp-suited CEOs who all secretly wanted her fired.
Okay. Deep breath. Smile politely. Say as little as possible. Try not to spill tea on anyone.
When they finally arrived, footmen opened the carriage doors with military precision. She stepped down into a sea of wide eyes and whispered gasps. Ignore them, she ordered herself.
She was led to Lady Harrington's garden which was filled with the highest-ranking noblewomen in the capital — their powdered faces and towering coiffures turned as one to stare.
"Lady Whitman?" someone whispered, shocked. "She came?"
"I thought she was still… indisposed."
"Has she even powdered her face? Is that her new way of showing disrespect?"
"Well, I must say, her entire ensemble made her look… softer."
"Well, knowing her, I'm sure it is all contrived."
Mary Jane lifted her chin and gave a faint smile, channeling every ounce of grace she could muster, imagining how models might walk the red carpet. The stares were ice-cold, the whispers biting.
Then came a voice. Warm, amused, and subtly commanding.
"Ladies, shall we stop gawking at the poor woman and let her have a seat?"
A tall, elegant woman in a muted ruby gown stepped forward with a teacup balanced in gloved fingers. Her presence was magnetic. Polished burgundy curls framed a face that bore serious maturity without losing any of its allure. Her sharp eyes, however, were far from soft.
"Lady Whitman," she said, smiling. "You look more alive than I expected. I'm Lady Margella. Won't you join me?"
Mary Jane gave a careful nod. "Thank you for the invitation, my lady."
Margella's smile widened. "Oh, it wasn't mine. But I'm always glad to see a ghost rise from the dead."
A few ladies choked into their tea. Sarah, seated smugly in a corner, looked thrilled.
And here it is, Mary Jane thought. Let the games begin.
She took the offered seat beside Lady Margella, who immediately began pouring her tea without asking.
"So, tell me," The slightly older woman said, her voice dripping silk, "what miracle brought you back from madness? The priests? Or the gods themselves?"
Mary Jane realized once again that this was no simple tea party. Her attending this party seemed to have allowed them further leeway in their open judgment of the villainess. Those looks of veiled disdain and faint derision reflect exactly those of the people in Whitman Manor. She smiled faintly, calming her heart. "Would you believe me if I said it was… neither?"
Lady Margella, who appeared to be thoroughly enjoying herself, chuckled. "Oh, darling, in this society, belief is rarely required. Only appearances."
And I must be sitting beside the queen of them, Mary Jane thought.
Lady Margella's porcelain cup clinked gently against its saucer as she sipped. Around her, the other noblewomen were visibly leaning in, pretending interest in their tea while listening to every word exchanged at Mary Jane's table.
Mary Jane, on her part, sat as upright as she could manage, her hands folded in her lap, her heart drumming behind a calm expression. She attempted to smile politely at the ring of noblewomen surrounding the tea table. Lace parasols shaded the ladies' powdered faces, but nothing softened the sharpness of their scrutiny.
A woman across from her, whom others called Lady Emmeline Cranford was the first to strike.
"It is so very… brave of you to join us, Lady Whitman," she said, her tone syrupy sweet and insufferably precise. "After all, not many women would dare come to a tea hosted by someone they once threatened with a hairpin."
A few ladies coughed into their napkins. Obviously hiding their snickers and sniggers.
Mary Jane blinked. A hairpin?
Lady Cranford pressed on, ever so graciously. "Not that I blame you, of course. One does hear such… colorful tales about your outbursts. I daresay my poor fan has still not recovered from the trauma you inflicted upon poor Viscountess Rowena's sitting room."
This drew more soft titters around the table. Even Lady Margella's lips curved faintly behind her teacup.
They're provoking me, she thought. They wanted to elicit a response from me. The more dramatic, the better, huh? Well, perhaps it is time for me to show others that I do have some semblance of intelligence.
Mary Jane took a breath, and then smiled—a warm, unexpected smile that completely disarmed the room.
"Oh, I do apologize," she said earnestly. "I haven't the faintest memory of those dramatic episodes. But clearly, the fan deserves an apology as well. Perhaps I should commission a new one—embroidered with the phrase 'approach with caution,' just in case I relapse."
A surprised chuckle escaped one of the younger ladies. Even Lady Cranford seemed caught off-guard.
Mary Jane tilted her head. "Though I must say, it's remarkable that I've managed to make it this far into the afternoon without launching a single teacup across the lawn. Progress, wouldn't you say?"
That did it. Laughter, real and unrestrained, rippled around the table.
Lady Margella tapped a spoon against her saucer, eyes sparkling with hidden mirth. "Well said, Lady Whitman. Humor is the most elegant armor, after all."
Mary Jane inclined her head. "I'm simply doing my best to become… a better person than I was before."
Lady Margella raised a brow. "You've certainly become less predictable."
Mary Jane gave her a small smile. "I do try."
But she wasn't done.
Turning her gaze gently back to Lady Cranford, she added, "You're right to be concerned, of course. I hope you'll be kind enough to give me the chance to become a better member of society—if not today, then in time. People… are capable of change, are they not?"
A few women looked down into their cups, suddenly embarrassed. Others glanced at one another in surprise.
Lady Cranford's lips thinned slightly, but she gave a tight nod. "Of course."
Mary Jane turned her attention back to her tea, her pounding heart calming down slightly. She hadn't won, not really—but she hadn't been destroyed either.
And somehow, she knew they wouldn't forget that.
The clinking of porcelain and the rustle of silks filled the manicured garden as noblewomen settled in more comfortably in their seats beneath a canopy of white linen and rose-covered trellises. The scent of fresh pastries and floral perfume floated in the air as the female guests continued on in their own conversations. It was a relief that they lost interest in her.
It wasn't soon enough for Mary Jane, but when one of the guests stood up to express her regrets in leaving the party early, she felt it would be okay to do the same. She couldn't wait to leave the uncomfortable place.
She was walking down the steps to her waiting carriage, followed by her two attendants, when she was stopped by a voice behind her.
"Quite the performance," murmured Lady Margella, the Dowager Viscountess of Harwood. "The countess seems to have discovered the fine art of banter since her convalescence."
Mary Jane's feet halted as she caught the subtle note of condescension—but also the hint of intrigue.
She looked up and met Lady Margella's gaze with a calm smile. "I suppose lying in bed for weeks teaches one to choose words more wisely, my lady. When speech is your only exercise, you might as well try to make it graceful."
Lady Margella's brows lifted. Her mouth quirked into the smallest curve—neither approval nor disdain. Just interest.
"Mm," she murmured, crossing her arms in retrospect. "Let us hope you don't tire of the routine. Graceful words are a vanishing art in today's gatherings."
Mary Jane inclined her head. "Then I shall strive not to be a vanishing woman."
"Indeed, you can."
"I'm most grateful for your kind welcome today, Lady Margella. It's been a pleasure."
Lady Margella said nothing further. But her eyes—shrewd and assessing—remained fixed on the countess as she climbed up into her carriage.