It may be the last few days of warm sunshine that the empire would experience before winter fully arrives. And so, the ton were scrambling to make use of these meager days of fine weather as much as they could. One such event was happening at the moment at Lady Delacroix's garden, casting dappled shadows across the table where tea, petit fours, and laughing children made for a rare, serene scene. Jason sat cross-legged on a cushioned blanket nearby with two boys and a young girl, all engaged in a raucous giggle-fest over a set of wind-up tin animals skittering in unpredictable zigzags across the tiled patio. Their mechanical motions drew squeals of delight every time one bumped into a shoe or tumbled over.
Lady Whitman sipped her tea slowly, her empire-cut gown of soft robin's egg blue, embroidered with small lavenders in purple thread, rippling gently in the breeze. The bodice, unburdened by a corset, allowed her to breathe freely—something she never failed to appreciate. She had worn corsets before, out of duty to the role she now occupied. Never again, she'd vowed. And judging by the other noblewomen around her, neither would many of them.
"I wore a corset yesterday," said Lady Giselle in mock horror, "and thought I might perish. I've burned mine. This empire cut style is the future."
A round of soft laughter followed.
"I must confess," added Lady Hanora, a gentlewoman with sharp eyes and an unexpectedly dry wit, "my husband noticed I haven't fainted in weeks—and I owe it entirely to your gowns, Lady Whitman. It's as if we're allowed to breathe again."
"I… um, I only borrowed the style from a very distant land," Lady Whitman said modestly, smiling. "But if it means we can enjoy tea without passing out, I'd say the empire cut has earned its place."
Lady Delacroix leaned forward conspiratorially. "Lady Whitman, your mechanical toys are spreading as quickly as your dress patterns. Even my husband remarked on their craftsmanship. He's never taken interest in toys until our son wouldn't put down the tumbling elephant."
"How did you ever come up with these kinds of ideas?"
"I admit, I was inspired by things I'd seen in stories from other lands," Lady Whitman replied, carefully. "It started with a little wobbling man I remembered from childhood... and somehow it turned into an elephant that couldn't walk straight." She was thankful that she had already thought of possible answers should questions like these came about.
The table chuckled.
One noblewoman, whose name Lady Whitman had not yet memorized, raised an eyebrow and sniffed delicately. "They are amusing, I suppose, if one has time to invent such things."
Without missing a beat, Lady Whitman replied gently, "Sometimes, the things that look like play are the very things that lift a child's spirit or encourage them to learn. I may only have time for little things, but I've found they can make a rather big difference."
There was a brief hush, then a few nods, and even the skeptical noblewoman lowered her gaze.
Lady Hanora leaned in again, more earnestly this time. "Lady Whitman, we heard you must be very busy with work and other things, but, if I may—might I visit Whitman Manor with my children sometime soon? I'd love to see the toys you're planning next."
"And I would love to host you," Lady Whitman said warmly. "The manor's playroom is finally looking like something Jason fully approves of."
"I'd like to invite you to my home as well," Lady Giselle added. "Perhaps for a more intimate gathering—no children, just us ladies. We rarely get to speak freely, and I'd like to know the woman behind all these remarkable ideas."
Lady Whitman felt a quiet warmth bloom in her chest. Acceptance, slow and sincere, was taking root. She could feel it in many of the earnest gazes of the ladies here. Not because of her title. But because of who she was.
She lifted her teacup with a smile. "I'd be honored."
The sun continued to shine, children's laughter drifted on the breeze, and for a rare moment, peace held court.
The tea party slash playdate at Lady Delacroix's manor had ended on a fun, breezy note, with Jason chattering in the carriage all the way home, about wind-up bunnies and his victorious race against a grumpy little lordling. Jason was just so cute that Lady Whitman couldn't help herself as she started tickling the boy and she was afraid that the ruckus inside the carriage might even be heard by other people inside passing carriages.
The Whitman carriage rolled into the manor gates just before dusk, the golden light of early evening dancing across its polished wood. Inside, Lady Whitman leaned back against the cushioned seat while Jason sat beside her, all laughed out. Jane, seated across from them, smiling indulgently at his endless chatter, offering a soft nod every now and then.
"And then Lady Fenwick's son spilled juice on his trousers because he laughed too hard at the wind-up frog!" Jason exclaimed, nearly bouncing.
Lady Whitman laughed, genuinely amused. "I'm glad they enjoyed it. It's strange to think something so simple could make children laugh so much."
"Simple but clever," Jane said with a proud glance toward her mistress. "The noblewomen couldn't stop talking about your designs."
As the carriage pulled to a halt, a footman opened the door. The butler, Mr. Clive, waited on the steps of the manor, oddly alert. He offered a crisp bow as mother and son stepped out, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Welcome home, my lady," he greeted. Then his tone lightened slightly. "A package arrived while you were out. Addressed to you. No return name, but the handwriting was neat. The ribbon was... quite festive. We thought perhaps it was from a grateful patron or admirer."
Jason's eyes lit up. "Can we open it, Mother? Please?"
Lady Whitman exchanged a smile with Jane. "Well, I suppose we shouldn't keep a surprise waiting."
Mr. Clive led them down the hall to the sunroom, where late evening light still streamed through the tall windows. Upon a small ornate table sat the box. It was wrapped in soft lavender paper and tied with a deep violet satin ribbon; the kind used for high-society gifts. A small card accompanied it: "For the Countess Whitman—With admiration."
Jason ran up to it, hands hovering with excitement. "Can I untie the ribbon?"
"Careful," Lady Whitman said, stepping beside him. "Let's see what's inside first."
She gently lifted the lid.
The scent hit her first—coppery and sour, mingled with something metallic and foul. Her breath caught.
Inside, nestled in white silk lining, were her creations—one of each. A crushed wind-up frog. A broken puzzle cube. A slashed fabric from the mechanized chair. The miniature arcane prototype of the Imperial Trade Sigil lay in pieces, its carved runes splintered. Each was splattered, streaked, or soaked in blood—some dried, some sticky and fresh.
Lady Whitman didn't scream. Her hand simply moved, swift and silent, to cover Jason's eyes. "Jane, take Jason out. Now."
"But I want to—"
"Please go with Jane for now, sweetheart," she gently stepped in between the boy and the ominous box on the table and kissed him on the forehead.
Jane's face had gone grim, but she obeyed without a word, gathering the stunned child and walking him quickly toward the hallway.
"What happened? Why can't I see?" Jason murmured, voice quivering.
"It's alright, sweetheart," Jane whispered. "Come with me now. Come quickly."
Lady Whitman stared into the box, her breath shallow. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the blood-stained note tucked beneath the pieces. She didn't read it yet. She simply stared at it, as if afraid to disturb the chill that now seemed to hang in the room.
Mr. Clive, visibly shaken, rushed from the sunroom.
Moments later, Anthony stormed in, still adjusting the coat he'd thrown on hastily. One look at his wife's pale face and the shattered items in the box snapped his posture rigid.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice low and tense.
Lady Whitman finally lifted the note and unfolded it. The ink was black, almost glossy, written in deliberate, steady script:
-----000-----
You've made quite the name for yourself. Let's see how well you build with bloody hands.
-----000-----
She handed it to him in silence.
Anthony read it once, twice. His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked at his temple. Then he crossed the room in four long strides and slammed the lid shut with a violent snap.
"Get this to the vault," he growled to the butler. "Don't touch it barehanded. Gloves. I want it preserved for evidence."
He turned to Jane. "Take Jason upstairs. Now."
Jason looked to his mother, eyes wide and uncertain.
Lady Whitman forced herself to smile at him—thin, trembling, but gentle. "Go on, love. I'll come up soon."
When they were gone, the Earl let out a long breath and turned to her. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she murmured. "Jason nearly saw it all. If I'd been even two seconds slower—"
He stepped closer, voice low and dark. "We'll increase the guards. No one enters this manor without being screened."
She nodded slowly. "And the blood...?"
He didn't answer right away. "Likely animal. But it doesn't matter. The message is clear."
She looked up at him. "They want me afraid. They want us afraid."
His jaw clenched. "Then we'll make them regret their insolence."
"It's not just a threat," Lady Whitman whispered, eyes still locked on the desecrated inventions. "It's a message. They're mocking everything we've built."
He turned to her, stepping closer and laying his hands on her shoulders. "You're not alone in this. They want to scare you. Let them try. We'll find out who did this."
Lady Whitman exhaled slowly, her calm slowly stitching itself back together. "We need to call in Mage Henry," she murmured. "They touched arcane material. Maybe he can track it. Is that even possible?"
Anthony nodded. "I'll send for him."
But neither of them spoke for a long while. They simply stood side by side, staring down at the cruel parody of her life's work, dressed up in silk and ribbon—a grotesque bouquet of violence meant to bloom fear.
Somewhere behind them, Jason's worried voice floated down the hallway, calling for his mother.
And inside her chest, something cold ignited into flame.
Jason had been quiet all throughout dinner. He barely touched his carrots—a sure sign something troubled him. While the adults tried to keep their voices measured and the staff bustled about as if nothing unusual had occurred, the air around the household was too tight, too brittle for a child not to notice.
So, when the meal ended and the sun dipped beneath the horizon, Jason didn't run up to his bedroom with his usual wooden sword and night-time giggles. Instead, he reached out and tugged softly at his mother's sleeve as she knelt to kiss his temple.
"Can I sleep with you and Papa tonight?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "I just… I don't want to be alone."
Lady Whitman paused, meeting the child's wide, solemn eyes. His voice was calm, but the truth trembled beneath his words. She glanced up at the Earl, who had already risen from his chair.
Anthony gave a quiet nod. "Of course, son."
And so they did.
Jason's room was large but warm, the kind of place filled with soft books, a knitted blanket from a kindly old maid, and faint glows from a mage-light night lantern shaped like a lamb. The Earl and Lady Whitman lay on either side of the boy, in his wide, comfy bed, letting him curl in between them with both arms around a stuffed bunny that had seen far too many adventures.
The silence stretched in the dark, peaceful but not empty. Jason's breathing softened first, the safety of his parents lulling him to sleep.
Only then did the Earl shift his head slightly, murmuring quietly, "You're not alone either."
Lady Whitman turned slightly to meet his eyes in the dim light.
"I know," she smiled at Anthony as she whispered back.
"I'll do whatever it takes to protect you," he said, his voice calm but laced with steel. "You and Jason. Whoever sent that thing… they'll regret ever thinking they could harm what's mine."
For a moment, Mary Jane's instincts from her past life fluttered up again—memories of being told that no one would come for her, no one would help her, no one would protect her. But now, laying here, with a warm child breathing between them and this man looking at her like she was his world, the old scars didn't ache quite the same.
"Please don't think it is your burden to carry alone," she said softly. "You don't have to be the only shield, Anthony."
His brow furrowed slightly. "Maybe. But if it buys you peace of mind, I'd gladly carry it alone."
He eventually drifted off, his breaths evening out, his hand covering hers on top of Jason's blanket-covered chest. But Lady Whitman remained awake.
Her mind stirred—not in fear, but in clarity.
I'm not the girl who flinches from shadows anymore, she thought. I'm not the girl waiting to be rescued. I'm the woman who built a new life, who creates things with her hands and her mind. I'm the mother of a boy who trusts me, the wife of a man who finally sees me. And if someone thinks they can frighten me into giving this up… they'll learn what it means to threaten the wrong woman.
She closed her eyes slowly.
I will not allow them to hurt my family. Let them come. I'll be ready.
*****From sorrow's depths, from death's embrace*****
The moon was a thin crescent, cloaked behind a gauze of drifting clouds. Jane slipped out of Whitman Manor with the ease of someone well-practiced in silence. Her figure, cloaked in a charcoal-grey traveling cloak, melted into the night like a ghost. Her steps were swift and sure, light and agile, avoiding the well-worn gravel paths and sticking to the garden's darker edges until she reached the servant's exit at the rear.
A horse waited beyond the estate's perimeter, already saddled. She mounted quickly, her movements made easier by her masculine outfit, and rode into the darkness, toward an abandoned chapel at the edge of the forest—a location few dared visit, save for those who had once lived lives steeped in shadow.
Inside the chapel's hollowed remains, a single lantern flickered. The Grand Duke stood near the altar, cloaked in deep forest green, the hood pulled low over his silver hair. The dim flame cast his sharp profile in fleeting gold.
"You're late," he murmured, though his tone was not scolding—more of habit than rebuke.
Jane stepped into the light and pushed back her hood. "Security's tighter. Lord Whitman's men are prowling the halls like wolves tonight."
The Grand Duke studied her face for the briefest moment. "You have news."
Jane nodded once and drew a folded cloth from inside her sleeve. She opened it—revealing a parchment she had discreetly copied. "This arrived earlier today at Whitman Manor. Inside a box. Gift-wrapped. Inside were mutilated replicas of every invention Lady Whitman's ever made—including the Trade Sigil. Broken. Smeared in blood. Dried, but unmistakably a threat."
The Grand Duke's expression did not shift, even after reading the message on the paper, but his posture grew still.
"And the countess?" he asked.
"She kept it together," Jane said, voice low. "But only just. Lord Whitman had the butler locked the box in the manor vaults. He's called for a private investigation. And…" She hesitated, then softened. "Jason saw it. The boy's sharp. He knew something was wrong. He begged them to sleep together tonight. Poor child thought it would keep them safe."
A beat of silence.
Then the Grand Duke sighed and crossed his arms. "The timing. It's retaliation. For the Trade Sigil."
Jane nodded. "I thought the same. With three port officials arrested and several trade routes now closed off to under-the-table bribes, someone's operations have been strangled."
"Whoever it is, they're desperate," the Grand Duke said. "And bold."
"I'm worried," Jane said quietly. "This wasn't just a threat. It was a message. They want her to feel watched. Vulnerable."
The Grand Duke's expression darkened. "Then it's time we watch back."
"I'd like to suggest," Jane began, straightening slightly, "that you send some of your people—your best—to keep a discreet eye on the Whitmans. Not just the manor. The toy shop. The countess' outings. Even the Earl's offices here in the capital and at the docks."
The Grand Duke raised an eyebrow, then let a smirk curve the edge of his mouth. "Why would I need to do that, when my best is already inside the manor?"
Jane rolled her eyes, but a chuckle escaped. "I'm rusty. I've been undercover for years. Do you know how many tea sets I've polished?"
He chuckled, the low sound echoing through the cold chapel. "And yet here you are. Reporting as usual, helping reveal your targets' innocence, recognizing threats before they bloom, and keeping a noble family alive without breaking your cover. Rusty, my foot."
She offered a grin. "Still. An extra pair of eyes wouldn't hurt."
The Grand Duke nodded. "I'll dispatch them tonight. They'll report to you. Quietly."
She exhaled in relief, tension draining slightly from her shoulders. "Thank you."
"Keep your eyes on the shadows, Jane," he said quietly. "This game just changed pace."
"And the other players?" she asked.
His gaze met hers—sharp, calculating. "We will flush them out."
*****Rise anew, take her place*****
Perhaps it was the sight of those dried up blood, reminiscent of the times her stepfather's fists made her bleed on Ethan's books and toys, that made her remember…
Thunder cracked in the distance. Rain poured from a dark sky like a punishment. The world was soaked in gray and shadow.
Lady Whitman—no, Mary Jane—ran with bare feet over cracked pavement, her lungs burning, her dress soaked and heavy with rainwater. Mary Jane ran, breath ragged and feet splashing against the flooded pavement. Her heart pounded against her ribs.
She was late. She was so late.
She reached the school's front gate—only to find the building eerily silent, its windows black like the eyes of a sleeping monster. It wasn't the empire's huge and impressive academy where Jason will soon be enrolled at. But she knew that school. It was that preschool from a different world, a different lifetime—all hollowed out, windows dark, vines curling around the iron bars. The playground was empty. Silent.
"Hello?" she called out, voice catching in her throat.
No answer.
She pushed through the door. The interior was deserted. No laughter. No drawings on the walls. Just shadows and the scent of mildew. The walls pulsed like a heartbeat—faint and slow.
Panic clawed her throat.
She burst back into the street, wind whipping her hair as cold as the rain that lashed down on her face. She started running, and running, spinning, searching for—and then—there, just ahead—was a small figure curled in the middle of the road, drenched and shivering.
"Jason?!"
But it wasn't Jason.
"E-Ethan?!"
His tiny shoulders trembled as he hugged his knees to his chest.
"Ethan!"
She sprinted.
He looked up. Tear-streaked face. Quivering lip. And then—
"Sister!" he sobbed. "You forgot me."
"No," she called out in denial as she began running towards him. "I didn't. I would never—"
But no matter how much she ran, Ethan remained just out of reach, in the middle of the dark, rain-soaked street.
"Where are you?" he whispered. "You said you'd come back!"
"I—I'm sorry—the repairs took a long time—I didn't mean to—"
She stretched out her arms, hands clawing the air, but no matter how much she ran, she could not get near her brother.
"You left me," he said, accusing and broken. "You forgot me."
"I didn't forget—I was just—Ethan, I'm so sorry—!"
She reached for him—
—and jolted awake.
Tears streamed down her face; breath caught in a sob.
Her hands were clawing at something, still desperately straining to reach her goal.
Strong arms were already around her.
"Shh. It's all right," Anthony whispered, cradling her against his chest. "It's just a dream."
Her hands clung to the front of his nightshirt, trembling.
"Shh, it's just a dream," he repeated.
The sobs kept on coming. She couldn't stop them.
"Was it about your parents?" he asked quietly. "Or your memories?"
"I… I left him," she gasped through the sobs. "I left him… I promised I'd come back for him. I said I'd find a way—but I've been so busy. So distracted."
His embrace tightened just slightly. He didn't know what to say. Nor who or what she meant.
"I keep thinking I have time but… What if I'm forgetting him? What if I'm forgetting everything?" She clutched his shirt desperately.
Anthony's hand slid gently up her back in long, calming strokes. "You're remembering now, my love. You're remembering now."
She pulled back slightly, searching his face. "What was I thinking?! What have I been doing? I don't know what the hell I'm doing! What if I never find a way? What if I've been wasting time, playing house in a world that isn't mine?"
He cupped her cheek tenderly, wanting to reassure her, to ground her. "This is your world, Betty. Our world. And whatever it is, I know you'll find a way."
Betty. Bettina. That name, more than anything else he had said, calmed her down. Yes, the people in this world only knew her as Lady Bettina Anne Whitman, The Right Honorable Countess of Whitman. They didn't really know her. She's Mary Jane. So, they wouldn't really understand her. He wouldn't.
Anthony felt her retreat emotionally from him even before Bettina slowly disentangled herself from his embrace. But he was afraid to stop her.
"Thank you, Anthony," she said quietly. Calm now. Slowly, carefully so as not to wake little Jason up, Lady Whitman stood up from the bed and padded quietly to the door.
Her throat ached with unspoken truths. The weight of two lives. The grief of one she might never reclaim, and the guilt of slowly planting roots in the other.
"I don't want to forget," she whispered to no one. She quietly opened the door and left.
Anthony was left, filled with confusing thoughts, sitting up in Jason's bed, with his son deeply asleep beside him, and still looking at the door that took his wife away.
Who's Ethan?
He was afraid to ask.