A soft knock came before I had time to think.
"Your Ladyship,"
a maid's voice said through the door. "His Grace requests your presence at table.
Are you awake, or shall I fetch water?"
Awake? Barely. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. "I—I'm awake."
The maid entered without hesitation, bowing just enough to be polite, not deferential. Her gaze swept over me, sharp and appraising, as if she already suspected something was wrong. Without asking, she dusted powder across my cheeks, brushed rouge on lips that weren't mine, and held up an emerald gown. Heavy brocade, embroidered within an inch of its life.
I let her dress me, my arms moving like a marionette's. Each hook and ribbon tightened with her brisk, efficient fingers. Her eyes lingered a moment too long, as if silently noting every hesitation. When she was finished, she stepped back, lips pressed thin. "Come. The family waits."
We passed through corridors of dark oak that stretched endlessly, sconces casting pools of light beneath the painted eyes of long-dead dukes. Their gazes pressed like weights against my back. At last, the double doors groaned open.
The dining hall swallowed me whole. A walnut table, polished to a mirror sheen, ran nearly the length of the chamber. Silverware gleamed in precise rows, crystal goblets caught the light, and the air itself seemed heavy with expectation. Tapestries of war and conquest draped the walls—stitched knights frozen forever in triumph.
And then—the family.
At the head sat the Duke, my supposed father. Broad-shouldered, posture iron-straight, hands resting on the chair as though even the wood bent to his command.
To his right: "my" uncle. Calm, still, colder than stone. His expression carried the patience of a man who could wait decades for the right moment to strike.
Three cousins lined one side. The eldest boy lounged with his boots crossed beneath the table, smirk curving as if at a private joke. The younger sat stiff as a cadet, posture military but eyes darting nervously. Their sister tilted her head, a smile flickering too sharp to trust.
And at the Duke's side—the Duchess. Jewels glittered at her throat, hair arranged like a crown. Her gaze stripped me to the bone before I even breathed.
Every eye turned as I entered.
Their stares were knives.
I froze. My pulse hammered loud enough to echo in my skull.
"Not even a proper bow?"
the Duke said, his voice rolling low, thunderous.
"After years of lessons, this is how you greet your family? Do you wish to disgrace me in my own hall?"
My uncle's lips curved faintly, humorless. "Or perhaps she believes rules no longer apply."
The eldest cousin snorted. The sister's smile widened.
Heat climbed my neck. I bent clumsily, shallow, a mockery of grace. "F-Father… Uncle…"
The Duke's exhale was sharp, displeased. "Enough.Sit, before my appetite leaves me."
I slid into the nearest chair, my palms slick.
Servants materialized as if from shadows, setting dishes that glowed like treasure: pheasant glazed in wine, pies with golden pastry, bowls heaped with sugared fruits. I stared at the rows of forks and knives—a minefield of etiquette.
I gripped one wrong. It slipped, clattering loud as thunder. A cousin choked back laughter.
My cheeks burned. I speared a morsel, only for it to slide free, splashing sauce across my sleeve. Laughter again, sharper this time.
I reached for the goblet, fingers catching the bowl instead of the stem. Red wine wobbled, threatening to spill.
The Duchess's voice cut through, smooth as silk: "How charming. Shall we all adopt her rustic manners, to spare her embarrassment?"
Heat blurred my eyes. Stop. Please..
"I… forgive me," I muttered, voice strangled. "I'm unwell. May I… be excused?"
The Duke's glare pinned me to my seat. The pause dragged, suffocating. Finally: "Go, before you shame us further."
I fled.
Corridors blurred, stone swallowing sound, until I burst onto a balcony. Air hit me cold and sharp. Below, gardens stretched in precise symmetry, every hedge clipped to perfection. Alien. Sterile.
My knees buckled. "What is happening to me!? I'm no heroine to save her… I'll ruin her even faster instead!!
I— just want to go home.."
A step behind me—quiet, measured. The maid. Silent, steady, offering her arm. She guided me back without judgment, as if nothing about this was strange.
In my chamber, I seized quill and paper. Ink splattered under my shaking hand as words spilled:
If tomorrow I wake still in this body, it is no dream.
Survival requires three paths:
Feign injury—an excuse for ignorance.
Win a servant's loyalty—someone must teach me the rules.
Learn in secret—books, overheard lessons, every scrap of knowledge.
But above all—I pray to wake at my desk again.
Don't slip. Don't falter. Or I'll die before knowing why I'm here.