A few minutes after Hawkins had left the room, a gentle knock sounded at the door.
"Master John?"
It was the voice of one of the housemaids.
"The bath is ready, sir."
John gave the mirror one last curious glance before replying, "Thank you. I'll come along."
He stepped out into the hallway and followed the maid toward the bathing room. The house was quiet in the soft morning light filtering through the tall windows, the stillness broken only by the faint creak of floorboards and the distant sounds of servants moving about their duties.
When he entered the bathing room, he paused.
In the center of the chamber stood a large cast-iron bathtub filled nearly to the brim with steaming water. Wisps of vapor drifted lazily upward, carrying the faint scent of soap. A small table nearby held a sponge, a cloth, and a neatly folded towel.
John folded his arms as he examined the setup.
"Well," he murmured under his breath, "I suppose that's about as luxurious as it gets."
His mind instinctively compared the scene with the bathrooms he remembered from his previous life, white ceramic tubs, tiled walls, and hot water available with the turn of a tap. In contrast, the bath before him must have required servants to heat several buckets of water and carry them upstairs one by one.
When he thought about it that way, the arrangement suddenly seemed far more impressive.
In fact, he realized that most people in London probably lived with far less comfort than this. Entire districts of the city were notorious for their poor sanitation, and many families had little access to proper bathing facilities at all.
The Halsworth residence in Kensington, by comparison, was practically luxurious.
"Well," he said quietly, loosening his shirt, "no sense wasting it."
After undressing, he stepped carefully into the tub. The heat of the water wrapped around him at once, easing the lingering stiffness in his muscles.
A long breath escaped him before he could stop it.
"Now that," he said softly, leaning back against the rim of the tub, "is exactly what I needed."
For the first time since waking in this unfamiliar body, his thoughts began to settle.
He picked up the sponge and began scrubbing methodically, washing away the grime that had accumulated from travel, sweat, and blood. Each stroke of the sponge seemed to remove another layer of fatigue, and slowly the tension in his shoulders began to ease.
His hand paused when it brushed across the faint scars on his abdomen.
The marks were small but unmistakable.
One at the front.
One at the back.
Entry wound.
Exit wound.
Even now, the sight of them was difficult to believe. According to the memories he had inherited, the injury had been severe enough to become infected during the voyage home. It had almost certainly been the cause of the original John Halsworth's death.
Yet the wound now looked as though it had healed weeks earlier.
He shook his head slowly.
"Well… I suppose that's one mystery I won't complain about."
If whatever strange event had brought him into this world had also healed the body, then it was a blessing he intended to accept without further complaint. Crossing into another man's body only to die from an infection days later would have been a particularly cruel joke.
After more than fifteen minutes of soaking and scrubbing, John finally rose from the tub. The warmth of the water had left his muscles pleasantly relaxed, and he felt far more awake than he had earlier.
He dried himself and returned to the bedroom, where a fresh set of clothes had already been laid out.
Dressing proved to be a small adventure of its own.
He examined the neatly arranged garments with mild confusion before the body's residual habits guided his hands through the process—shirt first, then trousers, suspenders, and finally the waistcoat.
Victorian fashion, he quickly concluded, involved far more layers than he had expected.
Still, when he finished fastening the last button and looked up at the mirror, he had to admit the result was rather impressive.
The man staring back at him appeared entirely different from the disoriented figure who had woken earlier that morning.
His dark hair had been combed neatly into place, and the clean clothes gave him a respectable, almost distinguished appearance. The waistcoat fit well across his shoulders, emphasizing a lean but healthy frame.
John tilted his head slightly as he studied the reflection.
"Not bad," he murmured thoughtfully.
He straightened his collar and leaned closer to the mirror.
"You know," he continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "this fellow is actually rather handsome."
Curiosity got the better of him. He adjusted his stance, attempting what he imagined to be a dignified pose, chin lifted slightly, one hand resting behind his back as though he were some great gentleman of society.
He held the pose for several seconds before bursting into quiet laughter.
"No… that one definitely doesn't work."
He tried another stance, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes in what he hoped looked suitably serious.
"Brooding Victorian gentleman," he muttered.
After a moment he shook his head again.
"Still terrible."
Chuckling at his own foolishness, he finally stepped away from the mirror. At that exact moment his stomach emitted a loud, unmistakable rumble.
John looked down at it in mild irritation.
"Oh, now you decide to complain."
He patted his stomach lightly.
"Patience. Breakfast is coming."
With that, he left the bedroom and made his way downstairs.
The lower floor of the Halsworth house was bathed in warm morning light. Sunbeams filtered through tall windows, illuminating polished wooden floors and carefully arranged furnishings that reflected the quiet prosperity of the household.
As he reached the bottom of the staircase, Hawkins appeared from the adjoining corridor.
"Good morning again, Master John."
"Morning, Hawkins."
The butler inclined his head respectfully.
"Breakfast will be ready shortly."
"That is excellent news," John replied. "I was beginning to fear starvation."
Hawkins allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile before continuing.
"There is also a visitor waiting to see you, sir."
John blinked in surprise.
"A visitor?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who is it?"
Hawkins gestured toward the lounge room at the far end of the hall.
"He arrived earlier this morning and has been waiting for you."
John frowned slightly as he walked toward the room. It was rather early for social calls, and he struggled briefly to recall who might wish to see him at such an hour.
The answer revealed itself as soon as he turned the corner.
A young man sat in one of the lounge chairs, leaning forward slightly with a leather doctor's bag resting across his knees. His clothes were neat but practical, and his expression carried the alert attentiveness of someone accustomed to tending the sick.
The moment he looked up and saw John, his expression froze.
Recognition came instantly.
Julian Foyle.
The young doctor stood abruptly, staring as though he could scarcely believe his own eyes.
"You're standing," he said in disbelief.
John paused.
Julian shook his head slowly. "I could hardly believe it when the butler told me you were awake. But seeing you like this…"
His gaze drifted toward John's belly, where the bandages had been removed.
"You should be bedridden."
John raised an eyebrow.
"Good morning to you too, Julian."
The remark seemed to startle him slightly.
"…Good morning," Julian replied belatedly.
"That's better," John said with a faint smile.
Julian stepped closer, his brow furrowing as he examined him carefully.
"John, last night your wound was badly infected. You had a fever and could barely remain conscious. I was preparing to spend the night here because I feared the worst." He gestured vaguely toward him. "And now you are walking about the house as though nothing happened."
John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Well," he said, forcing a casual shrug, "perhaps all I needed was a good night's sleep."
Julian regarded him with open skepticism.
The explanation clearly convinced him of nothing.
Before the doctor could press the matter further, John gestured toward the dining room.
"In any case," he said cheerfully, "since you are already here, you might as well join me for breakfast. My stomach has been protesting quite loudly."
Julian hesitated, still studying him as though trying to solve an impossible puzzle.
At last he sighed.
"…Very well."
Yet the perplexed look on his face remained firmly in place as the two men headed toward the dining room.