The hallway smelled of polished wood and that sharp, expensive perfume Patricia always wore. Not flowers something heavier, more deliberate. The kind of scent that announced itself before the woman even entered a room. Emily's bare feet were silent against the cool floor as she moved through the house, getting used to legs that felt too light, arms that lacked the weight of muscle she'd once known.
She flexed her fingers. Rolled her shoulders. The body was weaker than what she remembered, sure, but weak didn't mean useless. She'd worked with less before.
A clock chimed somewhere in the living room. Her father would be home soon.
Emily stopped outside the study. Even through the closed door, she could smell it old leather, stale cigars, and that particular scent of desperation that clung to men who measured their worth in other people's opinions. The room would be full of certificates, awards, anything that screamed important. She didn't need to look inside to know.
The front door opened with a heavy thud that seemed to shift the entire atmosphere of the house. His footsteps came down the hall like a drumbeat.
"Emily." Her father's voice cut through the air before he even rounded the corner. "I hear you're awake."
She turned slowly. He stood there, suit slightly rumpled from the day, eyes already scanning her like she was a business report he needed to review. She met his gaze and held it.
"Father," she said quietly. "Yes, I'm awake."
He frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. "That fall… honestly, I should have hired better help. A stronger girl wouldn't have caused this mess in the first place."
Emily almost laughed. A stronger girl. If he only knew. But she kept her face neutral, letting the insult slide off her like water.
"I'm feeling better now," she said, voice even. "It won't happen again."
His eyes flicked past her to where Grace had materialized in the doorway, perfectly timed as always. Her stepmother's expression was smooth, unreadable.
"Good," he said. "Because the arrangement with Timothy Blackwood stands. The man's powerful, Emily. Impatient. You understand what that means?"
Timothy Blackwood. The name settled in her chest like a stone. The world called him a monster, apparently. Some ruthless businessman who crushed people for sport.
Perfect. She'd dealt with worse.
Emily let her gaze drop, playing the part of the obedient daughter. "Of course, Father. I understand."
He watched her for another moment, then seemed satisfied enough to leave. His trust was paper-thin and completely misplaced, but that worked in her favor.
Once his footsteps faded, Emily started exploring. Really exploring this time. She noted which stairs creaked, where the light fell at different times of day, which doors were kept locked. Information was a weapon, and she was collecting an arsenal.
In the kitchen, she found Lydia wiping down the counters. The maid jumped when Emily walked in.
"Miss Emily…?" Lydia's voice dropped to almost nothing. "Are you are you feeling okay?"
Emily smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm fine. Thank you, Lydia."
The tension in Lydia's shoulders eased just a fraction. She glanced toward the doorway, then leaned in slightly. "There's things you should know. About your stepmother. Your sister. Even your father." She hesitated. "They make plans. Plans that usually don't work out well for you."
Plans. Betrayal. The familiar territory of court intrigue. Emily felt something almost like excitement stir in her chest.
"I'll remember that," she said softly. "Thank you for telling me."
Lydia's eyes went wide, but she nodded and quickly returned to her work. One ally. Small, but real. You had to start somewhere.
The rest of the day, Emily spent testing her limits. She lifted things that probably should have been too heavy. Took the stairs two at a time when no one was watching. Paid attention to how her lungs felt, how quickly her heart rate recovered. The body was weaker, yes, but not without potential. She could work with this.
Evening came with long shadows stretching across the drawing room. Stephanie appeared with a tea tray, moving with that careful, practiced grace she'd perfected.
"You've been wandering around all day," Stephanie said, setting the tray down. "Father won't like it if you wear yourself out before dinner."
Emily picked up her cup slowly. "I'm just getting reacquainted with the house."
"Mmm." Stephanie's eyes narrowed slightly. "You seem different. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something's changed."
Good. Let her wonder.
"Maybe I just needed a good knock on the head," Emily said, taking a sip of tea. The irony wasn't lost on her.
Stephanie's smile flickered. Just for a second, but Emily caught it. "We'll see how long this new attitude lasts," her sister said, voice honey-sweet and razor-sharp at the same time.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Emily set down her cup and leaned back in the chair. Her father, Grace, Stephanie—they were all pieces on a board, moving in predictable patterns. They thought they knew the game. They thought they knew her.
They had no idea what was coming.
She thought of the other Emily, the one whose memories still echoed faintly in her chest. The girl who'd been pushed, betrayed, forgotten.
"I promised I'd help you," Emily whispered to the empty room. "Might as well enjoy it."
Outside, the sun finally set, and the house settled into darkness.