Moments later, the family physician arrived in a rush — an older man with thinning white hair and nervous hands. He approached the bed with care, his fingers cool against Anna's wrist as he checked her pulse, then pressed a hand gently to her forehead.
A hush fell over the room as he worked.
After a long moment, he stepped back.
"She's perfectly fine," he announced, adjusting his spectacles. "There's no sign of fever, no lingering weakness. It's… remarkable."
Celina's face twisted.
"But she was dead!" she blurted out, her voice sharper than she meant.
Lady Geneva's gaze snapped to her daughter, a warning flashing in her eyes. "Celina," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Enough."
Celina clamped her mouth shut, but her trembling hands betrayed her.
Lady Geneva turned to the maid, who was standing nervously by the door. "Inform Viscount Harrowind that Lady Amelia has recovered."
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and hurried out.
"Rest, my dear," Lady Geneva said smoothly, forcing a smile. "We'll leave you to regain your strength."
One by one, they filed out of the room.
The heavy door closed behind them with a soft click.
⸻
Alone Again
Anna exhaled, sinking deeper into the pillows.
So obvious, she thought bitterly. They did kill her.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood, her body still feeling strange and too light.
Moving to the tall mirror by the window, she stared at the unfamiliar reflection.
The face staring back was delicate and beautiful, but her expression now was unmistakably Anna's.
Her gaze dropped to the white lace nightgown she wore. The fabric was fine but plain. Everything about the room felt expensive — from the silk drapes to the gold-threaded carpet — yet something felt off. It was too bare. No personal touches. No warmth.
She turned to the large wooden wardrobe against the wall and opened it.
Inside were rows of pale, colorless dresses. Whites, creams, soft pastels — nothing bold. No jewelry aside from a single locket on a worn chain. For someone from a family this rich, it made no sense.
A small, bitter laugh escaped her lips.
"Is this how you lived, Amelia? Locked in a cage dressed in lace?"
The memory of Amelia's words from the space between life and death echoed in her mind.
I never lived for myself… not once.
Anna ran a hand through her hair. Her memories surged forward — Nova's face, that cold smirk, the poisoned drink, the betrayal.
"That snake," she hissed, clenching her fists. "I swear, if there's a way back, I'll burn her to ash."
She turned back to the mirror.
"So this is transmigration," she said quietly. "And this… is Amelia Harrowind's body."
A faint flicker of a voice seemed to echo in her mind — Amelia's laugh, soft and resigned.
"Then we are the same."
Anna's lips curled into a wry smirk.
"Fine. But I'm not playing the saint like you did."
She looked once more at the wardrobe of docile dresses, then closed it.
"I'm not here to endure quietly. I'm here to finish what you couldn't."
"Well, Amelia Harrowind," she muttered under her breath, glancing once more at the mirror. "You and I… might've had more in common than I thought."
A firm knock at the door barely gave Anna a second before it swung open. Viscount Harrowind strode in, his face set in a look of grave concern, though his eyes held little warmth.
"My dear Amelia," he began, his voice low and carefully measured. "I was told you woke. You gave us quite a fright."
Anna sat upright on the bed, watching him. The man had the kind of presence that filled a room by force, not kindness.
"I heard from Geneva… she was so worried for you," he went on. "You know she's always cared for you as her own. You love her, don't you? She's been the best one to look after you since your mother passed."
Anna let out a short, humorless laugh.
The Viscount's brows drew together. "What's this? Are you feeling alright? Perhaps I should send for the doctor again—"
"No," Anna cut in sharply, her voice steady. "I'll ask you something, Father."
He stilled.
"If my dear stepmother has been so good to me," Anna began, gesturing around the dim, plain room, "then why am I living like this? Why are my clothes threadbare, and my chamber cold and empty when this house is filled with wealth?"
The Viscount's face tightened, but he recovered quickly, offering a weak, patronizing smile. "Amelia, you've never cared for such things. You're a modest girl, quiet…kindhearted."
"I was," Anna corrected coolly, "but not anymore."
A thick pause hung in the air.
"I want this room changed," she continued, her gaze sharp as glass. "A new one. Brighter, larger, with proper furnishings. And new dresses — for myself and my maid. Before the week ends."
The Viscount's lips parted, clearly thrown off by her unexpected defiance.
"I… well, if that's what you want," he muttered, glancing away. "I'll see to it."
Without waiting for dismissal, he turned and left, the door closing a little too hard behind him.
Anna smirked faintly to herself. Amelia never asked for anything… but I will.