Urgh… So many dreams…
A dull ache pulsed through her skull, and her limbs felt weighed down by an invisible force. Mary Jane's eyelids fluttered open, her vision blurring as she struggled to focus. The world around her swayed, her fever still burning hot beneath her skin.
The bed she lay in was far too soft, the sheets too fine, the scent of lavender lingering in the air. It was wrong. Even in the dark, she knew that everything around her was wrong. This wasn't her room—it wasn't the dingy, cramped space she shared with her stepbrother. Panic curled inside her stomach as she turned her head slightly, her dry throat tightening. The ceiling above her was high, adorned with delicate carvings and gold embellishments, utterly foreign and intimidating.
She swallowed, grimacing at the sharp sting of thirst. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. Her lips, cracked and parched, barely parted as she whispered in a voice that was gravelly from disuse, "Hello…?"
Silence.
She strained her ears, hoping for the distant murmur of a TV, the hum of traffic outside a window—something familiar. But all she heard was the faint rustling of curtains shifting against a cold breeze that kept wafting in from the tall windows.
No one was here.
Her fingers trembled as she gripped the edge of the blanket. She had to move. Lying here wasn't an option, not when her stomach twisted painfully in hunger and her throat screamed for water. And especially not when there's someone she needed to see.
Bracing herself, she pushed her upper body up, and a wave of dizziness nearly knocked her back down. Her vision swam, black spots creeping at the edges. She clenched her jaw and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor sent a shiver up her spine as she willed her legs to hold her weight.
Step by painful step, she dragged herself forward, one hand clutching the edge of a nearby table for support. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she reached the heavy double doors. Her fingers fumbled against the polished brass handles, and with a soft click, the door creaked open.
The hallway outside stretched endlessly, lined with ornate sconces and rich tapestries. The walls gleamed under the dim lighting, and the plush carpet muffled her unsteady steps. It looked straight out of a historical drama on TV—too grand, too refined, too unreal.
Where… am I?
She didn't know where she was going, but she had to keep moving. If there was someone here, she needed to find them.
With each step, the exhaustion clawed at her, her fevered body sluggish and unwilling. The hallway opened into a vast landing, and below her, a grand staircase spiraled down into what seemed to be a massive foyer. Relief flickered inside her—if this was a house, then surely someone must be here.
"Help…" her gravelly voice rasped, gripping the banister as she took her first shaky step downward.
A sound.
A soft gasp.
She turned her head toward it, vision unfocused, but she barely registered the figure of a maid at the bottom of the staircase, dressed in strange yet familiar attire. The young woman's eyes widened in alarm as she rushed forward, her lips moving—words spilling forth in a language Mary Jane couldn't understand.
The woman stopped a few steps below and looked up toward her direction. Upon seeing her, though, the maid's jaw fell wide open, her eyes bulging out of their sockets. She dropped her feather duster and covered her wide-open mouth as she stared at her.
"Help," she croaked. But since she can't make her voice sound louder than a whisper, Mary Jane made some beckoning motions to prompt the woman to go to her. She felt like she couldn't take another step anymore. "Please help me," she repeated.
Forgetting the feather duster, the woman ran upstairs to her, but halted a few steps away. The woman was looking her up and down.
"Bēltu?"
"Water, please." She was slowly losing her strength. She raised her arm and the woman reluctantly stepped closer. With a slight flinch, the uniformed woman allowed her to drape one arm over her shoulders and they slowly hobbled to the top of the stairs.
Looking up at the woman, Mary Jane said shyly, "Thank you." She wanted to confirm, "You will help me?"
"Ul īde?" The woman looked at her with a confused expression.
"Water, please. I'm thirsty," Mary Jane repeated.
They were halfway down when she suddenly felt her body giving up on her. Mary Jane's head spun violently, her knees buckling beneath her.
"Oh dear," was all she could say. And the last thing she saw and heard before everything went black was the maid's scream, coupled with a panicked expression, as the maid reached out to catch her.
And darkness swallowed her once more.
*****By blood, by will, by kindred fate*****
It was the sharp cry of a woman that yanked the Earl's attention away from the documents spread across his desk.
He exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temple. He had no patience for disturbances, not when he had stacks of paperwork to finish—affairs of business and state that mattered far more than whatever trivial nonsense was causing this commotion.
Yet, something about the sheer panic in that scream unsettled him.
With an irritated flick of his hand, he threw the papers down, pushed back his chair, and strode out of his study.
"Madam? Madam?!!"
The desperate voice rang out from the grand staircase, and as he stepped into the hall, his gaze snapped upward.
There, barely upright, on the stairs, a maid clung to a crumpled figure—Bettina.
A biting irritation flared through him.
Bettina, dressed only in a nightgown, seemed to have either fallen asleep or lost consciousness halfway down the stairs. Her head lolled to the side; limbs slack as though she were merely sleeping. But the maid's struggle to keep her from sliding down the stairs told a different story.
Wasn't she supposed to be sick? What the hell is she doing out of her bedroom?!
The sight grated against his nerves.
"What's going on here?" he demanded.
The maid startled; eyes wide with panic. "Uh, um, the… the Madam fainted, Your Lordship."
Fainted?
He scoffed. How convenient.
"Get that woman back to her room," he ordered flatly, already turning away.
The maid visibly flinched at the sharpness of his tone. One arm still wrapped tightly around the banister; she struggled to support the weight of the unconscious woman draped against her. But it was painfully obvious—she wasn't strong enough.
Seconds stretched into awkward silence as the maid tried, and huffed, and failed to move. He could hear the poor maid's strained breathing, see the trembling of her arms as she desperately attempted to shift the dead weight.
Tch!
"Oh, for crying out loud," he growled under his breath before stomping up the stairs. With little patience left, he seized his wife's arm, peeling her away from the maid's grasp with ease.
The instant he did so, the maid stumbled back, clearly relieved to be free of the burden. She took several quick steps down the stairs, keeping her distance.
Bettina, however, barely reacted. Her body slumped forward, head tilting limply as if she were a lifeless doll sitting on the stairs. It was only thanks to his one hand wrapped around her thin arm that prevented her from tumbling down the stairs.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
"What the hell was she doing wandering the halls like this?"
"I—I don't know, my lord," the maid stammered. "Sh-she was trying to say something, but I… I couldn't understand her."
His frown deepened. That was odd. But at this moment, he wasn't inclined to care.
With an irritated sigh, he bent down, yanked her upright, and effortlessly lifted her into his arms.
Light. Too light.
His grip unconsciously tightened as he ascended the stairs, taking in the alarming heat radiating from her skin which didn't immediately register the first time he touched her. She was burning up.
It wasn't until he stepped into her bedchamber that something twisted inside his chest.
The air was freezing.
The fireplace lay cold and untouched. The single set of curtains remained drawn, flapping in the night breeze from the open windows, and cloaking the room in eerie dimness. The bed itself—barely covered with a single thin blanket—gave the impression of neglect rather than occupancy.
His gaze flicked downward.
She's starting to smell, the earl thought. When was the last time she washed up?
Her nightgown, once an elegant piece of fine fabric, was rumpled, unwashed. Her hair, damp with fevered sweat, clung to her pale, clammy skin.
This…
His fingers clenched involuntarily.
He had no love for this woman. Couldn't even call her as his wife. That much was certain. If she were to die, he would not shed a single tear.
And yet—
His jaw tightened. He voiced a command through gritted teeth that allowed the lamps to light up. The room was in a sorrier state compared to when it was bathed in darkness.
His household was not supposed to be the sort of place where a woman—much less his wife, no matter how estranged—should be left in such a miserable state. It was indecent. Unacceptable.
"Fetch the physician," he ordered coldly to the maid who followed him, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Bring hot water and extra blankets. Now."
The maid scurried away, leaving him alone in the frigid silence.
He walked around the room, intending to wait for the maid to return. Running his finger on top of the mantlepiece and finding his finger thickly coated with dust. Gritting his teeth, he went over to the door of the walk-in closet…and almost coughed out loud at the musty, moldy scent that greeted him. His capital estate had more than a hundred employed servants, almost half of which were tasked to maintain the upkeep of every room in this house. And yet not one of them thought to come in here and do some cleaning?
A knock on the door stopped him for further investigation.
"Come in," he answered and watched the maid from earlier enter the room pushing in a trolley containing a basin of steaming water with folded blankets arranged beneath.
Awkwardly, the maid gathered the blankets. "M-my lord, the physician is on his way."
"Feed this woman and clean her up. And make sure to fix this room." He ordered to the maid who promptly left after he issued the order.
For a long moment, he stood motionless, his expression unreadable as he watched the fevered woman on the bed.
Then, with a slow exhale, he turned and left.
There. He had done his part.
*****Two lives entwined; two paths equate*****
Mary Jane stirred. Her body heavy yet strangely foreign. A dull ache pulsed behind her temples, and her limbs felt stiff from disuse. As her awareness sharpened, she registered the sensation of soft bedding beneath her, a stark contrast to the cold, hard floor of her tiny apartment. Her fingers curled into the fine fabric of the sheets; their texture unfamiliar yet luxurious.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. How many days has it been? She looked around her.
Ah, at least she was no longer as hungry as she was before.
The dimly lit room was spacious, its opulent furnishings alien to her. Gilded wallpaper adorned the high walls, intricate wooden furniture filled the space along with plush, Victorian-style seats arranged around a coffee table. The air carried that same, faint scent of lavender. Panic flickered at the edges of her thoughts. This wasn't her home. Where was she?
Her breath hitched as she struggled to sit up. Weakness clung to her limbs, but something felt… off. Her movements lacked their usual coordination, as if her body were an ill-fitting garment. Frowning, she raised her hands before her face, expecting the calloused, sun-browned fingers she had known all her life. Instead, she found delicate, porcelain-like hands—smooth, unblemished, refined. These were the hands of a person who had never known a hard day of back-breaking labor.
Her heart began to race.
Throwing off the covers, she forced her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet on the cool floor. A wave of dizziness assaulted her, but she gritted her teeth and stood, swaying slightly. She needed a mirror. Now.
Her gaze swept across the room, landing on an ornate vanity. Moving on unsteady legs, she reached for the edge of the wooden frame to steady herself before daring to look into the polished glass.
A stranger stared back at her.
Panic clawed at her throat as she leaned in closer, desperately searching for familiarity. The woman in the mirror was breathtakingly beautiful—tall and statuesque, with cascades of pale blonde hair that shimmered even in the dim light. Violet eyes, hauntingly vivid, bore into her own. Her skin was flawless, the features elegant and delicate, but none of it belonged to her.
And yet, she looked a little familiar. As if she'd seen her before. But who was she?
Her breath came in shallow gasps. She lifted a trembling hand to her cheek, and the woman in the mirror did the same. She turned her head, this way and that, and the reflection copied her.
"No," she whispered, voice barely audible. The melodic softness of it startled her, further proving the terrifying truth. This was not her voice. This was not her face.
Mary Jane's breath came in short, panicked bursts. "No... no, no, no."
The reflection in the mirror remained unchanged—the blonde-haired woman with piercing violet eyes, staring back at her, looking horrified. Her hands trembled as she reached up, touching her unfamiliar face. The smooth, delicate features, the soft curl of golden strands, the foreign sensation of her own body—it was all too much.
A sharp knock on the door shattered her spiraling thoughts.
She flinched, heart hammering against her ribs.
A muffled voice spoke from the other side, but she couldn't understand a single word. It was a language completely unfamiliar to her—fluid, with a melodious yet clipped cadence. The voice was feminine, but its meaning was lost on her.
Mary Jane's stomach twisted. What's going on here? How was this possible?
The voice outside spoke again, more insistently this time. The door handle rattled slightly as if the person beyond it was debating whether to enter.
Panic surged up her throat. Should she answer? Should she pretend to be asleep? Should she hide?
Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides. No. She needed to think. Act.
She swallowed down her nerves and slowly moved toward the door, hesitating before opening it just a crack. A young maid stood outside; her face devoid of expression.
"Bēltu, attā tašēpu?" The girl spoke again, polite but distant — as if the woman had asked a routine question without expecting an answer. But the words she spoke was alien, as if she was from a foreign country.
Mary Jane opened her mouth, then shut it. What could she even say? Would they even understand her if she spoke a different language? Was there even a language they shared?
Instead, she pointed to herself and shook her head, trying to convey her lack of understanding.
The maid blinked, then frowned in confusion, tilting her head as if trying to make sense of the odd gesture. "Bēltu?"
When she shook her head in confusion, the maid just shrugged, turned around, and left without another word. She heard the woman's footsteps grew fainter and she sagged with relief on the closed door.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, feeling the unfamiliar rhythm of this borrowed heart. What happened to me?
But before she could try to find an answer to her own questions, another thought just entered her mind. Ethan.
Oh no, Ethan!
Quick as lightning, she raced to the door and pulled it wide open. Hurtling herself outside, she ran barefoot, wanting to find her way back home. Ethan needs me! She couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors that her young stepbrother would face without her.
As she saw the maid just a few steps away from her, the same maid who knocked on her door earlier, she called out. "Wait!"
The maid stopped and turned back to her in question.
"I…" she stepped forward to get closer. But then the maid flinched and stepped back quickly. She took a step back as well. She knew that maid's movement very well. It was an instinctive movement that the body makes in order to protect itself from an incoming violence or aggression.
"Ēnu?" The maid asked in slightly defiant tone.
"May I know where I am?" Maybe, if she spoke more slowly, the other person would recognize the language she herself was using. English was a universal language after all.
"Ul asû?"
"I…I want to go home. C-could you tell me where we are?" What language is she using?
"Eššu ana šumšu attadin, ul asû."
Not a chance. Verbal communication seemed to be a bust.
"N-never mind." She whispered quietly and turned to go back to her room.
She must still be in dream land. A very vivid dream land. And perhaps, if she slept again, she would then wake up afterwards, back to her true reality. Her reality where her mother suddenly vanished one day to escape their abusive stepfather. Her reality where she had to work two to three jobs just so her paychecks would be snatched away by that alcoholic gambler. But most importantly, back to her young stepbrother who needed her.
Yes.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
She refused to accept this reality. She will go back to sleep and, when she wakes up again, she'll be back home in the slums. With Ethan.
With her mind fighting hard to swallow the fear that she might be going crazy, Mary Jane climbed back into bed, unable to accept her current reality. Hiding under the blankets, she willed herself back to sleep.
Yes, this nightmare will be over once she wakes up from it—she didn't need this type of reality.
*****From sorrow's depths, from death's embrace*****
A couple of days had passed. But…although he tried to bury himself with work, the memory of carrying the fevered Countess back to her cold and dreary bedroom periodically insinuated itself in his mind, unbidden. Even now.
It was irritating, not being able to erase it completely from his mind.
The Right Honorable Earl Anthony James Whitman stood before one of the windows in his study; fingers curled tightly around the crystal tumbler of brandy he had barely touched. Beyond the glass, the manor gardens stretched out in the pale moonlight, the neatly trimmed hedges casting long shadows against the cobblestone paths. His gaze, however, was fixed on a single spot—the place where her body had been found around a week ago.
The memory was fresh, no matter how much he tried to push it away…
He had been in his study when the frantic voices of the servants reached his ears. At first, he thought it had been some trivial matter—perhaps another mistake from the lazy attendant who barely pretended to serve her. But then he heard it.
"My lord—the Countess—"
The rest of the butler's frantic words had faded into a blur. He had risen to his feet, briskly walking down the corridors, although he wasn't really in a hurry. Not for her, of course. He thought Bettina must have done something terrible again to one or more of his household staff.
And yet, when he stepped outside and saw the cluster of horrified faces surrounding a limp figure in the dirt, something inside him froze.
Her golden hair had been matted with dried blood. Her face—pale as death itself—was slack, her lips slightly parted as if she had exhaled her last in a whisper of regret. Her nightgown, torn and stained, barely concealed the bruises and scratches that marred her flesh. The scene should have evoked nothing in him, except relief maybe, and yet...
For a moment, just a fleeting one, he had forgotten his hatred.
He had crouched down, a gloved hand reaching out before he even realized what he was doing. He hesitated. But then his sense of duty and responsibility made him remove his gloves. His fingers had hovered just above her wrist, unsure whether to touch or recoil. He had hated her—loathed her for what she had done. Or what he believed she had done. Investigators may have declared her innocent regarding that incident several months ago…but many of them, including himself, were still suspicious.
However, in that moment, he saw nothing of the venomous woman who had earned the scorn of the entire household. He saw someone else—someone broken. Abandoned.
With a heavy breath, he tightened his grip on the glass, forcing himself back to the present.
Everyone said she must have jumped on her own from the third-floor window of the countess' wing. And so, he had ordered an official investigation. Not because he was concerned—at least, that's what he told himself—but because it was necessary. The conclusion had been what he expected.
The results of the investigation declared: No foul play. A fall from the upper window. A simple, pitiful end to a miserable life. For what reason? Perhaps she was tired of people avoiding her vicious self. That was it.
And yet, against all odds, she had lived.
His eyes shifted toward the opposite wing of the manor, from the earl's wing to the countess' wing, to where she still lay fevered and unconscious, in a bedroom that reeked of dust and neglect. He had carried her there himself, just two nights ago, arms stiff with reluctance, his mind screaming at him to let the servants handle it. But when he had entered that room, had seen the unkempt bedding, the cold hearth that was bereft of any dying embers, the chilling lack of comfort—it had stung.
She had been living like this? For how long? Since when?
He wasn't a fool. He knew the servants barely cared for her. Whatever treatment she received from others, it was all due to the way she carried herself, the way she abused members of the household, and the way she scorned those beneath her. But still...
He took a slow sip of the brandy, allowing its burn to anchor him.
She was awake now. Weak, but awake. He should wash his hand off of her. Go about his business separately the way he had always been.
Whatever guilt or concern lurked in the shadows of his mind; he buried it beneath the weight of colder logic.
She had survived. That was enough.
For now.