Chapter 2: The Silent Lady
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Ritsuka stared at the mirror.
"That is… not my face," she thought.
The reflection in the glass had deep brown skin, warm and sunlit, nothing like the paler Tokyo complexion she saw every morning for forty years. The cheekbones were sharper. The jawline smoother. Her eyes shone in a rich amber shade instead of dark brown, framed by long, thick lashes that looked borrowed from a magazine cover.
Black hair spilled in loose waves down to her waist, heavy and glossy instead of scraped into the hurried kitchen knot she used to wear.
Her gaze tracked down to her arms.
Ink wrapped her skin from shoulder to forearm with very vivid images and designs. In her old life, the tattoos were smaller, faded along a single forearm. Here, the lines looked bold and fresh.
Ritsuka lifted her hand and pressed her fingertips to the mirror. The stranger copied every movement.
Cold spread through her stomach.
"This is real," she thought. "I am in a different body. Which means… I died."
The memory hit in one rush.
The dining room flashed across her mind, the smell of seared meat and butter, the first bite on her tongue. Then the metallic tang creeping in underneath, heat flaring in her chest, her fingers refusing to move. Tatsuya's voice, smooth and bored, his words echoing through the memory.
"You were getting too old for me."
Her throat tightened as she heard that again, and the memory faded. The silence of the room lingered.
Ritsuka turned away from the mirror and stumbled toward the nearest porcelain basin. Her knees hit the cool floor, and her hands clamped around the rim as her stomach heaved.
Nothing solid came up, only sour liquid and air, but her body kept trying. Each convulsion dragged another vivid fragment to the surface. Ten years of shared meals. Ten years of quiet mornings. Ten years of telling herself that her own restaurant could wait.
"You really killed me," Ritsuka thought as her breathing turned ragged.
A bitter heat simmered under the nausea. She had cooked his promotions, his anniversaries, his comfort meals after "long days." She had folded her own dream down to fit around his schedule, his image, his comfort.
"Too old, huh?" she thought. "I gave you everything, and you still picked younger and stupid over loyaty."
The anger didn't explode, it settled low and heavy, like a pan left on a slow flame.
When the spasms finally eased she spotted a small pitcher left out on the desk beside her, probably by someone who had been taking care of the girl. She reached for it. The ceramic felt cool against her fingers. She rinsed her mouth, swirled the water, and spat back into the basin
"Inhale, exhale," she told herself.
"Falling apart here does nothing."
The air in her lungs tasted different. Cooler. Cleaner. There was a hint of sea salt beneath it, and for Ritsuka that was different from the exhaust and city grease she was used to.
Ritsuka pushed herself upright, trying to shake the feelings that held tight to her chest. Her legs trembled with anxiety and anticipation, but they held.
She let her eyes move through the room, taking everything in like she was walking a new kitchen for the first time.
The bedroom was enormous. Pale morning light slipped through tall windows along a curved wall, catching on rich blue curtains and turning the fabric into a soft glow. When she shifted her weight, the polished stone under her bare feet felt cool and smooth, each step giving off the faintest echo. White walls framed her in neat lines of gold trim that picked up the light and threw it back in thin gleams.
She glanced over her shoulder at the bed. It sat wide and high behind her, layered with blankets in shades of blue and cream, easily big enough for her to stretch out every which way and still not hit an edge.
Her gaze slid to the side, landing on a writing desk. Someone had arranged parchment, ink, and pens in careful rows there, everything tidy and untouched, like a station set up for a chef who never showed up to work.
"I guess the woman I am now wasn't some broke nobody," she thought, eyeing the gold trim and the size of the bed. "New body, fancy room… after all that bullshit, I at least deserve a thick steak and something strong that burns going down."
She wasn't planning to crawl into a bottle and stay there, but cooking and a good drink had always been how she reset her head. She could almost hear Papohi from South Afrika laughing in the back of her mind, shoving a plate at her after a brutal service. Good liquor and meat warm the soul, girl, he'd say, like it was a law of nature.
Her pulse still drummed at the base of her skull.
Another sound echoed through her mind, softer the same voice she heard after she was fed poison.
"Feed them."
The words did not seem to come from the room. They rolled through her chest like warm water, settling somewhere behind her ribs.
"Guide him."
Instinct pulled Ritsuka's hand to her collarbone.
Cool metal pressed against her fingertips. A pendant rested there, shaped like a falling droplet. The moment she touched it, a gentle heat pulsed outward, syncing with her heartbeat.
"Change this starving land."
Images flashed behind her eyes, memories which weren't hers flooding in at once, and through those memories, one name tied to the woman whose body she had taken kept surfacing.
"Julia Wynnee," Ritsuka said aloud.
"Who are you?" she thought, fingers tightening around the pendant. "Why bring me here?"
The warmth lingered, then softened, as if the pendant returned to sleep.
Her reflection waited when she looked back at the mirror.
This time she studied herself. Deep brown skin, healthy and decent, with just the right curves to make her desirable. Stronger shoulders. Ink that spoke of a life.
"Young," she thought. "Younger than he said I was, at least. New body, ridiculous room, mystery voice in my head… and somehow I still want my damn restaurant."
Her chest ached, but the ache hardened into something sharp instead of empty.
"I gave up that dream once," she thought. "I am not doing it again. Not for any man. Not for any title."
The bed lay in disarray. Habit took over before she could talk herself out of it. She walked over, straightened the blankets, and pulled the sheets tight. Each ordinary motion steadied her.
"Step one: accept that I am alive somewhere that is not Tokyo," she thought. "Step two: learn where I am and what kind of life Julia Wynnee actually lived. Step three: find a kitchen."
Her stomach gave a low, empty twist.
"Yeah," she thought. "Step three sounds a hell of a lot easier to start with."
A tall wardrobe stood against the far wall. She opened one door.
A faint scent of lavender and starch drifted out.
Inside, dresses lined the rod in careful order. Silk, lace, embroidered bodices. Each piece looked suited for receptions and balcony walks, not chopping boards and stove fire.
"Not a single thing I can move in," she muttered.
Her fingers slid past the delicate fabrics until they found something thicker. She hooked two knuckles around it and pulled.
A traveling outfit hung from the hanger.
Dark, sturdy trousers. A white blouse with sleeves that could roll to the elbow. A fitted vest and a short coat with reinforced seams. The fabric had that soft give that only came from actual use with some leather boots she could slip on.
"This is more like it," she thought.
She changed quickly, tossing the nightgown across the foot of the bed. The trousers hugged her hips and legs without strangling them. The blouse breathed against her skin. The coat settled over her shoulders with a weight that felt… right.
When she returned to the mirror, the woman looking back at her no longer seemed like a stranger.
Her eyes were still Ritsuka's. Tired, wary, stubborn.
"My name is Ritsuka Izumi," she told the reflection. "You can throw me into another world, but you do not get to take that."
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"My lady? May I come in?" a woman's voice called. Polite. Hesitant. As if she expected silence.
Her hand drifted toward the pendant again, thumb brushing the edge of the droplet charm as she steadied herself.
"Yes," she answered. "You may come in."
The handle turned. The door opened.
A woman in a neat maid's uniform stepped through, carrying a folded towel. Her gaze went first to the bed, then swept the room. When she saw Ritsuka standing near the mirror, fully dressed and steady on her feet, she stopped.
The towel nearly slipped from her hands.
"L–Lady Julia…?" she stammered. "You are… out of bed?"
Shock widened her eyes.
Ritsuka let a small, controlled smile curve her lips.
"Yes," she said. "I am up. And I have a few questions I would like you to answer."
The maid's fingers tightened around the folded towel. Her knuckles went pale as she swallowed. Even now, her gaze kept flicking to the open collar of Ritsuka's coat, to the droplet-shaped pendant resting against the top of her chest, and to the dark ink curling along her bare forearms, as if she could not decide which part shocked her more.
A faint warmth pulsed under Ritsuka's skin where the tattoos lay, humming in time with her heartbeat. The pendant at her chest gave off the same quiet thrum, like a heartbeat answering her own.
"Yes, my lady," the maid said at last. "Of course."
Ritsuka let a breath ease out, steadying the shake in her own hands.
"First question," she said. "Can you take me to the kitchen?"
The maid blinked as if she had misheard.
"The… kitchen, my lady?" the maid asked.
"Yes," Ritsuka said. "If you do not mind taking me there."
The maid's gaze flicked from the neatly made bed to Ritsuka's attire again, her expression clearly dumbfounded from what Ritsuka could see.
"The kitchen is downstairs, my lady," she answered carefully. "You do not need to walk so far. I can have breakfast brought to your room and then help you, um, get dressed for Lord Lucas. He asked that I bring you to his study this morning. He wishes to speak with you about the imperial envoys and a possibl…"
"Tell him to meet me in the kitchen, and no need to worry, I already dressed myself," Ritsuka said, her words firm as she cut her off.
She did not raise her voice, but the words landed with a weight that cut through the explanation.
"I am not talking about anything on an empty stomach," Ritsuka added. "If he really wants to see me, he can find me there."
The maid's eyes widened.
"Y-yes, my lady," she said quickly. "I did not mean to presume, only…"
"You are not in trouble," Ritsuka said with a small laugh. "I am just hungry and want to walk around a bit."
As if her body wanted to prove it, her stomach growled loud enough to be heard. Heat touched her cheeks, but she did not look away.
"See?" she muttered. "Even my stomach agrees with me."
That pulled the faintest ghost of a smile to the maid's lips before she smoothed it away.
"If you truly wish to go to the kitchen, I will escort you," she said. "But, my lady, you have been confined to bed for so long. Are you certain you feel well enough?"
"I will manage," Ritsuka said as she began to stretch her legs a bit. "And I am not going down there just to stare at plates. I want to cook."
The maid actually forgot to breathe for a heartbeat.
"Cook… yourself, my lady?" the maid repeated.
"Yes," Ritsuka said. "Last time I trusted someone with my meal I…"
She froze mid-sentence. The memory of the dining room, the poison, and Tatsuya's bored voice tried to surface again.
"It is nothing," she finished quietly. "I would just feel better if I made it myself."
She stepped past the basin toward the door, testing each movement. Her legs were stiff from so much time in bed, but they held. The ink on her arms tingled faintly under the skin, and the pendant at her chest answered with a slow, steady warmth that felt more like a low current than simple heat.
After a moment of hesitation, the maid moved aside and opened the door fully, bowing her head as she did.
"As you wish, my lady," she said. "I will take you there."
They stepped out into a long corridor that made it clear this was no ordinary house. High ceilings arched overhead, and the walls were broken up by tall windows and framed paintings family portraits, formal poses, glimpses of the same dark hair and sun-touched skin repeated through generations. The air smelled faintly of polish and old wood, with a trace of sea salt riding in from somewhere distant.
Ritsuka fell into step beside the maid.
"By the way," she said. "If you are going to walk me around and risk getting scolded on my behalf, I should probably know your name."
The maid stiffened.
"You… wish to know my name, my lady?" she asked.
"Yes," Ritsuka said. "And please talk normally. You keep repeating everything I say like a question. I promise I am not that scary. Unless you prefer me yelling 'hey, you' down the hallway all day."
"N-no, my lady," the maid said quickly. "My name is Isolde. Isolde Maren."
"Isolde," Ritsuka repeated, tasting the sound. "Thank you, Isolde. For not fainting on me back there."
Isolde's fingers tightened briefly on the towel.
"It is my duty, my lady," she said. "But if I may say so… you are speaking much more than usual today."
She hesitated, then offered a small, nervous glance.
"It is good to hear your voice," she added, almost too softly to catch.
Ritsuka nearly missed a step.
"Honestly," she said, "it feels like the first proper conversation I have had in… way too long."
She let out a slow breath.
"I did not have much energy before," she added. "Or much to say that anyone wanted to hear. That has changed."
Isolde looked down at the floor.
"Before today, you rarely answered," she said. "Sometimes you nodded. Most days you said nothing. The staff… started calling you the Silent Lady. Not to be unkind, my lady. They were worried."
"The Silent Lady," Ritsuka thought. "Ten years of swallowing my own words in Tokyo for him, and then I land in a life where I barely speak at all. Ironic" Ritsuka sighed
The anger that had been sitting cold in her chest since she remembered Tatsuya's voice flared a little hotter.
"I gave him ten years," she thought.
She lifted her chin
"Well," she said, "consider that title retired. I have a lot to say, and I do not plan on choking it down anymore."
Isolde let out a tiny, startled breath that might have been a laugh before she bit it back.
"Forgive me, my lady," she said. "That was improper."
"It was honest," Ritsuka said. "I like honest."
End of Chapter 2