Back at the inn, nothing had changed. A man was being shoved across a table; others were laughing about it, mugs slamming onto a barmaid's tray.
The innkeeper recognised her when she reached the bar. His face went neutral. He stepped out from behind the counter without a word and gestured for her to follow him upstairs.
The bannister shook when she touched it.
"Room's yours for a week," he said, not looking back. "Hot water at sunrise, use it then. Breakfast downstairs." He nodded toward a crooked door off the hallway, a chipped sign above it reading DINING in faded paint. "Drunks don't come in till sunset. Mornings are quiet."
He unlocked the last door in the corridor.
A narrow bed against the far wall, straw mattress slumping in the middle. A wardrobe leaning to one side. A cracked hand mirror on a stained table. A stool that looked one bad day away from collapse. A window cracked open, letting in the smell of nearby stables.
"VIP room," the innkeeper said flatly.
"Charming," Mae muttered.
He nodded as she meant it. "Stew and barley bread tonight. Someone'll bring it up. From tomorrow, you will eat downstairs." The door clicked shut.
Mae stood in the middle of the room for a moment, leather bag on her shoulder, jewels and coins inside it. For tonight, it was enough. She walked to the bed and sat down.
Shot back up immediately, scratching at her thighs.
She pulled the sheet back, straw. Rough bundles of it stuffed directly into the wooden frame, half-split, dusty, some of it already stained with things she didn't want to identify. "What the hell?! I thought this was the VIP room."
She looked at the stool in the corner, dragged it over, perched herself sideways on it, and propped her feet on the bed frame instead. Her heels stung the moment they touched the wood.
A small bucket sat under the window. She dipped a finger in the clear water.
She tore another strip from the hem of her dress, dunked it, and started cleaning her feet slowly, wincing at every cut. "I'm certain of one thing," she said quietly. "This isn't my timeline."
The water dripped as she wrung the cloth.
"But why am I here? I clearly remember dying. Is this a second life?" She looked around the grimy little room. "If it is, why a palace? Why did people look like my parents? And why is everything so..." She didn't finish.
She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. She was at a loss and then there was a loud thud at the door.
Her heart flew into her throat. She grabbed the satchel and pressed herself flat behind the door, peeking through the gap between the frame and the warped wood.
A drunk man staggered down the hallway, banging on doors at random, laughing to himself. She didn't move until his boots clomped down the stairs and faded. Then a soft knock, it was Different.
The door swung open an inch. A young barmaid stood there with a splintered tray, a chipped bowl of stew, and something dark masquerading as bread. Pretty face, shadowed eyes. She set the tray down without a word and left with a flick of her skirt.
Mae looked into the bowl. The stew was thick. Something grayish and soft floated at the surface, faintly hairy. She picked up the bread instead. Coarse as sandpaper, dense enough to use as a weapon. She thought briefly about her own bread, the kind she used to bake on quiet weekends, the smell of it filling her small apartment. Warm and sweet and hers.
Her stomach growled. She dunked the bread in the stew and waited. A full two minutes. When she pulled it out, it had softened just enough to bite. She chewed. Swallowed. Her whole body stiffened in protest.
"How do people live like this?" But her mother hadn't raised her to waste food. Even here, even in whatever this was, that rule held.
She chewed more and ate more. Because what else could she do?
....
Helen stood on the stone terrace alone, arms folded over her chest, eyes fixed on the city below. Distant lights flickered like embers on black silk. The celebration was over. Carriages had rolled away. The palace had gone quiet.
She hadn't moved in an hour. "My child," she whispered.
The knock came past midnight. Melissa entered without waiting, and Helen crossed the room in three steps, grabbing onto Melissa's hands. "Where is she? Where's Marie?"
Melissa shook her head, "I lost her. I searched the whole city. I couldn't find her."
Helen's knees buckled. Melissa caught her and steered her to the settee. Someone offered water. Helen pushed it away.
"How do you expect me to eat or drink when I don't know what's become of my daughter?"
The door opened again. Lawrence walked in still serious and calm. Helen stood immediately. "Is Marie okay? What happened?"
"You need to see for yourself."
He turned and walked. She followed, fingers tight around his arm, their steps echoing through the candlelit halls. He stopped at a door in the east wing. Marshall stood outside it, back straight, face giving nothing away.
"Status?" Lawrence asked. "Stable. The physician cleaned and bandaged the wounds." A pause. "She hasn't woken up." Helen went white. "Wounds?"
Marshall stepped aside.
Through the parted curtains, a silhouette lay motionless beneath a sheer canopy. Helen lurched forward. Lawrence caught her, pulled her back, and shut the door quietly behind them. "Not a sound," he said. "No one can know."
"Lawrence—"
"The palace has ears." His voice dropped. "We leave at dawn. She'll be treated at the estate, in private. We can't trust anyone here."
"What happened to her?"
His jaw tightened. "An assassination attempt. Someone wants her removed. They want a different bride for the Crown Prince."
Helen's hand went to her mouth.
He stepped back. Helen turned, parted the curtains, and sat down beside her daughter.
Marianne lay perfectly still. Bandages wrapped her torso and shoulders, her breathing shallow and slow, chest rising like a feather in the wind. Helen took her hand and didn't let go, knuckles white, pressing the fingers to her cheek again and again just to feel the warmth.
"We're taking you home," she whispered. "No one will ever hurt you again."
Lawrence stood at the window, arms behind his back, face bathed in cold moonlight. Marshall held his post at the door, eyes on the bed.
Helen broke the silence first. "Who do you think that girl was?"
Lawrence didn't turn right away. "A possible accomplice. Part of the attempt."
Helen was quiet. The girl had looked almost exactly like Marianne. But her confusion hadn't been an act, Helen was sure of it. The bewilderment in her eyes, the way she'd grabbed Lawrence and sobbed, that wasn't performance.
"She looked too much like her," Helen murmured. "How is that even possible?"
Lawrence finally turned from the window. "Perhaps a spell. Someone must be trying to eliminate Marianne and replace her with that outsider." He said stiffly. Helen's hand tightened around Marianne's. "I've sent men to track her. We'll find out soon enough." He moved closer, voice low. "But that's not your concern. Get Marianne well. The king may summon her at any moment. If she stays like this, we've handed our enemies exactly what they want."
Helen looked up at him. Really looked. Her eyes were red, her voice barely above a breath. "Our daughter is lying here half dead. And all you think about is power?"
Something crossed his face, but it was gone before it landed. He then left the room in silence.
Helen looked back at Marianne. Her free hand smoothed the hair from her daughter's face, slow and careful.
"I'll care enough for the both of us," she whispered.