So soft.

  I y face down, cheek pressed against a pillow, running my fingers over the garish fuchsia sheet. Each pass of my hand caused a waft of vender mixed with a musty odor. My nail caught. Nimble, delicate, unscared hands picked at the frayed silk threads before continuing their movement.

  So warm.

  A scan of the room showed pink yered on pink. The walls, floor, rugs, furnishings, clothes, and jewelry were all varying shades of pink. To the casual observer, it was a room filled with splendor, but like the musty smell, you'd find rot if you looked beneath the opulent veneer.

  It was nauseating.

  That feeling worsened—intensifying as I remembered who decorated my room and the reason they decorated it this way.

  My finger trailed along the wooden bed frame, coming away with dust and splinters. Even when cleaning, they only bothered to do what others could see.

  I resisted the desire to burn everything. Orange and pink looked beautiful together, especially when tinged with the gray of ash and smoke.

  I might do it too, just to see what happens.

  I was tired of waiting for something to happen. I needed a clue, anything, to confirm whether this was reality or a fever dream.

  The first day I woke up in this gilded cage, I was sure a demon would come to dole out punishment or penance. As time passed, I went from satiated to hungry, and my bdder burned, but I didn’t dare to move.

  When it became too much, I relieved myself and searched for food. Experience told me they stripped the room of anything edible, leaving only a jug of water on the side table. I knew I wouldn’t find anything. When the things I knew, but shouldn't be real happened, it confirmed something terrible and unbelievable inside. The jug filled on the second morning, like clockwork.

  I searched.

  I nguished for days, waffling between the idea that I was insane or in Astine to receive punishment for my sins.

  Death wasn’t the end I was hoping for.

  There was a real possibility I would have to relive my suffering from beginning to end. Unable to sit still, I stood, walking to the window. Students stood in the courtyard. They ughed and joked with each other. The sun shining on them made them so dazzling I didn't want to see, but couldn't look away. A group of second-years bustled through the corridors like a school of miniature pilot fish, teeming with the sort of bubbly optimism that made me ill.

  The hollow-eyed seventh-year students lurking about were much more endurable. They were beset by examination anxiety, even six months in advance. No doubt, they remembered the ordeal they encountered in their second year.

  They were tolerable. Half of them would die. They were almost as pitiable as I.

  It was a pity. The half that returned could pick at any career in the duchy they wanted.

  They weren't as bearable now.

  I looked away. The vicious thoughts didn't feel like my own. I didn't know them to want them dead.

  In the distance, I saw the towering wall that bordered the Wraith Mountains. I couldn’t use magic and, as such, I never had the dubious pleasure of setting foot in the forest that teemed with monsters, but that was the destination of the students below.

  I couldn’t help feeling jealous.

  Out of all the things I’d coveted and stolen in my life, magic was the thing I wanted most, but couldn’t have.

  Power was a close second.

  My son--

  I pushed the thought away. While sitting on the windowsill with the light burning my eyes, that thought allowed another to crowd in. One that I refused to give credence to but couldn’t ignore. A week of denial was enough.

  Rebirth.

  It left a sour taste in my mouth. As far as I was concerned, it was better to be insane or get punished in hell. Astine was more appealing than facing my family’s hypocrisy or battling against a fate I didn’t know how to save myself from. But I was never one to indulge in either denial or hope.

  In the st five days, as hunger gnawed at my stomach and I enjoyed the dodgy comforts of my childhood bedroom, time forced me to accept the gift of rebirth. I wasn’t sure why I got this blessing and hesitated to call it anything other than a curse, but I was mindful of the gods watching or listening. This could only be their work, and they already disliked me. I was pying it safe with topics reted to them. I didn’t want to do anything bsphemous and did my best to say a few good words and py at gratitude. After all, unwanted or not, I’d experienced a miracle firsthand.

  I may be conceited thinking they were watching as I decided whether to jump out my window, but I didn’t wish to incur any more of their ire.

  I had to deal with enough ill will as it was, especially if I was in the past.

  For that matter, why send me to the past? Tales of gods and demons usually had reasons for rewards or punishments, but I couldn't guess the cause of my situation. My head ached just thinking about it. As soon as I left this room, I would have to make my way to the nearest temple. I didn’t like to owe people, and being in debt to a god seemed much worse.

  Did this mean I had to become devout?

  Which god would I even pray to?

  I’d lived most of my life as a non-believer, and despite this miracle, I wasn't sure if I wanted to change that.

  I sighed, moving away from the window. The brightness was unfamiliar and irritating.

  Walking to my dresser, I swiped my hands across, dashing everything to the floor, reveling in the ctter of jewels and shattering of gss and wood.

  My memories trapped me as much as the room. Adding to that was the silence. Nothing bled in from outside, and the only sounds were the ones I made.

  A million thoughts rattled in my brain, increasing the isotion and uncertainty that ate at me. A healthy mind and body weren't the boons I expected.

  I forced myself to look in the mirror, staring at features that gave no clues about my age. Reflected was a pale face with mottled purple bruising, deep-set rge eyes with red pupils, and gaunt cheeks. An unsuccessful attempt to dye my pink hair left it a muddy brown

  I could be anywhere from twelve to fifteen, the age range I lived in this room.

  Around my neck was a heavy chain to which a poorly wire-wrapped jasper hung. Speckled, fwed, and unpolished, a mark left by my mother that I cherished. Its loss pained me. My fingers wrapped around the stone.

  I stared at it, taking a deep breath and uncurling my fingers that unconsciously grabbed the chain, ready to yank it off.

  I’ll take it off tomorrow.

  My stomach growled. The ck of food also didn’t tell me anything. It was a common punishment I’d endured growing up. They withheld meals for the slightest offense.

  The lengthiest confinement without food was when I confronted the Duchess about interfering in my marriage. That earned me ten days, and a caning which left me scarred. Said scars were missing, which was something at least.

  My hand drifted up my neck, fingers trailing over my unblemished skin. I didn’t have any scars at this point. I’d collected my first when I was told about my marriage and never stopped after that.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath.

  Don’t think about it.

  The smell of burnt flesh lingered in my nose, and a searing pain caused me to double over and drop to the floor.

  It’s not real.

  I took gasping breaths, hands clutching at my dress as my eyes steered unseeing.

  This was something new, another exploitable weakness that needed to be concealed and managed. It happened more than once, reality blurring as the past trapped me, and I relived my worst memories in frightening detail.

  It didn’t happen in the past when my thoughts were incoherent and stilted; only the leftover instincts of survival and love keeping me moving as I wandered around battlefields shrouded in the stench of death.

  Another painful rabbit hole I was unwilling to look down.

  Nails biting into the flesh of my palms, I focused my thoughts. Since there was no scar on my neck, the meeting where the Duke told me about my marriage to Baron Smolt hadn’t happened yet.

  I had seen my father three times in my life. The first was when my mother sold me to him. The second was when he told me about my engagement. The st was at my sister’s wedding.

  I wasn’t looking forward to it. Our previous meeting never went well for me, but with my luck, that second meeting would happen soon. It would be interesting to see how it changed, if I could change it.

  Taking slow and deliberate moves, I got off the ground and sat in front of the mirror again, tugging at my lips until I wore an integrating smile and expression. I was out of practice concealing my emotions.

  That wouldn’t do.

  A moment of carelessness could put me in a worse situation than I was before.

  Wasn’t that a sobering thought?

  I didn’t doubt for a minute that they would permanently confine me to my room if there were any suspicions I might disrupt their pns.

  I was here, and there was nothing I could do to change that.

  I’d have to get on with it like I did everything else, one step at a time.

  A wry smile twisted my lips. The expression in the mirror was grotesque for a second before smoothing into a parody of a na?ve smile. The eyes gave me away. I couldn’t hide the hardened sheen to them.

  I looked at the scattered bits and ends on the floor. Seeing a pair of scissors, I grabbed them and hacked at my hair until I had shaggy bangs that blurred my eyes.

  It would have to do.

  Looking like a haggard beggar would make most people avoid me more. I practiced the smile again. The naivety shone through, and the bangs added a foolish element to the look. A silly thing—the words popped into my mind. I needed that. I needed to gather information while lying low. If you know the future, it should be easier to take it one step at a time, but that wasn’t the case for me.

  I’d spent most of my time locked away, and when freed, I paid little heed to what was happening around me as I swaggered around with an infted ego.

  There was even less to say after marriage.

  Even knowing that my family raised me to behave that way, I still mented my stupidity.

  As it was, I had two choices if I could change things: give up my noble status to avoid marriage or accept the marriage and try to escape the outcome of my past life.

  I looked in the mirror again, not recognizing the face looking at me. I don't know where I'd heard it, but someone said there were seven sufferings: birth, old age, sickness, death, resentment, separation from loved ones, and not being able to get what one asked for. Which of these have I not endured?

  Well, forty wasn't old, but I'd felt ancient by then.