"Harry Potter?"
The words dropped into the silence like stones into still water.
The room went absolutely quiet.
Maryann's expression didn't change. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. Her face could have been carved from marble.
Then she smiled—sweet and blank and utterly uncomprehending.
"Are you perhaps telling me to check out a new pottery shop? I'm afraid I don't know any shops by that name, Sister. Though if you're interested in pottery, I believe there's a lovely ceramics merchant near the—"
"Stop." I held up a hand. "Just stop."
If she's pretending, she deserves an award. A big one. With a ceremony.
I paced, thinking. The floorboards creaked under my feet.
If she's a reader like me, there's no way she wouldn't recognize Harry Potter. Unless—
Unless she was that good at lying. Or unless I was completely wrong about everything and I was actually losing my mind.
Let's try something more specific.
"What about fanfiction?" I tried again, watching her face like a hawk. "You know—X Reader stories? Those self-insert narratives where you imagine yourself with fictional characters?"
Maryann's eye twitched.
Just once. Barely perceptible. But I saw it.
Her smile became slightly strained, like a crack forming in porcelain. "I don't understand what you're saying, Sister. Perhaps I've offended you somehow and this is—"
There. That twitch. Time to go for the throat.
"The Secret Princess: Which Man Does Maryann End Up Choosing?"
Silence.
Absolute, deafening silence.
I could hear my own heartbeat. The distant tick of a clock somewhere. A dog barking in the village beyond the estate grounds.
"The webnovel," I continued, watching her face. "The story we're currently living in. All two thousand five hundred plus chapters of melodrama and questionable pacing. Who will Maryann marry? Which male lead wins the romantic lottery?"
"For the love of heaven, cut it out, will you?"
The words exploded out of her—sharp and frustrated. Her sweet voice cracked like fine china hitting tile.
"If anything, you should be more worried about who you're gonna marry! You're getting on my last nerve and I—"
She stopped mid-sentence.
Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes going wide with horror.
Gotcha.
"Oh—oh no." The words tumbled out in a rush. "I'm so sorry, Sister, I didn't mean—I don't know what came over me—please forgive my terrible rudeness—"
I couldn't help it.
I burst out laughing.
The sound erupted from somewhere deep in my chest, doubling me over. It was the kind of laughter that came from relief and vindication and the sheer absurdity of everything. Here we were, two time travelers pretending to be characters in a badly-paced romance novel, having a confrontation in a servant's bedroom while the rest of the house slept.
This is my life now. This is actually my life.
Maryann stopped her frantic apologies mid-grovel, her expression shifting from panic to annoyance to something harder to read.
"You're not Beatrice, are you?"
Her voice cut through my laughter—cold now. Calculating. All traces of sweetness evaporated like morning dew.
Oh, so we're doing this now. Cards on the table time.
I straightened up, wiping at my eyes. Then I deliberately turned away from her and started examining her bookshelf, trailing my fingers along the spines of her primers. The Alphabet for Young Ladies. Introduction to Reading. Basic Arithmetic.
"That's bold talk," I said lightly, "for someone who isn't Maryann either."
"But I am Maryann."
I glanced back at her, raising an eyebrow. "Sure. And I'm the Queen of England. Show's over, pretender. I'm in the same boat as you, so you can drop the wounded-orphan act."
Her face twisted into something between confusion and anger. "Pretender? What are you talking about? Same boat?"
Oh, now she's trying to salvage the situation. Nice try.
I crossed to her bed and collapsed onto it dramatically, not even bothering to remove my shoes because apparently I was feeling petty. The coverlet was softer than I expected. At least Duke Alaric sprung for decent linens.
"The performance is done. You can drop it."
"Get your shoes off my bed."
The words came out cold. Clipped. No sweetness. No trembling. Just pure, undiluted annoyance.
Oh?
I raised an eyebrow at her, genuinely impressed. This wasn't the kicked-rabbit routine she'd been performing earlier. This was someone genuinely offended that I'd violated the sacred rule of No Shoes On The Bed.
Finally. A real emotion.
"No can do." I shrugged, deliberately crossing my legs and pressing my shoes further into the coverlet. "I'm comfortable."
She gasped—an actual, genuinely offended gasp. The kind you'd make if someone had just insulted your grandmother and kicked your dog.
"No shoes on the bed!"
Before I could react, she rushed over and yanked my shoes off—surprisingly strong for someone so delicate-looking—then immediately started fussing over where my feet had been, smoothing the fabric and muttering under her breath.
"—completely uncivilized—no sense of basic hygiene—tracking outside dirt onto clean linens—"
I watched her, fascinated.
So that's why there were inconsistencies.
Her hiding behind Duke Alaric's leg when I first came here—that wasn't terror. That was strategy. She knew it would make her look vulnerable.
Her smug little smile when I'd fainted—that wasn't surprise. That was satisfaction. She'd been pleased to see Beatrice suffer.
The way she weaponized her tears with perfect timing—that wasn't natural innocence. That was practice.
She's been playing us all like fiddles.
"When did you transmigrate?"
The question came out blunt.
She stopped smoothing the coverlet. "Transmi—what?"
"Don't play dumb now. We were doing so well."
"You've been saying unclear words since you came to my room." Her voice was careful again, measured. Back to the script. "I don't understand half of what you're—"
"Oh for—" I sat up, exasperated. "Why are you trying to backtrack? Hey!" I snapped my fingers. Her eyes followed the motion instinctively. "I'm not Beatrice. Well, I am Beatrice, but I was Beatrice Whitmore before this. From 2026. You know—the future? Modern world? Internet? Smartphones? Any of this ringing a bell?"
"You're..." She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You're really not Beatrice?"
Oh my God. If this girl is deliberately trying to get on my nerves, she's doing a masterful job.
I took a deep breath, counting to ten internally. Patience. You need information. Don't strangle the protagonist.
"Okay. I'll explain this to you like you're five years old and also possibly concussed."
She nodded slowly, her expression going serious.
"Did you read The Secret Princess webnovel? The story we're currently living in? The one with the four male leads and approximately seventeen thousand plot points?"
"No." Flat. Final. Matter-of-fact. "I have not. I am illiterate—I never had an education."
Oh.
She said it so casually, like commenting on the weather or observing that the sky was blue. No shame. No self-pity. Just a statement of fact.
And it was true—in the novel, one of her love interests taught her to read. Chapter eight hundred something. After a lengthy subplot about the importance of education that somehow took fifty chapters to resolve.
So she's not from outside the book.
I leaned forward, studying her face. "Then how did you know about the garden party next month?"
The one where James planned to publicly humiliate Beatrice by calling off their engagement in front of half the aristocracy.
She glanced toward the window, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "That was a slip of the tongue."
"You're not as smooth as you think." I kept my voice levelled. "I know about James's plan. I know he didn't tell you anything about it—he wouldn't, not yet. The timeline doesn't work. So tell me: how do you know?"
The silence stretched between us like pulled taffy.
I waited. Let her think. Let her decide how much to reveal.
Then she sighed, her shoulders dropping in a way that seemed genuinely exhausted.
"I have lived this life before."