I had lived in this body for eighteen days.
My name was Rong Xi now. The year was 720.
Somehow, I had crossed thirteen centuries—or perhaps returned to them. God had shown me twenty-two lifetimes. I remembered every one with brutal clarity. Every betrayal. Every ending.
Except this one.
This life was blank.
That felt deliberate.
To survive, I lied.
I told Rong Xi's personal maid, Malin, that the near-drowning had stolen my memories. Begged her to keep it secret. Promised I would recover—eventually. It was easier than explaining the truth. Easier than admitting I had no idea who Rong Xi had been before I arrived.
Between pretending to be someone I wasn't, sneaking out of the manor dressed as a boy to consult mystics, and hunting for anything that might send me home, I kept myself busy. Motion kept panic at bay.
Now I stood naked before a polished copper mirror, studying the body that wasn't mine.
Slender. Long-limbed. Taller than I expected—about five foot three. Tall for a Tang girl. Full breasts. Porcelain skin. A small birthmark low on my right hip. My fingers brushed it.
Well… my hip now.
I slid my palm along my arm. Smooth, unfamiliar. Stronger than it looked. This body could be trained. It would have to be.
My reflection stared back with large, doe-brown eyes, naturally arched brows, heart-shaped lips. Beautiful—objectively so. But not me. I missed my blue eyes. My blonde hair. The sharp familiarity of my own face.
My gaze drifted to the low table nearby. Roast meat. Bone broth.
My stomach turned. "I hate meat," I muttered.
Then the scrolls on the desk—neatly stacked, tied with silk cord. Love poems. Flowery verses about devotion and longing.
"God, I hate romance."
The room smelled of refinement. Folded gowns. Carved furniture. Delicate tea sets arranged with obsessive precision. Everything about the real Rong Xi screamed grace, gentleness…and obedience.
Mediocre, I thought, slumping into the chair. Still naked. Still reeling.
"Why her?" I whispered. "Why me?"
No answer came.
I inhaled and began the mantra I repeated every morning—half rehearsal, half anchor.
My name is Rong Xi. I'm sixteen. The only daughter of Minister Rong Wenli, a minor official stationed in Qiyang, beside the Xiang River. The year is 720, under Emperor Xuanzong.
Thank God—no, thank archaeology—for a foster mother obsessed with the Tang Dynasty. I had grown up surrounded by scrolls, bone poetry, ancient pottery sealed behind glass. I had seen these clothes before, framed on museum walls.
Now I lived inside them.
The Golden Age of China, all right.
This body—this life—was something I would have to own before it owned me. I didn't know how to fix a karmic imbalance that spanned thousands of years and countless betrayals. I didn't know why I had been chosen.
But after eighteen days, I had stopped fighting the question.
If I didn't know what I was meant to do, I would do what I did know.
Find a way home.
If mysticism had brought me here, mysticism might take me back. If God existed—still a ridiculous thought—then maybe She could be forced to answer again.
I pressed my fingers to my temples. "I still can't believe God exists."
The mirror offered no reassurance. Rong Xi's face stared back at me, unblinking.
###
"Rong Xi."
My mother's voice was sharp, perfectly composed.
A firm hand pressed against my back, then my shoulders, correcting my posture with practiced efficiency.
"Forgive me—" I began, then faltered, momentarily startled by the sound of my own voice.
I shouldn't understand Middle Chinese. And yet the words flowed from my tongue with effortless precision, as if they had always belonged to me. Spoken language came naturally. Written characters remained an impenetrable wall.
Lady Rong exhaled slowly, disappointment radiating without a single harsh word. Her lips thinned. Her gaze lingered.
I straightened, forcing my attention to the dining table. My parents sat across from me, observing in silence. Every meal felt like an examination. Every gesture required calculation.
Pretending to be Rong Xi was exhausting.
Customs. Etiquette. Expectations. My survival depended on disappearing into them. Fortunately, Malin—who had served Rong Xi since childhood—remained fiercely loyal, quietly correcting my mistakes and feeding me just enough information to pass.
Modern Chinese culture had already been far removed from the American norms I grew up with. This was something else entirely—rigid hierarchies, unspoken rules, obedience woven into every breath.
Still, I adapted. I always had.
My anthropology degree hadn't prepared me for firsthand immersion in another millennium, but the principle was the same: observe, imitate, survive. I only needed to blend in long enough to escape.
Lowering my gaze, I retreated into the shy reserve Malin had taught me to perform. The real Rong Xi had been quiet. Withdrawn. It kept suspicion at bay.
It bought time.
"Don't be too harsh on her," my father said gently. "She is on the cusp of womanhood. Let her grow in peace. Soon enough, she will belong to another household, and you will miss these quiet days."
As always, he intervened.
Belong to another household.
Marriage.
The word landed like a stone in my stomach.
I kept my eyes lowered, playing the quiet daughter Malin said Rong Xi had always been. But inside, irritation flared.
Great. A husband.
Whatever awaited Rong Xi in this life wasn't my problem. I hadn't crossed thirteen centuries just to become someone's obedient wife. This life wasn't mine to keep.
I only had to survive it long enough to leave.
"Mother…" I began carefully. "May I ask… how long before the marriage?"
Her gaze snapped to mine—sharp enough to slice through the room. I should have kept my mouth shut.
"Child," she said coolly, "have you forgotten already? Your betrothed arrives soon. The wedding will be held in six months' time."
Six months.
The words echoed in my skull.
Six months to find a way home.
Six months to escape this life before it sealed shut around me.