Scarlett’s gaze swept across the courtyard. Unlike the parlour, this place was unmistakable, no matter what year it was. It looked almost exactly as it had before the Cabal’s attack and the ashenwraith dragon’s appearance. At its heart stood a fountain, surrounded by four meticulously manicured grass mounds separated by stone pathways. Along the mansion walls, vibrant flowerbeds added a touch of extra colour to the sight.

She turned slowly, scanning for any sign of life, but the courtyard remained deserted. Neither Arlene nor her siblings were anywhere to be seen. Was this a new scene or memory, then? Why had it changed so abruptly?

Her eyes dropped to the ring on her finger. Its earlier glow had faded, leaving the garnet at its center inert.

…That was the same reaction her [Crown of Flame’s Benediction] had exhibited before it thrust her into these memories, wasn’t it? What did it mean that the ring had triggered it this time?

As her attention roamed the courtyard, an inexplicable wistfulness settled over her. At last, her focus came to rest on the mansion’s entrance. Were Arlene and her siblings waiting inside? If so, how old would they be this time? And, more importantly, what was she even doing here?

A flicker of movement caught her eye — a flash of white through one of the windows, there and gone in an instant. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the spot. Seconds stretched on as she waited, but nothing more revealed itself.

Finally, she exhaled softly and crossed the courtyard, her footsteps echoing softly on the stone path. As she climbed the steps to the entrance and pushed the door open, a startled yelp came from her right.

A young servant girl, busy polishing a delicate porcelain vase, stumbled backward in surprise and landed ungracefully on the floor. Flushing with embarrassment, she scrambled to her feet but froze when her eyes landed on Scarlett.

Scarlett frowned slightly, waiting as the girl stood motionless.

Seeming to realise her lapse in decorum, the servant smoothed her clothes and dipped into a hasty curtsy. “I’m terribly sorry, miss,” she stammered, cheeks reddening further. “Please forgive my clumsiness. Welcome. Is there something I can help you with?”

Scarlett studied the unfamiliar girl in silence. From that reaction, it seemed Scarlett was being treated as a guest. Was this another example of how this memory integrated her into its narrative, like how Vice-dean Fletcher assumed she belonged to the Elystead Tower?

Shifting her gaze from the flustered servant, Scarlett examined the foyer. The similarities to her own time were striking, even if there were subtle differences in the decor. It felt like a slightly warped reflection of her home — like revisiting an old apartment after a new owner had moved in.

“I’m afraid the lord is currently out on business,” the servant girl offered, her voice steadier now. “However, I’d be happy to escort you to the parlour if you’d like to wait for his return.”

Scarlett’s brow furrowed as she looked back down at the girl. “‘The lord’?”

The servant flinched slightly under Scarlett’s intense stare but nodded. “Yes, miss. He’s in the city visiting the count. The lady is still here, but I don’t think she is receiving guests at the moment.”

Scarlett continued scrutinising her. The presence of a ‘lord’ didn’t align with her understanding of Liane’s recent ascension to baroness. Was this from before that, or had Liane perhaps married? When exactly was this?

A nagging thought at the back of her mind told her she could simply ask the servant for the names of the lord and lady, but something held her back. Instead, she turned her attention to the staircase leading to the upper floors.

“May I explore the mansion on my own?” she asked.

The servant hesitated. “That’s…”

Scarlett briefly fixed the girl with a steely look. “I assure you, I will cause no disturbance.”

Unable to maintain eye contact, the servant lowered her head. “S-Sure. If you need anything, I’ll be here in the foyer.”

With a curt nod, Scarlett took her leave, ascending the stairs. The second floor stretched out before her like a familiar yet subtly altered landscape. She wandered the corridors, tracing the patterns in the carpets, examining the artwork on the walls, and counting the ornate vases lining the halls. Some details she felt she recognised, while others seemed simultaneously old and new. It was…disconcerting.

That melancholic wistfulness settled deeper and deeper as she continued her ‘exploration’, and she found herself wondering if she really would encounter Arlene or her siblings here. The revelation that the woman was a Hartford still felt surreal — a tangle of unaccountable coincidences that she had yet to fully unravel. The thought that Arlene might have grown up here—in this mirror of Scarlett’s own home—hadn’t quite sunk in. Who would have thought their connection wasn’t limited to their encounters in Freymeadow?

Lost in contemplation, Scarlett eventually found herself standing before a dark mahogany door at the end of a corridor. She didn’t even need to think to know where she was.

Her office.

She studied the door’s surface. The fine cracks running through the grain, the elegant silver handle that was polished but still showed signs of years of use. It was eerily similar to how she remembered it. Yet, despite that, it felt distinctly different, as if the space beyond didn’t belong to her right now.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she reached for the handle. As her fingers closed around the cool metal, she applied gentle pressure, only to find that it didn’t budge. The door was locked.

A light breath escaped her lips.

Letting go of the handle, she turned away. She didn’t even know what she’d hoped to find on the other side of that door, anyway. What was even the point of this? How would this aimless wandering help her understand why she had been brought to this particular moment, or how to escape this place?

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. A gnawing concern was starting to tug at her: what if there was no way out of these memories? She felt certain there was some greater purpose to all this, some meaning, but what if she was wrong?

As she began retracing her steps, her thoughts were interrupted as she noticed another servant, this one dusting a windowsill further down the courtyard.

Scarlett considered it for a moment, then approached the young woman, passing by several connecting corridors. The servant paused in her work, offering a polite curtsy, but stiffened as Scarlett stopped to examine her, a slight tension in her shoulders.

Scarlett frowned. Did she truly seem so imposing? She had worked hard to cultivate a less intimidating presence among her staff, even with new hires. What sort of expression must she be wearing to provoke this kind of reaction?

What was it about this version of the mansion that made her unable to even control her expression?

After a moment of charged silence, Scarlett spoke evenly. “Where is the lady of the mansion?”

The servant glanced up cautiously. “H-Her Ladyship is…not in a state to receive guests at the moment.”

“And why is that?”

“E-Ehm, she’s…”

“Explain,” Scarlett pressed, her tone sharpening.

The servant flinched, but was spared from answering by a young voice from behind. “She is on bedrest.”

Scarlett froze, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. That voice belonged to neither Arlene nor any of her siblings. Slowly, almost warily, she turned.

Standing in the hallway behind her was a young girl, perhaps no more than eight years old. Her straight, dark-red hair fell neatly around a face that was both familiar and chill-inducing. The girl’s amber eyes met Scarlett’s own, her gaze piercing and unnervingly mature. She wore a finely tailored dress of deep green, her posture refined and radiating the refinement of someone accustomed to getting what they wanted.

“There is little reason to meet the lady, regardless,” the girl said with an impassive expression.

Scarlett simply stood there, her thoughts reeling as the moment stretched on. Strange emotions floated up inside. Could this really be who she thought it was? The girl standing before her — was this the original Scarlett?

The young girl turned to the servant coolly. “You may leave.”

The woman hesitated, her gaze darting between the two before she quickly curtsied and departed, leaving Scarlett and the girl alone in the corridor.

“If you insist on meeting the lady despite my words,” the girl continued, “then I will show you the way.”

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Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and strode down the hallway. Scarlett stared after her small, retreating figure for several seconds before her feet moved of their own accord. She matched the younger Scarlett’s surprisingly brisk pace, falling into step beside her.

The silence between them was thick as they moved through the mansion’s corridors. Throughout it, Scarlett tried to make sense of what she was feeling. Was it anger? Fear? Sadness? She genuinely couldn’t tell. This was nothing like her experiences with Evelyne or the other times she’d felt the original Scarlett’s emotions bleed through. Now, it was almost as if those feelings were trying to confuse her, laughing at her inability to distinguish between the traits’ influence and what stemmed from her.

Why was the younger Scarlett here, of all places? The [Hartford Garnet ring] had to be responsible in some way, but she didn’t really understand how that was possible. The [Crown of Flame’s Benediction] transporting her into memories related to Arlene and Delmont at least made some sense, given it was ostensibly connected to the latter through the Emberling. But this — this was entirely different. There was no way the original Scarlett had ever interacted with the steles in the Hall of Echoes, so how had all of this come to pass? What force was at work here, if not the steles?

Her eyes stayed on the young girl walking beside her. Did this younger version of herself recognise her for who she truly was? The resemblance between them was undeniable, yet none of the servants had seemed to notice or react to it. Perhaps whatever role Scarlett ‘assumed’ in this memory rendered things like that a non-issue.

After a few minutes, the younger Scarlett stopped in front of an ornate door. With a small, deliberate gesture, she pointed to it. “This is where the lady resides,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. She studied Scarlett briefly. “As I said before, there is little merit in seeking an audience with her.”

Scarlett’s gaze moved between the girl and the door. What was up with her? Was this really how a child spoke? And what did she mean by that? Wouldn’t the lady of the manor be the younger Scarlett’s mother? Or were they talking about Evelyne’s mother?

It was both frustrating and inconvenient to be so in the dark about the original’s past at a time like this.

“You are an awfully quiet one,” the girl observed, then pushed the door open without another word and stepped inside.

Scarlett followed, catching the door before it closed. The room beyond was one of the east wing’s living quarters, a space Scarlett had only visited once during her initial exploration of the mansion. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, offering a view of the estate’s eastern grounds and the wall encircling the estate, casting a soft glow over the room.

At the far end stood a large four-poster bed, its occupant partially obscured by sheer curtains. Beside the bed sat a servant woman with a half-finished piece of knitting resting in her lap. Scarlett’s eyes were drawn to an ornate crib nearby, the sight of it stopping her in her tracks.

The servant looked up, surprise across her face as she registered the younger Scarlett’s presence.

“Leave,” the girl commanded.

The woman hesitated, her gaze darting uncertainly between the sleeping figure in the bed and the crib.

A trace of irritation entered the younger Scarlett’s tone. “Must I repeat myself?”

With visible reluctance, the servant set aside her knitting and rose. “I will be just outside if you need anything, young lady,” she murmured, offering a curtsy before making for the door, sparing Scarlett only a passing glance.

The younger Scarlett crossed the room with small but purposeful strides, coming to a stop by the bed and crib. She turned to face Scarlett, her expression expectant. A stifling silence settled over the room, and Scarlett remained rooted to the spot, the pounding of her blood reverberating in her ears. At last, with a conscious effort, she willed her body to move, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet as she drew closer.

She stopped near the bed, her eyes taking in its occupant for the first time.

A woman lay nestled among the pillows, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rhythmic breaths. Her pale skin glistened with a faint sheen of sweat, and long chestnut hair fanned across the pillow, framing a face with soft, delicate features. In the crib beside her, a baby slept soundly, its tiny form serene, wisps of rosy-brown hair crowning its head.

Scarlett stared at the pair.

“They are repulsive, are they not?” the young Scarlett asked, voice flat and devoid of any childish innocence.

Scarlett turned her gaze to the girl. “…What makes you despise them so?”

The girl’s piercing eyes met hers without flinching. “Should you not already know? You loathe them as much as I do.”

Scarlett was quiet in response, glancing back at the woman on the bed. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

…She’d never even met this woman before in her life, yet it was true that the mere sight of her filled Scarlett with a visceral revulsion so strong that she could hardly believe it was real. And yet, surprisingly, the same didn’t hold for the baby — for Evelyne. The feelings the child stirred were more complex, a muddled web of feelings almost as ineffable as the ones the younger Scarlett beside her evoked.

Her attention lingered on the woman for a while before shifting back to the younger Scarlett, eyes narrowing. How did the girl seem to read her emotions with such precision? Did she truly recognise who Scarlett was? If so, why was she so composed? Was this actually a genuine reconstruction of a memory, or something else entirely?

At last, Scarlett’s own voice broke through the haze of her thoughts. “Who are you?” she asked, suspicion creeping into her words.

“I am Scarlett Hartford,” the younger Scarlett answered simply.

“Which one?”

“The only one.”

“…Then what am I?”

The girl regarded her for a long moment. “An apostate.”

Scarlett’s eyes widened.

Before she could respond, a blend of cries and voices erupted in the hallway outside. The younger Scarlett turned her head towards the sound. “It seems she has heard of my visit here,” she remarked coolly. “Now, who told her, I wonder?”

Scarlett frowned, her attention shifting to the entrance. “Who are you referring to?”

As if in answer, the door flew open. The servant woman from earlier stumbled backward on the other side, her protests drowned out by the forceful movements of another woman forcing her way into the room. Scarlett felt the blood drain from her face as she took in the newcomer’s appearance.

It was almost like staring into a warped mirror, showing a slightly altered version of herself. Lustrous black hair framed a face hauntingly similar to Scarlett’s own, with sharp blue eyes that blazed with a near-manic intensity. She moved barefoot, clad in a dark nightgown that seemed more suited to a phantom than a noblewoman, yet she carried herself with an unmistakable air of pride and authority.

The woman’s sharp gaze immediately landed on the younger Scarlett standing beside the bed.

“Mother,” the girl said, tone carefully neutral. “Why have you left your quarters? Father will be displeased if he learns of this.”

The woman—Lara, Scarlett knew her name was—seemed not to register her daughter’s words. She walked across the room, the protesting servant trailing helplessly in her wake. Lara came to a stop beside the bed, her attention moving past her daughter to fix on its sleeping occupant.

“…Why is this wench still alive?” she asked aloud, though the question did not seem directed at anyone in particular. “I killed her. I most definitely killed her. Why is she here?” Her eyes flashed to the crib, narrowing dangerously. “What is this thing? Why is it in my home? Someone, remove it at once.”

“Mother,” the young Scarlett said evenly. “You have not killed anyone. Now, please return to your quarters. Were you not given your medicine this morning?”

Lara’s eyes shifted once more, this time landing squarely on Scarlett, who felt the weight of the woman’s scrutiny press against her. Lara’s brow furrowed in consternation. “…You have changed so,” she muttered. “When did you grow so tall? Did you do as I asked? Have you killed that parasite?”

Scarlett found herself unable to speak, words simply refusing to leave her lips as she stared at this woman she had never truly met, yet whose presence seemed to affect her so.

“Mother, I am here,” the young Scarlett interjected, hand reaching out to tug lightly at Lara’s sleeve.

The woman’s attention snapped downward, her features contorting into a scowl as she regarded the child. “What are you doing, Scarlett? You are a noblewoman. The future baroness does not pull at people’s clothing like some common urchin.” She paused, her sharp gaze narrowing further. “Did you perform the task I set for you? Is it done?”

The younger Scarlett shook her head. “I have not, Mother. Father would not approve.”

Lara clicked her tongue sharply against her teeth. “Then I will have to do it myself. This time, I will not fail.”

In a movement far quicker than Scarlett could ever expect, Lara’s hand darted to the folds of her nightgown, producing a gleaming letter opener. Without hesitation, she lunged towards the crib, the mad glint in her eyes revealing her intent.

A cry of alarm tore from the servant woman’s lips as she threw herself bodily at Lara, desperately grappling with her to stop the attack. The younger Scarlett, meanwhile, observed the unfolding chaos with an eerie detachment, making no move to intervene.

Scarlett was about to step in when her younger self spoke. “Mother’s attempts on my sister’s and her mother’s lives were more than one, yet not once did she succeed. Perhaps she never truly desired it and only feigned her efforts, or perhaps she simply could not mentally construct an effective approach. She was a pitiful woman, though none but the mother of the very child she sought to harm ever dared to see her as such. Is that what they call irony?”

Scarlett met the girl’s gaze, finding a far-too-familiar disdain mixed with indifference there.

“Many praised my sister’s mother for her forgiveness,” the younger Scarlett continued. “They called her kind for pardoning the woman who sought to destroy her family, even going so far as to shield her from Father’s wrath and accepting me as ‘her own’. But tell me, what good did such ‘kindness’ truly achieve? It neither healed my mother’s mind, nor did it aid me in any meaningful way. We never asked for her magnanimity. A kindness that serves only itself is no kindness at all. It is repugnant and hollow — a virtue and trait all too common among the lower classes who grasp neither the subtleties of their station nor the gravity of their actions.”

The girl’s final words hung in the air like a bitter echo, just as the scene around them began to blur. Colours bled together, shapes distorted, and the figures of Lara and the servant dissolved into shifting blotches of light as Scarlett realised she was about to be thrust into yet another memory.

A sense of urgency surged through her, fueled by the myriad of questions in her mind. She stepped forward, reaching out to grab the younger Scarlett’s wrist. But her fingers met only empty air, slipped through the girl’s vanishing form as though she were grasping at mist. The younger Scarlett, too, was fading along with the collapsing reality.

Scarlett forced herself to stay composed, fixing her gaze on the girl. “What are you?” she demanded.

The younger Scarlett tilted her head slightly. “The answer will not change simply because you rephrase the question.”

“You know who I am,” Scarlett pressed. “You are aware that this place is merely a memory — a construct. How? What is the purpose of all this?”

“Must there always be a purpose?” the girl countered, her form further dissolving into the swirling surroundings.

“Yes,” Scarlett said.

“Then perhaps you will uncover it on your own,” the younger Scarlett replied, her voice growing faint. “I know little that you do not. After all, I am only the original.”

Scarlett’s breath caught as she stared at the girl. “You—”

Before she could finish, the younger Scarlett disappeared entirely, and the room around her imploded into a slow whirlwind of colours and motion, mixing with a blinding white light. Briefly, Scarlett felt weightless, uncomfortably suspended in a void between memories, between pasts, and it felt almost as if her consciousness began slipping away.

The light pulsed, once, twice, before solidifying into something tangible. When the brightness subsided, she found herself standing in an empty corridor, the musty scent of old tapestries and polished wood filling her nose. Before her, sitting primly in the center of a worn carpet, was a sleek black-furred cat. Its amethyst eyes gazed up at Scarlett with an unblinking, inquisitive stare, and its tail swayed lazily, as if marking the rhythm of some unheard melody.

Scarlett looked down at the creature, then released a tired sigh.

How far would this place go?