I am Ellie Baker, nineteen years old as of last week, a university student studying English Literature.

Though I don’t want to talk about my past, I should say a little bit. I didn’t really have friends in high school. It’s arrogant of me, I know, but I was pretty. My sister is a lot older than me and she wore makeup, so I copied her, and I always put in a lot of effort to make my hair look nice. It’s awkward to say, but I was also one of the first girls in my year who really grew breasts.

And it was my fault my best friend’s crush asked me out instead of her. When I talked to boys, apparently I was always flirting, and it was my fault for sending the wrong message. It was always my fault.

I don’t want to bring you down, so I won’t say any more. That’s all in the past now.

Like I said, I’m at university. I’ve avoided the guys as much as I can, working hard towards making some real girl friends. That’s all I want. It’s been a slow few months, but I talked a little with a lot of the girls on my course and a few in the dorms. I joined a book club sort of thing, which is where I’m going now. The girl that invited me is really nice (if a bit dorky), and I think the other girls are nice too.

That said, I’m a little disappointed in their taste in books. The one I read for this meeting, it’s, well, not great. I thought it was maybe supposed to be for younger girls, sort of childish, but the “erotic” scenes put an end to that. I really had to force myself to get through those awfully written parts.

Oh, I should say a bit about the story. It’s called “Snowdrop and the Seven Princes” and is, supposedly, a romance story between the sixteen-year-old main character Eleanor (no relation to me) and seven boys over the two years that they attend a “prep school” for the nobility. That’s right—she sleeps with seven guys, and apparently this doesn’t cause any problems whatsoever. Plotwise, she’s collecting the seven hearts of the faerie kings (of course there’s magic), which are being stored inside those boys hearts (for some unexplained reason). This grants her a single wish and she uses it to stop a catastrophe that I’ve already forgotten. Seriously, it comes up on the second-to-last page and she uses her wish the very next line.

Anyway, I have properly thought about it, and I’m probably being extra harsh on the story because of what I went through, but I’m still pretty sure it’s a load of rubbish. Escapism for girls who have this fantasy in their head that they’d be so popular with the guys if they just had the chance. I mean, Eleanor can’t do anything but giggle and cry and she “had her flower plucked” by the hottest guys.

Oh god, I’m remembering the euphemisms and it’s making me nauseous.

Taking a deep breath, I look around, leaving my thoughts behind while I find something to focus on. I’m in town, our book club meeting at a local coffee shop. I haven’t been there before, but the hot chocolate is apparently really good, and there’s usually a cute guy behind the till. That is actually a reason Hatty gave for coming here, followed by a wink. My sense of direction isn’t great. They told me it’s opposite the post office, but I don’t know where that is either. I left early, so it shouldn’t be a problem, I just have to keep looking.

With my stomach settled, I end up thinking about the story again. I really hope they picked this book so we can all make fun of it together. If not, I mean, I really do want friends, but I don’t know if I can force myself to read another book like this.

Joking to myself, I think that only thing worse would be having to live through it.

A barricade in front of me (pavement dug up, builders nowhere to be seen), I step out onto the quiet road, turning my head to look behind me—

Oh, I didn’t hear that truck.

I guess I won’t make it to the meeting after all.

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My name was Ellie, now it’s Eleanor. I’m six years old, the second daughter of a duke, and I am currently hiding in a tree.

It’s hard to explain. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had memories of being Ellie. Only, I didn’t understand. I drew pictures of my “parents” and talked endlessly about that life. My big sister, Clarice, especially asked to hear all sorts of things.

And it’s like I’ve woken up.

My little brain finally developed self-awareness. I understand that everyone’s just playing along, thinking me a child with an overactive imagination. I understand that it’s not normal to have memories of another life. But I understand that it is true. I’ve had dreams, I’ve played pretend, and this isn’t like that. How I taught myself to read, how quickly I learned to count—that comes from the memories.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

I’m not a precocious child. Well, I am, but who I am isn’t just precociousness.

As for why I’m in a tree, well, I am exactly six years old. My family is holding a party for me and has invited a few upper-class families with children around my age. It is embarrassing. No, mortifying. After four years of yapping on about my old life, everyone teases me.

So I ran away.

Lottie and Beth (two of the younger maids) have already walked right underneath while calling for me. I feel a little bad, since they’re nice, but I’ll actually just die if I have one more pudgy old man ask me to tell him what a “car” is again.

Besides, it’s nice having some quiet time to think. A lot of things sort of clicked into place, so I feel more “human” now, like, I dunno, I can do things. Like I can think further than what’s in front of me, and make plans, and stuff like that.

Except someone’s crying and it’s very distracting.

Pouting, I look around. One of the kids probably fell over or something. I’m far from the party, that being held on a sort of patio at the back of the manor since the weather is unseasonably warm, while this tree is at the side. There’s nothing but empty grass around, a flowerbed running along the edge of the manor, so I should be able to see whoever’s crying.

Unless….

I slowly turn, my gaze falling on the hedge maze. It’s quiet when you’re inside, because the hedges muffle the sound, but there’s no hedges above the maze. The crying is almost certainly coming from there. At least, I can’t think of where else.

Craig, one of the footmen, rushes past. It doesn’t look like he can hear the crying.

Sighing, I give in. I crawl to the end of the large branch, my weight bending it a little, and slide carefully off onto the top of the hedge. It’s springy, but firm enough to hold me as long as I keep crawling. With the crying to guide me, I follow the edge of the maze until I’m close, and then move inwards.

I spot the crier soon enough—a young boy. Well, I say young, but he’s probably my age.

It’s a little high to jump. However, the hedge isn’t sturdy enough for me to hold on and drop down. There’s no other choice, then. I dangle my feet off the edge, find the sturdiest bit of hedge I can reach, and then push off.

I manage to bend my knees as I land, but my momentum tries to carry me over backwards. With a step, I regain my balance. “Phew.”

“Blue,” he mumbles, eyes wide.

Confused, I ask, “What?”

“N-nothing.”

I give him a good stare before deciding not to push him for an answer. He has a chubby face (like most of the children here, being spoiled kids and all) with light brown hair, and I can’t quite tell if his eyes are hazel or brown.

“Fine,” I say, reaching out and grabbing his hand. He tries to pull it away, but I hold tight. “Come on, you won’t get unlost if you stay here and cry,” I say.

With a tug, I get him moving.

“Besides, there’s nothing to worry about—I know this place like the back of my hand,” I confidently say as I lead us to a dead end. Putting aside my ego, I clear my throat. “But, if you ever get lost in a maze, you can always find your way out by following the wall,” I say, and reach out with my free hand, touching the hedge.

He tentatively does the same.

So we start walking, naturally taking every left as I run my fingertips along the hedge. I do soon realise where we are, but I keep doing the wall trick, not ready to come up with something else if I mess up again.

While he did stop crying pretty much since I jumped down, he’s still sniffling. “What sweets do you like?” I ask him.

“W-what?”

“Yes, what sweets. You know, cake, or tarts, or candies,” I say, listing what comes to mind.

I’m a little upset with the sweets here, not the same as the ones from my old life; mostly, they just aren’t as sweet. Try to imagine how disappointing it is to take a bite of cake and it tastes more like bread.

He um’s and ah’s, and eventually says, “Cake, I guess.”

“That’s a good choice,” I say. My plan has worked, no more sniffles. “What about breakfast?”

For the rest of the maze, I ask him question after question, moving from favourite food to games to animals, at which point I start running out, asking him for his favourite knot (he doesn’t know any, but he can tie his shoes, so he says that knot), and whether he sleeps with one pillow or two. Fortunately, we reach the exit before I have to come up with another question.

It’s a short walk around the side of the manor and over to the crowd of people milling about the patio. Considering I don’t know who his mother is, I head straight to mine instead.

Politely tugging at her dress, I quietly say, “Mummy.”

She pauses her conversation with a rather pointy-looking middle-aged woman, and looks down at me. “Oh if it’s isn’t the birthday girl. Now, where have you been hiding?”

“I don’t have the time to answer that.” Pulling the boy forward, I carefully position him between me and my mother and say, “He got a little bit lost, so you should give him some cake to cheer him up.”

“What about you? Will you be joining him?” my mother asks.

“If I may, I would like to get back to my thinking,” I say. For good measure, I do a little curtsey—that always works on my mother.

She tilts her head, hand on her heart. “Oh bless. Of course you may,” she says.

“Thank you, mummy,” I say. Turning to the boy, I say, “And you be careful, okay? I don’t want to have to rescue you again.”

“Yes, miss,” he says, a bit mumbly.

I think to chide him, but decide against it. “Good boy,” I say and, with a goodbye curtsey to my mother and her friend, I leave. It’s difficult to lose the maid that follows me around the corner, but, making use of a thin part of the hedge, I slip into the maze. While she goes to guard the entrance, I find a cosy spot to sit down.

Now I just need to think what to do with my life.