The night was quiet, so quiet you could hear a pin drop broken all by the faint rustle of the sheet as she tossed and turned in her bed, the familiar weight of insomnia pressing down on her.

Her mind was still spinning, haunted by the zodiac shadow cipher, and a lingering tension of the case. But amidst the chaos of her thoughts, there was something else—a strange, almost magnetic pull toward the book on her nightstand.

Finally, giving up on her sleep, Ari set up and reached for the paperback. She flipped it open, the previous rustling softly in the stillness. The story was already etched in her mind.

Lady Rosalind Sinclair, the novel's protagonist, was a noblewoman in a world teetering between old-world elegance and the march of modern invention. Set in an empire reminiscent of the Victorian era aesthetic, the narrative followed Rosalind Sinclair as she unraveled conspiracies within the aristocracy while navigating her dark past. The book was a detective-focused book. There was no romance between the characters.

The world itself was vivid, almost alive: cobblestone Street slick with rain, steam rising from the bustling marketplace, the home of primitive engines blending with the clatter of hooves.

Ari could see it all so clearly, as if the book were unfolding before her eyes.

As she read a particularly gripping chapter. Rosalind had just uncovered a hidden passage in a duke's estate, the air thick with tension as she followed it deeper to the underground.

Ari's heart rate was in sync with Rosalind's, the descriptions so vivid they felt real. The walls seem to press in closer, flickering torchlight, casting dancing shadows on the page.

And then, without warning, everything changed, it was like a shift in the atmosphere.

A sudden gust of wind blows through the room, shattering the bedside lamp that was giving a soft glow and everything in the room. The darkness was suffocating, a void that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Ari froze, and the book slipped from her hands. Startled she tried to stand, but the world tilted, feeling dizzy from a sensation like—being pulled into a whirlpool.

Her vision blurred, and for a moment, she thought she was dreaming. But the sensation was too real—she tried to scream, but it was like her voice was trapped in her throat then suddenly the rush of wind in her ears, the cold air biting at her skin, the faint scent of roses and gunpowder.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stopped.

The first thing Ari noticed was a suffocating weight, pressing on her chest, accompanied by an aching in her heart that made it hard to breathe. Her eyes fluttered open, taking in a faded ceiling adorned with intricate paintings of angels and constellations, dulled with cracks and time.

She tried to sit up, but her limbs were weak, trembling under her effort. The bed was flush and soft, draped in silks that had faded from vibrant crimson to muted rose. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender and something faintly metallic, like blood.

Before she could orient herself, the door creaked open. A young man entered, balancing a tray of steaming tea. Her head was bowed as she moved, the plain fabric of her uniform swishing each step.

The maid glanced up—and froze.

The tray slipped from her hands, the porcelain shattering as it hit the floor.

"My lady!" The maid gasps, her voice trembling. Her wide brown eyes filled with tears as her hand flew to her mouth. "You're awake… you're alive!"

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Ari blinked at the maid, her mind sluggish. Alive? What does she mean?

"I—What…?" Ari croaked, startled by the unfamiliar sound of her voice. Hoarse and delicate, it was nothing like the confident tone she had known.

The maid dropped to her knees beside the bed, clutching at her skirts. "We thought… you were gone! The physician declared it days ago. The household has been mourning you, my lady."

Ari pushed herself upright, swaying slightly as she adjusted to the unfamiliar body She was inhabiting. Her hands—-slim and pale with faintly calloused Fingertips—seemed alien to her. She reached up, her fingers grazing soft, unblemished skin, a sharp jawline, and a strictly delicate nose.

Rising from the bed, Ari stumbles towards the tarnished mirror on the far wall. What she saw took her breath away.

A young woman stared back at her, her reflection almost ethereal. Her face was strikingly beautiful, with high cheekbones and a delicate curve to her jaw that gave her an air of elegance. Her skin was smooth and pale, glowing faintly in the morning light that seeped through the curtains. But it was her eyes that captivated her the most—brilliant emerald green, like sunlight filtering through a canopy of leaves. They were free by dark lashes that made them seem even more luminous.

Her hair fell in soft waves to her waist, jet black and glossy, with a natural sheen that caught the light. It cascaded around her shoulders like ink spilling across the paper, untamed but undeniably regal.

Ari's breath hitched. This was not her face.

Claire, the maid, had risen to her feet but kept her distance, wringing her hands nervously.

"My lady, you shouldn't push yourself," Clair said softly. Her voice carried a blend of awe and fear, as though she were addressing a ghost. "You've been unwell for days… we all taught… " She trailed off, her lips trembling.

Ari turned to Claire, studying her more closely. The young maid was petite, with large, round brown eyes set on a freckled face. Her auburn hair was tied back into a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Though her uniform was simple, it was clean and well-kept, with an apron tied neatly at her waist.

"How long was I…" Ari hesitated, searching for the right words, "…unwell?"

Claire hesitated. "It's been three days since you…" she paused, swallowing hard, "since the past, my lady. The doctor said there was nothing more that could be done. We lit candles and prayed, but…"

Her voice cracked, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Ari's mind raced. Three days? She turned back to the mirror, her reflection, staring at her with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Memories that didn't belong to her, began to seep into her consciousness like ink spreading through water. She was no longer Ari the detective.

She was Evelyn Thorne, the only daughter of Duke Thorne, a man whose untimely death from poisoning had plunged the family into ruin. The once grand estate had fallen into despair, they are influenced dwindling into irrelevance.

Evelyn herself has been a minor figure in the story—a tragic friend whose death had catalyzed the book protagonist to discover her talent for solving mysteries.

But now, with Evelyn alive and breathing, the book's carefully laid plot was already unraveling.

Evelyn glanced out the window as Claire busied herself cleaning the shattered porcelain. The estate grounds stretched out before her, a hauntingly beautiful landscape of frost-covered gardens and overgrown hedges. The manor, though still imposing, showed its age with crumbling stone and faded paint.

Evelyne's father's death had left the family in tatter, and Evelyne's sudden "illness" had only added to the household's despair.

That night, as the household slowly returned to a semblance of normalcy, Ari stood by the window of her chambers, gazing out at the estate. The once-grand grounds were overgrown with weeds, the stone walls of the manor worn and weathered. In the distance, she could see the faint glow of lanterns from the village, the only sign of life in an otherwise desolate landscape.

She thought of the book plot, and how Evelyn's death set the stage for the protagonist's rise. Without a tragic loss, what will happen to the story?

More importantly, what will happen to her?

Evelyn turned to Claire, who had finished sweeping up the broken porcelain and was now lighting the hearth.

"Claire," evidence, her voice study now. Fetch me some paper in a pen."

Claire, clearly startled. "My lady?"

"I need to think," Evelyn said, her real eyes liming with determination. "And to think, I need to write."

The rest of the house who has no explanation for evidence, miraculous recovery, will spread quickly among the seventh. Evelyne, scared and disoriented, was panicking over her new reality.

Evelyne thought to herself, 'Am I ever going to go home?'

'What's going to happen to her now?' still shocked and reeling from the event that happened.

As the moon rose high that night, Evelyne sat by the desk, barely able to move, but she needed to get this done. A single candle casting and flickering shadows across her striking features. She thought of her duke's death, the unanswered questions, and whispers of betrayal that faded into the silence.

She needed to find a way out of this world, and for that, she needed to uncover the truth. And if there was one thing, Evelyne—no, Ari—was good at, it was solving mysteries.