Through Another Life

........... I opened my eyes. Big mistake. I was not in Paris. I was not on my soft feather mattress with my silk pajamas and a cup of mint tea. Nope. Instead, I was lying on something that could loosely be described as a mattress, but more closely resembled a pile of lumpy hay covered in a thin sheet that had clearly given up on life. Great. I sat up and looked around. Wooden walls scratched and scuffed, a single tiny window letting in gray, judgmental light. A cracked table leaned sideways like it was trying to escape. And somewhere, in the corner, a chamber pot glared at me with quiet disdain. Yep. This is fine. Totally fine. I tried to move my arms. Stiff. My body felt wrong. My dress—it was brown, rough, itchy, and somehow smelled faintly of despair and old onions. Oh. The memories hit me slowly. I remembered myself. Anne. I had traveled, experienced life, had parties, silk gowns, libraries, freedom, Paris, summer on yachts, clever friends, interesting conversations… And now… I was this. I panicked. Wait. Where am I? This isn’t my room. My bed. My life. My… A loud cough jolted me upright. “Finally!” a shrill, barking voice announced. A small, elderly woman appeared in the doorway. Gray hair piled on top of her head like a bird’s nest, eyes sharp enough to peel paint, and a mouth that clearly enjoyed delivering pain for breakfast. “Get up! Time for your chores!” I flinched. She was staring at me. Waiting. Judging. I stared back. “I… I don’t understand—” I began. “Don’t understand?” the woman barked. “You don’t understand that I have to wake you up at the crack of dawn, scrub the floors, clean the toilets, and still pretend you’re useful?!” Wait, what? “Who… who are you?” I stammered. The woman squinted. “I am Mrs. Evan, chief maid extraordinaire. And you, little… whatever you are, have been sleeping through your chores again!” “I—I… I just woke up?” I stammered, glancing around. “I don’t know where I am!” Mrs. Evan’s eyes narrowed. “Do I look like a nanny? You’re acting crazy,Brie …..Lady Cordelia will not tolerate your nonsense for a single second. Now get up!” “Ma’am, I… I’m not Brie… I’m Anne… I mean—” I stopped. The name felt foreign on my tongue.Wait… something clicks… I froze. Did she just say Lady Cordelia? Oh. Oh no no no no. I… didn’t die. I didn’t faint. I didn’t dream of this. My stomach lurched. Memories slammed in like a runaway carriage. I had been Anne. Anne, rich, worldly, clever, independent. I had traveled, lived, laughed, and existed like a proper human being… and now… Now I’m here. I staggered, clutching the bedpost. “I… I think… I think I… transmigrated.” Mrs. Evan’s face twisted. “Trans… what?” “I… I’m not… I mean…” I waved my hands helplessly. “I’m Anne! But… you’re calling me… Brie?!” “Ma’am,” I said, carefully pacing, “I may have just woken up in a body I don’t understand in a room that smells like death and old bread, and—” “Excuses!” she shouted. “Excuses don’t polish silver, do they? No, they don’t! Hands. Now!” Okay,Universe, we need to negotiate…. I raised my hands slowly, palms out, like I was dealing with a wild animal. Which, honestly, felt accurate. “Mrs. Evan,” I said carefully, forcing calm into my voice, “I am not making excuses. I am explaining that I woke up in a stranger’s body, in a room that smells like regret, and—” She smacked the broom against the floor. Hard. “Enough!” she barked. “You’ve finally lost your senses. Up! Now! Or I swear I’ll drag you out myself!” I stared at her. Really stared. Something in me—something expensive, well-educated, and deeply allergic to being yelled at—reared its head. “No,” I said. The word fell into the room like a dropped plate. Mrs. Evan froze. “I beg your pardon?” she hissed. I swallowed. My heart was racing, my head was spinning, and I was very aware that I was wearing a dress that could double as a punishment—but still. “No,” I repeated, straighter now. “I won’t get up just because you scream. That may work on… whoever Brie is, but it doesn’t work on me.” Her mouth opened. Closed. It opened again. “You insolent—” “Oh, I am absolutely insolent,” I cut in, rubbing my temples. “But I am also confused, overwhelmed, and about three seconds away from lying down and pretending this is all a very aggressive dream.” She lifted the broom. I laughed. It slipped out before I could stop it—sharp, breathless, a little hysterical. Mrs. Evan stared at me like I’d finally cracked. “Yes, laugh,” she snapped. “Laugh while you can. Lady Cordelia… The name hit me properly this time. Lady Cordelia. Blonde. Sweet smile. Wicked heart. My laughter died. Oh. Memories I hadn’t invited came rushing back—me at seventeen, sprawled across a velvet couch, skimming through a ridiculous historical novel because everyone online wouldn’t shut up about it. The cruel stepmother. The doting but useless father. The villainess daughter. And the maid. The illegitimate one. The girl who suffered quietly, endlessly, pointlessly. The girl who died in chapter five! My chest tightened. “No,” I whispered. “No, no, no—” The door creaked open. And in walked Lady Cordelia Rosethorne. She was beautiful in the way poison flowers are beautiful. Soft blonde hair pinned neatly, pale blue eyes warm and kind, lips curved in a gentle smile that promised comfort and delivered none. She took in the room—the messy bed, the frozen chief maid, me standing there with wild eyes—and sighed. “Oh, dear,” she said sweetly. “What seems to be the trouble?” Mrs. Evan straightened instantly. “My lady, she’s being difficult again. Refusing orders. Talking nonsense.” Cordelia’s gaze settled on me. On Brie. I felt something cold slide down my spine. “Well?” she asked kindly. “Are you unwell, child?” I looked at her. Then I laughed again. This time, properly. “Oh,” I said, wiping my eyes. “This is incredible.” Cordelia blinked. “Excuse me?” “I just realized,” I continued, voice light, almost amused, “that I didn’t even transmigrate into someone important.” Mrs. Evan gasped. Cordelia’s smile stiffened. “I’m not the heroine,” I said. “Not the villainess. Not even the dramatic best friend.” I gestured vaguely at myself. “I’m the maid.” Silence. “The one who exists purely to suffer,” I added cheerfully. “The one who gets slapped, blamed, starved, and then quietly written off like she never mattered.” Cordelia’s eyes hardened—just a fraction. “That is enough,” she said softly. I met her gaze and smiled back, wide and unapologetic. “No,” I said again. “It really isn’t.” Something in my chest burned—fear, anger, disbelief, and a sharp, stubborn joy. Because if this world thought I was going to lie down and die quietly— “Well,” I said lightly, stepping back onto the creaking floor, “I’m afraid the story is about to get very inconvenient.” And for the first time since waking up— I felt very, very awake.