REWRITING THE HEROINE'S FATE

Chapter Three

By eight in the morning, Sylvie had discovered three things.

First, the Vane estate served breakfast that could feed an entire village.

Second, the guards outside her bedroom had absolutely no sense of humor.

Third, the elite scouts assigned to watch her were annoyingly good at their jobs.

She had tried leaving through the main entrance. A guard followed.

She had tried using the servants' staircase. Another scout appeared at the bottom.

She had even considered climbing out of a window until she remembered that she was apparently a werewolf, lived in a house full of other werewolves, and had no idea whether this body could survive a fall from the second floor.

So she sat at the breakfast table, stabbing a piece of fruit with her fork.

"This is ridiculous."

The maid pouring her tea pretended not to hear.

Sylvie lowered her voice. "Do you know how humiliating it is to have someone watch you eat?"

The maid's hand trembled.

Oh, right. Canon Sylvie was probably the sort of woman who got servants dismissed for breathing too loudly.

Sylvie set down her fork.

"Sorry. I'm not angry with you."

The maid looked at her as though she'd just announced that the moon had turned green.

"Of course, my lady."

Sylvie sighed.

Apparently, changing her behavior was going to be harder than changing the plot.

Her gaze shifted toward the courtyard beyond the windows.

Today was the day Sylvie Vane slapped Lyra.

It was a small incident in the original novel, barely two pages long. Lyra accidentally spilled water on Sylvie's shoes while carrying laundry through the courtyard. Sylvie responded by striking her in front of several servants, then accusing her of deliberately humiliating a noblewoman.

Valen happened to witness the aftermath.

He defended Lyra, and Sylvie's public disgrace became another reason for his hatred.

It was also one of the scenes that convinced readers Sylvie deserved her eventual execution.

Not happening.

"I need to find Lyra," she announced.

The maid nearly dropped the teapot.

"Miss Lyra?"

"Yes. Do you know where she is?"

"She usually works near the laundry quarters in the morning."

"Perfect."

"My lady, may I ask why?"

Sylvie rose from her chair.

"Because I'm trying very hard not to ruin my life."

The maid stared at her.

Sylvie walked out before she could ask anything else.

The laundry quarters sat behind the servants' wing, far enough from the main residence that the smell of soap and damp clothes didn't reach the expensive carpets.

Sylvie found Lyra beside a long wooden table, sorting linen.

The heroine looked exactly as Chloe remembered her from the novel. Chestnut hair tied loosely at the back of her head, a plain dress, and a stubborn little crease between her eyebrows whenever someone spoke to her like she was beneath them.

Her hands were another matter.

The skin across her knuckles was red and cracked. One finger had a fresh cut, and she kept rubbing her palm against her apron as though trying to ease the sting.

Sylvie remembered this detail.

In the original story, Lyra's hands were already sore from working with harsh soap. The spilled water was an accident. Sylvie's slap was entirely deliberate.

She had to stop herself from looking at the laundry basket.

The scene was beginning to feel horribly real.

Lyra noticed her.

Her shoulders stiffened.

A nearby maid immediately lowered her head and moved away.

"Lady Sylvie," Lyra said cautiously.

The way she said the title made it sound like a warning.

Sylvie stopped a few feet away.

"Good morning."

Lyra stared at her.

"Did I do something wrong?"

There it was. No greeting. No small talk. Just the assumption that Sylvie had come to punish her.

Chloe felt a sharp pinch of guilt for a crime committed by someone else in a fictional story.

"Not today," she said.

Lyra's expression hardened.

"Then why are you here?"

Fair question.

Sylvie reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small glass jar. She had found it in her bathroom that morning, tucked among the expensive creams and perfumes. The label identified it as a healing ointment used for damaged skin.

It probably cost more than Lyra earned in a month.

Sylvie held it out.

"For your hands."

Lyra didn't take it.

"What?"

"Your knuckles are cracked. This should help."

Lyra glanced at the jar, then at Sylvie.

"Is this a joke?"

"No."

"Did someone put you up to this?"

"No."

"Are you expecting me to use it so you can accuse me of stealing from you?"

Sylvie lowered the jar slightly.

Honestly, she couldn't blame her.

"Look, I understand why you don't trust me."

"You don't understand anything about me."

The answer came quickly, with enough anger to surprise them both.

Lyra looked away, jaw tight.

Sylvie could have argued. She could have reminded Lyra that she was offering a gift, not demanding friendship.

Instead, she took a breath.

"You're right. I don't know you."

Lyra looked back at her.

"But I know those hands must hurt," Sylvie continued. "And I have something that might help. That's all."

For a moment, the only sound between them was the splash of water from a basin nearby.

Then Lyra looked at the jar again.

"Why?"

Sylvie almost laughed.

Because I don't want to be executed.

Because I know what happens to you, and I don't want to be the reason.

Because I'm a stranger in a body everyone hates, and you're the only person here who might understand how frightening that is.

She couldn't say any of that.

"Because I was unkind to you before," she said instead. "And I don't want to continue being that person."

Lyra's face changed.

Not much. Just enough for Sylvie to notice the uncertainty slipping through the anger.

"You expect me to believe you've changed overnight?"

"No. I expect you to believe I brought you ointment."

Sylvie placed the jar on the table between them.

"You don't have to accept it. You don't have to forgive me. But please don't throw it away before trying it."

She turned to leave.

"Lady Sylvie."

Sylvie stopped.

Lyra was holding the jar now, her fingers wrapped carefully around the glass.

"Is this expensive?"

"Probably."

"Then I can't accept it."

"Why not?"

"Because if you change your mind tomorrow, I won't be able to pay you back."

That answer hurt more than Sylvie expected.

In the original story, Lyra was often described as stubborn, proud, and incapable of accepting help. Chloe had assumed it was a convenient personality trait to make the heroine look noble.

Now she understood.

Lyra wasn't refusing kindness because she didn't want it.

She was afraid kindness would become another debt someone could use against her.

Sylvie pushed the jar a little closer.

"You don't owe me anything."

Lyra searched her face.

"You mean that?"

"I do."

After a long pause, Lyra slipped the ointment into her apron pocket.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

It wasn't forgiveness.

It wasn't friendship.

But it was more than Sylvie had expected to get.

She smiled, relieved. "You're welcome."

"Lady Sylvie?"

"Yes?"

"If this is some elaborate scheme, I'm going to find out."

Sylvie's smile faltered.

"That's fair."

She walked away before she could ruin the moment by saying something stupid.

For the first time since waking in this world, she felt as though she had done something right.

Then a voice spoke behind her.

"That was interesting."

Sylvie stopped dead.

A man stood near the entrance to the laundry courtyard, dressed in a dark uniform with a silver insignia at his collar. His expression was calm, but his eyes had followed every second of her conversation with Lyra.

Kaelen.

Valen's trusted strategist and one of the few people in the novel who could make a dangerous situation worse without raising his voice.

Sylvie remembered him clearly. He was observant, politically ruthless, and suspicious of almost everyone.

Especially her.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asked.

"Long enough."

Fantastic.

Kaelen glanced toward Lyra, who had returned to her work but kept watching them from the corner of her eye.

"Yesterday, you were found with restricted herbs in your chambers. This morning, you approach the woman you've spent months tormenting and give her expensive medicine."

Sylvie folded her arms.

"When you say it like that, it sounds suspicious."

"It is suspicious."

"I was trying to be kind."

"Since when?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

Kaelen stepped closer.

"Whatever you're planning, Lady Sylvie, I suggest you reconsider."

Her stomach tightened.

"There's nothing to reconsider."

His expression remained pleasant.

"Of course."

He walked past her, leaving her with the unpleasant certainty that he believed every word she hadn't said.

Across the courtyard, Lyra carefully tucked the ointment deeper into her pocket.

Kaelen noticed.

His eyes narrowed.

Then he pulled a small communication device from inside his jacket.

"Send a message to Alpha Prime," he murmured. "Sylvie Vane has made contact with Lyra."

A pause.

"No. Don't interrupt them. I want to know what she's trying to accomplish."

Sylvie heard every word.

Her blood ran cold.

She had changed one scene. One small, harmless scene.

And now Valen's strategist thought she was plotting something even more dangerous than poisoning the heroine.

Kaelen glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Let's see how long your kindness lasts, Lady Sylvie."

Then he smiled.

"Because if you're planning to use Lyra against the Alpha, you've just made your first mistake."