The mysterious stranger

The heavy oak door of the library clicked shut behind Prince Alexander and Sophia, leaving Vivian alone in the cavernous silence. The scent of dust and parchment felt suddenly suffocating. The brief encounter had been a whirlwind of cold assessment, unexpected kindness, and jarring proximity between the protagonists – a stark reminder of the ticking clock. *Tomorrow.* The word echoed, a death knell for her fragile amnesia act and her precarious hold on survival.

Her gaze dropped to the slip of parchment clutched in her hand. *L. East Gallery. Dusk. Come alone.* The ink was dark, the handwriting neat but devoid of flourishes – purposeful, anonymous. Who was 'L'? And why summon *her*, the villainess everyone feared or despised, under such clandestine circumstances? Was it a trap laid by Thomas, testing her loyalty or her memory? Or something else entirely? The original Vivian might have dismissed it or brought guards, expecting treachery. But the transmigrated Vivian saw only possibility. A potential crack in the suffocating script. A source of information the library’s dry tomes couldn’t provide.

*East Gallery. Dusk.* Vivian glanced towards the tall library windows. The weak afternoon light was already deepening into the long shadows of late afternoon. Dusk wasn’t far off. A shiver that had nothing to do with the castle’s chill ran through her. Going alone was madness. But *not* going felt like surrendering her only lead.

She carefully tucked the note into the hidden pocket sewn into the heavy fabric of her skirt – a feature her borrowed memories indicated was standard for noblewomen, useful for carrying coins, smelling salts, or, apparently, anonymous summonses. The weight of the Codex Justicus suddenly felt irrelevant. Real power, the kind she desperately needed, wouldn't be found in laws everyone manipulated. It would be found in secrets.

Gathering her composure like a shield, Vivian left the library. The corridors seemed emptier now, the castle settling into the quieter rhythms of late afternoon. Servants were lighting sconces, their flames casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. She walked purposefully, head held high, projecting the haughty confidence expected of Lady Vivian Ashworth. Inside, her mind raced. *East Gallery.* She pictured the castle layout from her explorations and Elara’s nervous tour. The East Gallery was long, relatively narrow, lined with portraits of stern ancestors and landscapes depicting Blackwood victories. It was rarely used as a thoroughfare, especially at dusk, making it perfect for a clandestine meeting. Or an ambush.

She reached the arched entrance to the gallery just as the last slivers of daylight bled from the tall windows facing the inner courtyard. The long room was bathed in deep twilight, the air thick with silence and the smell of old varnish and dust. The portraits lining the walls seemed to watch her with disapproving eyes. Vivian stepped inside, letting the shadows near the doorway swallow her. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Every creak of the ancient floorboards, every rustle of a tapestry in a draft, sounded deafening.

She moved slowly, deeper into the gallery, her eyes straining against the gloom. The weak light from the courtyard windows barely reached the center of the room. Near the far end, where the gallery turned sharply towards the disused North Wing, a figure detached itself from the deeper shadows beside a massive painting of a battle scene.

Vivian froze.

The figure was tall, cloaked in dark, nondescript wool that blended seamlessly with the twilight. The hood was drawn low, obscuring their face entirely. They stood utterly still, a silhouette against the dim canvas. No greeting, no movement. Just silent observation.

Panic clawed at Vivian’s throat. *Trap. It’s a trap.* Instinct screamed at her to flee. But flight meant surrendering, meant walking blindly into Thomas’s schemes or Alexander’s disdain. She forced her voice out, low and steady, aiming for the original Vivian’s imperious tone, though it wavered slightly.

“You summoned me. Show yourself.” The command echoed faintly in the high-ceilinged space.

The figure remained motionless for a heartbeat longer, then stepped forward, just enough for a sliver of fading light from a nearby window to catch the edge of their jaw – strong, clean-shaven. A man’s jaw. His voice, when it came, was low, calm, and utterly unfamiliar. It held no trace of Thomas’s oily smoothness or Alexander’s regal resonance. It was… neutral. Controlled. And it sent a fresh jolt of unease through her.

“Curiosity is a dangerous trait, Lady Ashworth. Especially now.” The words weren't accusatory, merely a statement of fact. “Your… accident… has caused ripples. Unexpected ripples.”

Vivian’s breath hitched. He knew about the fall. And he knew it had changed something. *How?* “Ripples?” she echoed, trying to sound dismissive. “A stumble on the stairs. Hardly noteworthy.”

A soft, humorless sound escaped the hood. “A stumble that leaves the Duke’s viper-tongued daughter asking after legal codes and showing uncharacteristic restraint? That, Lady Ashworth, is noteworthy.” He took another silent step closer. He was tall, perhaps Alexander’s height, but leaner. “The Vivian Ashworth I observed before would have had that Bellweather girl dismissed, or worse, by now. Especially after the Prince showed her such… *attention* in the library.”

Vivian’s blood ran cold. *He was watching. In the library.* The realization was terrifying. Who had that kind of access? Who cared enough to spy? “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice hardening with genuine fear now. “What do you want?”

“Call me Lysander,” the figure said, the name offered easily, but Vivian sensed it was likely an alias. “As for what I want… information. And perhaps, a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“An arrangement?” Vivian scoffed, trying to regain control. “With a nameless shadow? You overestimate your position.”

“Do I?” Lysander’s voice remained infuriatingly calm. “I know things, Lady Ashworth. Things that could prove… inconvenient for certain parties. Including your brother, Lord Thomas.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the dusty air. “I know, for instance, that your ‘stumble’ wasn’t entirely accidental. That someone ensured the top step of the East Stair was… unusually slick yesterday morning.”

Vivian’s world tilted. *Someone tried to kill me? Before I even arrived?* The thought was staggering. The novel hadn't mentioned anything like this. Vivian Ashworth’s downfall came later, orchestrated by her own actions and Alexander’s wrath. An early attempt on her life changed everything. “Who?” The word was a breathless whisper.

“That,” Lysander said, his tone implying a shrug she couldn't see, “is part of the information I possess. And part of what I might share. For a price.”

Vivian’s mind raced. Was he telling the truth? Was this a ploy to manipulate her? If someone *had* tried to kill the original Vivian… why? Thomas seemed invested in her marrying Alexander. Who else would benefit from her death? Her father, the Duke? But why? The plot was thickening far beyond the confines of the novel she remembered. “What price?” she asked cautiously.

“Observations,” Lysander stated simply. “You are uniquely positioned, Lady Ashworth. At the heart of the storm brewing around the Prince’s visit. Your brother confides in you, or did. The Prince watches you, albeit with distaste. The household revolves around you. You see and hear things others miss. Or *will* miss, now that you are… paying closer attention.”

He was asking her to spy. To use her role, her access, to gather information for him. The sheer audacity was breathtaking. Yet… it offered a terrifying kind of power. Information was her only currency. And Lysander clearly possessed some she desperately needed. “What kind of observations?” she pressed.

“Unusual meetings. Whispers in corners. Sudden changes in routine, especially concerning the Prince, your brother, or the Duke. Anything that seems… out of place. Like a noblewoman suddenly engrossed in legal texts.” There was that hint again, that he knew her library research wasn't mere recuperation. “You bring me what you find. Discreetly. And in return… I offer you truths. About the attempt on your life. About the undercurrents in this castle that threaten far more than just your engagement.”

The offer hung between them, heavy with risk and potential. Trusting a shadow was insanity. But refusing meant facing the labyrinth of Blackwood Castle blind, with assassins potentially at her back and her own brother pulling her strings towards ruin. Lysander represented an unknown variable, a wild card. But in a game rigged against her, a wild card might be her only chance.

“How?” Vivian asked, her voice barely audible. “How do I contact you?”

A small, dark object flew through the air. Vivian flinched but caught it instinctively. It was a smooth, flat river stone, dark grey, cool to the touch. One side bore a tiny, intricate carving – an owl with wings spread.

“Leave this beneath the third bust from the left in the Hall of Ancestors,” Lysander instructed. “When you have something to report. I will find you when I have information to share. Dusk is often… convenient.” He took a step back, melting deeper into the shadows near the corner. “Be cautious, Lady Ashworth. Your performance is being watched more closely than you know. The fall changed you. Some find that… interesting. Others find it threatening. Tread carefully.”

Before Vivian could respond, ask another question, demand more details, the shadow where Lysander had stood seemed to ripple. A faint draft stirred the edge of a tapestry. And then… nothing. He was gone as silently as he’d appeared, leaving Vivian alone in the near-darkness of the East Gallery, clutching the smooth owl stone like a talisman.

Her legs trembled, threatening to buckle. She leaned against the cold stone wall, the rough surface biting through the fabric of her gown. *Someone tried to kill me. Lysander knows who. He wants me to spy. He knows I’m different.* The revelations tumbled over each other, a chaotic storm in her mind.

The mysterious stranger wasn't just mysterious; he was deeply embedded in the castle’s hidden currents. He saw through her amnesia act, recognizing it as a fundamental shift, not just confusion. And his warning echoed Thomas’s, but with far darker implications: her change wasn't just inconvenient; it was *threatening* to unseen players.

She looked down at the owl stone in her palm. The carving was exquisite, the owl’s eyes seeming to gleam in the dim light. A symbol of wisdom, but also of nocturnal secrecy. It felt like both a lifeline and a shackle. Agreeing to Lysander’s terms made her complicit in his shadow games. But refusing felt like stepping off a cliff.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor outside the gallery. Panic flared. Vivian shoved the owl stone deep into her hidden pocket just as Elara appeared in the doorway, a lantern held high.

“My Lady!” Elara sounded breathless, her face pale in the lantern light. “I’ve been searching everywhere! It’s nearly supper time, and His Grace has requested your presence!” Her eyes darted around the shadowy gallery. “What are you doing in here? It’s so dark…”

Vivian pushed herself away from the wall, forcing her expression into one of weary confusion. “The library felt stifling, Elara. I thought a walk… but I must have gotten turned around in the gloom. This castle feels like a maze since…” She trailed off, touching her temple.

Elara’s expression softened with sympathy. “Oh, my Lady. Come, let’s get you back to your chambers to freshen up. You can’t keep His Grace waiting!” She took Vivian’s arm, gently guiding her out of the gallery.

As they walked back towards the inhabited parts of the castle, Vivian’s mind was far from supper or the Duke. It was fixed on the shadowy figure, the owl stone hidden against her thigh, and the chilling truths he’d offered. The web of deceit wasn't just around her; she had just willingly stepped into its center. The investigation had begun, but the investigator had become a pawn in a much larger, darker game. And the role of the villainess now had a dangerous new dimension: spy. The performance had to be flawless, not just for Thomas and Alexander, but for the watching eyes in the shadows, and the unseen hand that had already tried to silence Lady Vivian Ashworth