The villainess's role

The crunch of Thomas’s retreating footsteps faded, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the courtyard. Vivian stood frozen, the chill of his touch lingering like frostbite on her cheek. His words echoed: *Regain your strength. And your resolve. You’ll need it.* It wasn't encouragement; it was a command, a reminder of the role she was expected to play.

Elara shifted nervously beside her. “My Lady? Perhaps we should go back inside? You look pale.”

*Pale?* Vivian felt like her borrowed blood had turned to ice water. Thomas’s visit was a stark warning. The amnesia shield was flimsy, a temporary reprieve at best. He expected Lady Vivian Ashworth – ruthless, ambitious, obsessed – to be ready for Prince Alexander’s arrival tomorrow. The original Vivian would have been vibrating with anticipation, issuing orders for her finest gowns, plotting how to monopolize Alexander’s attention, and likely already scheming against Sophia Bellweather.

*What am I supposed to do?* Panic threatened to resurface. *Play the villain? But that leads straight to the convent and a fatal 'accident'. Rebel? Thomas would see that as weakness or treachery, and he’s dangerous. Sophia seems meek now, but crossing her is crossing fate itself.* The sheer impossibility of her situation pressed down, making the high stone walls feel like a prison closing in.

She forced a breath, drawing the crisp, damp air deep into lungs constricted by the tight emerald gown. Survival. That was the only goal. To survive, she needed information. She needed to understand the *depth* of the villainess’s reputation and the expectations surrounding her.

“No, Elara,” Vivian said, her voice steadier than she felt. She began walking slowly along the gravel path, away from the archway where Sophia had vanished. “Tell me… about myself. Before the fall. What was I like?” The question felt bizarre, asking about her own supposed past.

Elara flinched almost imperceptibly, her gaze fixed on the neatly trimmed hedges. “Oh, my Lady… you are… *were*… very grand,” she stammered, choosing her words with obvious care. “The Duke’s daughter. Engaged to the Crown Prince. Everyone respected you… feared you. You knew your mind, my Lady. Very strong-willed.” The hesitation before "feared" was telling. The careful avoidance of words like "kind" or "beloved" spoke volumes.

“Feared?” Vivian prompted gently, stopping beside a stone bench slick with damp. She didn’t sit. “Why feared, Elara?”

The maid twisted her apron. “Well… you… you demanded perfection, my Lady. From everyone. The servants. The seamstresses. The… the other young ladies.” She glanced towards the archway again, a flicker of something akin to pity in her eyes. “You… you didn’t suffer fools gladly. Or… or rivals.” The last word was barely a whisper.

*Rivals.* Sophia. So, the original Vivian’s animosity wasn’t a secret. It was common knowledge, even to a young chambermaid. The groundwork for her villainy was already laid, thick and toxic.

“I see,” Vivian murmured, her stomach churning. “And… rivals? Were there many?”

Elara looked genuinely terrified now. “My Lady, please… your memory will return. I shouldn’t…”

“Elara,” Vivian softened her tone, injecting a note of bewildered vulnerability. “Everything feels like a stranger’s life. I need… anchors. Things people expect. To avoid making terrible mistakes.” She touched her temple, feigning a headache. “Was there… someone specific? Someone who might have… displeased me greatly?”

The maid swallowed hard. “There… there is Lady Sophia Bellweather, my Lady. She is… companion to Lady Marguerite. She arrived a few months ago.” Elara’s voice dropped even lower. “The Prince… His Highness… he spoke with her once. At the last banquet. You were… displeased.”

*Displeased.* Vivian recalled the scene from the novel: Vivian publicly humiliating Sophia for daring to speak to Alexander, spilling wine on her gown, accusing her of impropriety. It was one of her opening moves, cementing her reputation as petty and cruel. Had it already happened? *Before* her transmigration? The timeline was fuzzy.

“Did I… do something to her? This Sophia?” Vivian held her breath.

Elara nodded mutely, her eyes wide with apprehension. “You… you said she was clumsy. At the banquet. When the wine… spilled.” She wouldn’t meet Vivian’s gaze. The implication was clear: Vivian had orchestrated the ‘accident’.

A wave of shame, alien yet sharp, washed over Vivian. This body, this face, this title – they came pre-stained with cruelty she hadn't committed, yet was now responsible for. The path to ruin wasn't just ahead; she was already walking it. *I inherited her sins along with her face.*

“I see,” Vivian repeated, the words tasting like ash. “Thank you, Elara. Your honesty… helps.” She turned, the sterile beauty of the garden now feeling suffocating. “Let’s go back. I think… I think I need to see the library.” Knowledge was power. If she couldn't escape this world, she needed to understand its rules beyond the fragmented novel plot and Elara’s fearful whispers.

The walk back felt longer. Servants continued their deferential scurrying, but Vivian now saw the wariness in their eyes not just as fear of rank, but fear of *her* specifically. Of Lady Vivian Ashworth, the vindictive heiress. She saw a group of finely dressed young women whispering near a tapestry; they fell silent as she approached, offering stiff curtsies and avoiding her violet gaze. One, a redhead with sharp features, offered a sycophantic smile that didn’t reach her eyes. *Hangers-on,* Vivian realized, *drawn to the villainess’s power or fearing her wrath.* None felt like potential allies.

The library was a vast, echoing chamber, smelling of dust, parchment, and beeswax. Tall windows offered grey light, illuminating towering shelves crammed with leather-bound tomes. A massive oak table dominated the center. An elderly man with a wispy white beard and spectacles perched on his nose looked up from a ledger, surprise registering on his face.

“Lady Vivian?” He stood, offering a respectful, if slightly bewildered, bow. Master Fenwick, the castle librarian, according to her borrowed memories. A man who valued his books far more than courtly intrigue. “An unexpected… pleasure. How may I assist you?”

“Master Fenwick,” Vivian inclined her head, trying to project an air of scholarly curiosity rather than panicked desperation. “My… accident. My memory is… unreliable. I find myself with gaps in my understanding of our history, our laws, even our own House.” She gestured vaguely at the shelves. “I seek foundational knowledge. Histories of Aethelgard. Treatises on noble lineage and protocol. The codified laws of the realm.” She needed context, structure. How did power *really* work here? What were the actual consequences for a noblewoman’s actions, beyond the novel’s plot-driven punishments?

Fenwick’s eyes lit up with genuine interest. “Ah! A commendable pursuit, my Lady. Clarity is often found in the wisdom of the past, especially after such a… jolt to the system.” He bustled towards a section of shelves. “Let me see… For the history of the kingdom, Bancroft’s ‘Annals of Aethelgard’ is comprehensive, though dense. For lineage and heraldry, ‘The Peerage of the Realm’ by Lord Ellsworth is indispensable. And for the laws…” He pulled down a thick, imposing volume bound in dark leather. “…the ‘Codex Justicus’. The definitive compilation, though it requires a patient mind.”

Vivian accepted the hefty books Fenwick piled onto the table. They felt like shields, weapons, lifelines. “Thank you, Master Fenwick. I shall endeavor to be patient.” She settled into a high-backed chair near a window, the weak light falling across the pages of Bancroft’s Annals. She ignored the detailed accounts of ancient battles and dynastic shifts, flipping instead towards more recent history – the reign of the current King, Alexander’s father. She scanned for mentions of the Duke of Blackwood, her ‘father’. Mentions were frequent, painting a picture of a powerful, influential, and notoriously ruthless lord. A man whose daughter’s engagement to the Crown Prince made perfect political sense. *No wonder Thomas is so invested,* she thought grimly. *Our family’s power hinges on this match.*

She moved to the Peerage, finding the Ashworth entry. Lineage stretching back centuries, alliances forged through marriage and war, lands vast and strategically important. And her own entry: *Lady Vivian Ashworth, b. [Date], Engaged to H.R.H. Crown Prince Alexander.* A simple line holding the weight of her destiny. Then, almost as an afterthought: *Sophia Bellweather, d. of the late Baron Bellweather of Willow Creek. Companion to Lady Marguerite Thorne.* The disparity was stark. Sophia wasn’t just lower-born; she was practically insignificant in the eyes of the noble registry. *Except to the Prince. And to the plot.*

She was deep into the dense legalese of the Codex Justicus, trying to decipher the actual penalties for slander or assault between nobles, when a ripple of movement near the library door caught her attention. She looked up.

Two figures stood framed in the doorway. One was instantly recognizable: Prince Alexander. He was taller than she’d imagined from the novel’s descriptions, his build lean but powerful beneath tailored clothing of deep blue and silver. Sunlight, breaking momentarily through the clouds, caught strands of his golden hair, making it seem like a crown itself. His face was classically handsome – strong jaw, high cheekbones – but it was the expression that struck Vivian. Not the cold arrogance she’d expected, but a watchful intensity. His eyes, a clear, piercing blue, swept the room with an unnerving focus before landing on her. There was no warmth there, only cool assessment. And something else… a flicker of wary distaste, quickly masked by perfect princely composure. *He knows what I am. Or what I’m supposed to be.*

Beside him stood Sophia Bellweather. She was smaller, softer, dressed in a simple but clean gown of dove grey, her honey-blonde hair braided neatly. Her eyes, wide and the color of warm hazel, held an expression of gentle concern that seemed utterly genuine. She carried a small stack of books. As Alexander stepped into the library, Sophia followed, her gaze flitting nervously towards Vivian before fixing respectfully on the floor.

Vivian’s heart hammered against her ribs. *The protagonists. Together. Already.* Her borrowed memories supplied no context for this specific encounter. Was this a regular occurrence? A terrible coincidence?

Alexander approached the table, his stride unhurried, regal. “Lady Vivian,” he acknowledged, his voice deep and resonant, perfectly polite but devoid of any inflection that could be mistaken for warmth. “I was informed of your… accident. I trust you are recovering?” His blue eyes held hers, searching. For what? Signs of the scheming harpy? Or cracks in her amnesiac facade?

Vivian rose, forcing her body into the graceful curtsy Elara had drilled into her earlier. “Your Highness,” she murmured, keeping her gaze lowered for a beat longer than strictly necessary, buying time to compose herself. “Your concern is appreciated. I am… managing. My memory remains elusive, but I find solace in study.” She gestured towards the open Codex. The words felt stiff, alien in her mouth. The original Vivian would have simpered, flattered, demanded his attention.

Alexander’s gaze flickered to the heavy legal tome, a faint crease appearing between his brows. “The Codex Justicus? An unusual choice for recuperative reading, Lady Vivian.” There was a subtle challenge in his tone, a hint of suspicion.

Before Vivian could formulate a response that wasn’t utterly inane, Sophia stepped forward slightly, her voice soft as down. “Perhaps Lady Vivian seeks clarity, Your Highness? After such a shock, the solidity of law might feel… grounding.” She offered Vivian a timid, sympathetic smile. “I often find comfort in books myself.”

Vivian stared at her. The heroine. Offering her, the villainess, understanding. In the novel, Vivian would have sneered, made a cutting remark about low-born girls pretending to intellect. But looking at Sophia’s open, guileless face, Vivian felt only a confusing surge of guilt and a profound sense of wrongness. *She’s just being kind. And I’m supposed to destroy her.*

Alexander’s expression remained unreadable, but his attention shifted fractionally to Sophia, a softening around his eyes that Vivian hadn’t seen directed at her. It was infinitesimal, but it screamed volumes. “Indeed, Lady Sophia,” he said, his tone noticeably gentler. “Wisdom can be a balm.” He turned back to Vivian, the cool mask firmly back in place. “We shall leave you to your studies, Lady Vivian. I trust we will speak more… formally… tomorrow.” It wasn’t a request. It was a reminder of the betrothal discussions looming over her.

He gave a curt nod and turned, Sophia falling into step beside him after offering Vivian another quick, nervous curtsy. Vivian watched them go, the Prince’s broad shoulders blocking the light from the door for a moment, Sophia’s smaller figure almost disappearing beside him. The image was jarring – the powerful prince and the gentle companion. And the villainess, alone with her law books and her dread.

As they disappeared down the corridor, Vivian sank back into her chair, her legs trembling. The encounter had been brief, but devastating. Alexander’s cold assessment confirmed her worst fears: her reputation preceded her, and he despised the woman he was bound to. Sophia’s kindness felt like a reproach, highlighting the ugliness of the role she was trapped in. And their easy proximity – Sophia fetching books for him? – hinted at a connection already forming, despite the novel’s timeline suggesting it started later.

Tomorrow.* The word echoed in the silent library. Thomas’s expectations, Alexander’s cold scrutiny, Sophia’s perilous presence, her own precarious amnesia act – it all converged on tomorrow. Playing the villain was suicide. But failing to play it convincingly might trigger Thomas’s intervention or Alexander’s immediate rejection, both potentially disastrous.

She looked down at the Codex Justicus, the dense text blurring before her eyes. The dry legalese offered no solutions to her human dilemma. She needed more than laws. She needed leverage. She needed to understand the *real* dynamics at play, the secrets beneath the surface. Thomas’s cryptic warning, the original Vivian’s schemes, Alexander’s wary intensity – they hinted at layers the novel hadn't shown.

A  spark ignited amidst the dread. *Investigate.* Not just the world, but her own life. What had the original Vivian *really* been doing? What schemes were already in motion? What secrets did Blackwood Castle hold? Knowledge wasn't just power; it might be her only weapon against fate.

Pushing the heavy legal tome aside, Vivian reached for Bancroft’s Annals again. But this time, she wasn't looking for history. She was looking for anomalies. For mentions of her family that felt off. For events around the time of Sophia’s arrival. For anything that felt like a loose thread she could pull.

The afternoon light faded, painting the library in long shadows. Vivian Ashworth, the transmigrated soul in the villainess’s skin, hunched over ancient pages, no longer just a passive victim of the plot. The role of the villain had been thrust upon her, but perhaps, just perhaps, she could use its expected ruthlessness for a different purpose: uncovering the truth. The performance had begun, but beneath the surface, the investigation was underway. Her survival depended on playing the part while dismantling the script from within. The weight of the villain’s role was crushing, but within it, she was starting to find the sharp edges she could use as tools.