The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 102

Beatrice was woken by the clatter of curtains being thrown open.

"Up," came her mother’s clipped voice. "You have less than two hours. The estate is hosting a tea gathering. Try not to look like you’ve been dead for a week."

Beatrice blinked against the light, still tangled in bedsheets, heart pounding from dreams she couldn’t remember. Ethel stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, already dressed in a deep burgundy gown with stiff lace along the collar.

"You’re lucky I told them you’d been ill. They think you’re recovering. Use it. Look delicate and fragile. Not haunted."

She didn’t argue.

The bath was cold. The gown chosen for her was pink; the one Ethel insisted made her look "softer". Lily wasn’t here. The maids in this house didn’t linger or speak so she dressed in silence.

By noon, Beatrice was seated in the rose salon, a porcelain teacup balanced on her palm, surrounded by a half-moon of women wearing pastels and thin smiles. Ethel sat beside her, glowing. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

"Of course, she’s still in mourning," her mother said sweetly. "But the wedding must go on. The court can’t pause forever."

There were murmurs of agreement. One lady leaned forward.

"And how are the preparations, my dear?"

"Coming along," Beatrice said, with a smile she didn’t feel.

Ethel laughed softly. "She’s shy now, but you should have seen the way she held herself in court. A future queen through and through."

More nods and smiles. Someone mentioned embroidery. Someone else brought up flower shipments from across the border.

"A shame about House Lockhart. Tragic, but necessary."

"Treason is treason," another agreed. "They were lucky the crown allowed a clean death."

Her hand shook.

"If you’ll excuse me," she said suddenly, setting the cup down and rising to her feet.

Ethel opened her mouth, likely to scold, but Beatrice didn’t give her the chance. She slipped out the side hall, walked quickly down the narrow corridor, and out toward the stables.

The air smelled like hay and dust and something familiar. She found herself drawn again to the white mare. The same stall. The same morning light filtering through the beams above.

She reached for the gate.

Then something flashed.

She was on the horse’s back. Riding, but not too well. She was laughing. And below her was Thomas. One hand on the reins, the other steadying her ankle in the stirrup. He was looking up at her like she was the whole sky.

Her breath caught.

Then the sound of hurried steps pulled her back.

"My lady!"

Beatrice turned, disoriented.

"A letter from the palace. From His Highness."

The maid handed over the sealed envelope with a bow. Beatrice took it slowly, her hands still trembling from the memory.

She broke the wax seal.

Dearest Beatrice,

I trust this letter finds you resting, though I know you too well to believe you’re actually resting. You’re probably pacing, or sulking. Or turning over something dramatic in your head.

The court misses you. I miss you. Lila is upset that you left without a proper goodbye, but I promised to scold you in person when I arrive.

Yes, I’m coming. Three days from now, so don’t run.

With all my thoughts, Francois.

Beatrice smiled.

A real one, and it surprised her.

She dismissed the maid and wandered out to the fields behind the stables. The wind was soft, curling around her like a secret. Then she reached the stream, and the rocks called to her.

She was still in her tea gown, hem brushing against the grass, but she didn’t care.

She stepped onto the first stone, and something immediately snapped. Not of twig, but of thought.

Then all at once, memories rushed in.

Every one of them.

The moment she woke in the book. The first time she met Francois. The garden party, the assassination attempt. The kisses, the lies, the whole of court. The letter, and the execution.

It all came back. Fast, sharp, and unforgiving.

Beatrice gasped. Then her foot slipped, and she fell.

**********

The cold hit first.

Not the sharp chill of the stream, but the deep, bone-heavy cold of stone floors and open windows. Her skin felt too soft. Her lungs pulled in air that smelled of lavender and firewood.

She blinked once, then again.

The ceiling above her swam into focus. She tried to sit up, but her body felt wrong. The ache in her head pulsed steadily behind her eyes. She groaned softly, pressing a hand to her temple.

Then the door flung open.

"You’re awake."

The voice was cold, laced with fury barely held in check.

Beatrice turned her head and found Magnus. He wore a dark military coat, stiff with brass buttons. His silver hair was combed severely back, jaw tight enough to crack stone.

She blinked up at him, confused.

No bruises on his cheek from the last council fight. No tension in his shoulders from pacing her chambers for days. No exhaustion in his face.

He look untouched.

Her fingers curled against the bedsheets.

"Who the hell made you cry?" Magnus asked, stepping forward.

Cry?

She realized, dimly, her cheeks were wet. She’d been crying in her sleep. From the fall? From the memories?

From everything.

"Magnus," she said slowly, hoarsely. "What happened?"

He frowned. "You don’t remember?"

"Tell me." She croaked out.

"The household said you collapsed yesterday. The physician thinks it was nerves. Maybe the palace selection overwhelmed you more than you let on."

Her heart nearly stopped.

Palace selection.

Palace selection?!

The same words...

Realization crept in like rot beneath skin.

Her gaze darted toward the room’s mirror. And when she saw her reflection, perfect and smooth and untouched by the months that had just passed, Beatrice nearly choked on her breath.

No.

No! Not again!

It was too soon. Too soon to be here, too soon to start over.

But that’s what this was, wasn’t it?

She swallowed. Her fingers gripped the edge of the sheets like a lifeline.

"Magnus," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Where’s mother?"

His eyes narrowed. "Still ordering the seamstresses to fit you into something scandalous for the selection. She thinks lace equals diplomacy."

Beatrice sat still, silent.

The palace selection hadn’t happened yet.

Which meant...

The Lockharts were alive, and Francois don’t know her.

Her hands started to shake.

"Beatrice," Magnus said slowly, stepping closer. "Are you with me?"

"I think I need a moment," she said.

"I’ll tell them not to bother you until dinner. But if you pass out again, I’m chaining a physician to your bedside."

She nodded numbly.

He left with a slam of the door and silence returned.

Beatrice sat frozen for several long minutes. Then with trembling limbs, she pushed herself to the edge of the bed. Her feet touched polished floors.

She stood, crossed the room, and looked again at her reflection.

It was still her, but not her. Not the girl who survived an execution. Not the girl who had tried, failed, loved, lost, and clawed her way toward redemption.

The door opened again as a maid peeked in.

"My lady?" she said softly. "I’m glad you’re awake. Shall I draw your bath?"

Beatrice didn’t answer for a moment. Then slowly, she turned.

"Yes," she said. "Have you seen my cat?"

The maid looked at her, confused. "C-cat, my lady?"

Beatrice shook her head slowly, the ghost of a smile flickering across her lips.

"Never mind," she said. "Forget I asked."

The girl hesitated before ducking into a quick curtsy. "Right away, my lady."

Beatrice watched her disappear into the side door, listened to the faint sound of water being drawn, the clink of porcelain and copper behind the walls. She gripped the edge of the vanity to steady herself.

So it was real.

She’d gone back.

Her eyes trailed down to her reflection’s hands. Steady, smooth, and unscarred by the consequences of the life she had already lived once. She turned them over slowly, like a stranger might, trying to see something buried in the lines.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she remembered it all.

That she still felt the guilt like a bruise in her ribs. That she still saw Johanna screaming as they dragged her away. That she could still hear the bells.

They were all reset and rewritten. Clean slates on pages Beatrice had already memorized.

She stared into her reflection’s eyes, not blinking.

"I’m not doing this the same way," she whispered.

The bath was drawn. She bathed quickly, letting the steam and silence pull her back into motion. The maid helped lace her into a pale lilac gown with matching gloves, all ordered by Ethel the day before for the selection week. The color made her look soft and docile.

But she didn’t feel either of those things.

After dressing, she walked the corridors of the estate like a stranger wearing someone else’s bones. She remembered these halls, and remembered which windows creaked and which corners caught the morning light.

She found her way to the music room. She touched the piano keys lightly to feel something real beneath her fingers.

The memory of Francois brushing his hand against hers during a palace rehearsal stirred, and she ripped her hand away from the keys like they burned.

The door creaked open. A maid stepped in, eyes downcast.

"Lady Ethel wishes to remind you your final fitting is at sunset. She says to wear the silver heels."

Beatrice nodded without turning. "Tell her I’ll be there."

The maid hesitated. "And... the carriage to the palace leaves at dawn."

Her eyes closed.

Of course it does.

She gave a short nod, and the maid vanished. After the door clicked shut, Beatrice pressed her fingers to her temples and exhaled slowly.

She has one night before the story restart completely. Before the court tilted its gaze toward her, and began again the slow, inevitable push towards ruin.

She rose to her feet. She needed answers, not just memories.

Beatrice moved quickly, skirts lifted above her ankles, careful not to be seen.

The sky outside was turning gold. The white mare was in her stall again, pawing the straw gently.

Beatrice approached, slower this time. She didn’t reach out immediately.

She waited. And like before, something flicker.

Thomas smiled. His rough hands brushing the reins. Her laughter echoing through the quiet hill behind the stables.

This time, the memory lingered longer. She could hear his voice.

"You’re not made for cages," he was saying. "No matter how gold the bars are."