Catherine was more complex than I thought. The nuances and differences between each life gave the impression I was dealing with three different people.


    It was the eyes that gave it away—Catherine''s eyes as she looked at Bastien weren''t that of a girl in love. She didn''t even look interested. The meeting she''d spent my second life hinting at and hounding for was anticlimactic. She didn''t give him a second look, just a nod and greeting suitable for a maid of her station.


    My first reaction was that she was lying to me, mocking me, but I pushed that aside.


    I thought back to my first life.


    I put myself in her shoes while removing my ego from the situation.


    Bastien was an option—a low-priority option at the moment. Her behavior in my second life was a direct response to my actions. She''d adapted. When I trusted Madeline, she projected the same image in my first life. She was a favored niece, spoiled and a tad haughty. She listened to me and was a friend, but there wasn''t any benefit from depending on me. There was also the risk of me approaching Madeline because of how much I trusted her and she couldn''t run the risk.


    In my second life, she showed me how troubled her life was with Madeline was because my behavior changed. I hit her, and she let me know her aunt abused her. Cathrine made me sympathize with her and worsened my guilt so I wouldn''t attack her. It wasn''t safe to stay with me, so matching with Bastien became more important. Towards the end, I also got closer to her aunt in a way that left her weary.


    Now, it was a mix of the two. I couldn''t hide all my changes from a person who spent every day with me, but they weren''t drastic changes and all she had to go off of were rumors that were, by nature, unreliable. She''d adopted a wait and see attitude towards me in this life.


    I''d have to watch her more, but I felt confident in my assessment. I also had a calmer wait and see attitude.


    I didn''t mind her duplicity. As Gideon pointed out, I needed allies, and while it didn''t go well with Rintour that didn''t mean I should give up. I''d agreed to think about it, and over the week when she visited daily to bring my meals, I watched her. The way she moved—lacking in grace. Different from when we were in the capital. I''d mimicked her then, mirrored her. But here, she followed me. She watched the way I moved. I listened to how she spoke, and it grew more refined as the days passed.


    I didn''t know who, but she was in contact with someone else in the castle.


    Adding it all together, she was always at my classes with Lady Rintour to observe me, but Catherine was also there to learn. She absorbed the lessons I found degrading and rebelled against and then got help from someone to solidify the knowledge.


    She''d also tried to teach and guide me, but I was too stubborn to notice or listen.


    I wanted to say these realizations came to me on my own, but I''d had help from Gideon. We''d spend a week making a game plan, a conversation that blindsided me because all II asked was whether he could tell the weather outside.


    I pulled a book off the shelf, scanning the title—The Founding of Sargos by T.H. Ralford.


    I moved to put it back.


    Ding. Requesting permission to access the optic nerves, scan the text, and upload the information to the brain.


    [Yes] [No]


    I clicked yes, my mind eyes fuzzing at the edges, the world dyed a blue color. My eyes swept over the bookshelf—all these words crowded in.


    I closed my eyes, dizzy from the information.


    Art and Me.


    The Life and Lies of Savon Lang


    Understanding Abstract Art


    R.M Stiens A Theory of Magic


    Flora and Fauna What to Expect in the Wraith Mountains.


    It was like having a fever but also like eating something too cold. My head felt stuffy and my thoughts sticky like wading through syrup.


    "Miss," I heard Cathrine calling. She''d always called me young lady, but now, she called me miss. I grabbed her hand as she moved to get help.


    "It''s fine," I said, forcing calm I didn''t feel into my voice. "I only had a little to eat and got dizzy." My stomach rolled, threatening to bring up what I''d eaten—a few grapes and bile. "Help me sit."


    She helped lower me to the ground. I cracked an eye, only to be met with concerned brown eyes. It wasn''t fake either. I was good at telling fake emotions. I''d learned how to identify them the hard way. That wasn''t to say Catherine wasn''t showing me this on purpose or had other motives, but two things could be true simultaneously, especially when everyone was doing their best to live.


    There was the squeak of shoes against polished stone, and I looked up to see the librarian. He was an unremarkable man, between forty, sixty, and six hundred—it was hard to tell, magic messing up how people aged, but he had gray hairs growing at his temple, and that air of a man who spent more time with books than people.


    "Is she okay?" he asked. "Would a sweet help?"


    "Aren''t you worried I''ll set your books on fire?" I asked, already feeling better. IIt was like I was rocking, a familiar sensation that I couldn''t quite place.


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    Gideon, what was that? I asked, careful to ask in my mind.


    That shouldn''t have happened and appears to be a side effect of soul damage. Please try scanning more information to see if the feeling persists.


    The librarian''s nose was in the air, looking down at me with disdain, but I didn''t find it hurtful. That was new. It wasn''t bad, but I didn''t know how to feel about it.


    "To do that, you''ll need to feel better," he said, sniffing.


    I laughed. His words weren''t convincing—there was a tremor in his voice, like I was a keg of oil, one match away from destroying everything he loved. "Please," I said, holding out my hand and making a grabbing motion.


    "You''re welcome," he said, the words forced out of his mouth in a huff. "Get checked if you''re not feeling well." He didn''t hide that he wanted me as far away as possible from his precious books.


    The cool taste of mint spread along my tongue. I cracked an eye open to see his back, feeling amazed. Was there always someone like him in the Duchy? He wore a suit, brown with a cotton shirt and clean shoes without the usual trappings of a mage. Was he an acolyte?


    I looked away, glancing at Cathrine, who crouched beside me. The worry in her eyes had receded, and she was devoting her energy to showing me she cared. She wasn''t hiding the deliberateness of her actions. Blatant eyes said the impetus was mine in this duel.


    I chewed on that, digesting it, on the cusp of understanding something important.


    People''s behavior towards me depended on my worth, how I treated them, and their goals. If they valued the first more, they could only be acquaintances and there had to be guarantees of mutual benefit. The second could be friends after getting to know each other. The last was a toss-up; if our goals aligned, then it was fine, and maybe we could be friends, but if they were ambitious and didn''t value loyalty, they could only be acquaintances held together by benefit and fear.


    All those little experiences flooded back to me, the puzzle coming together.


    When I was young, seeing how people behaved in the Duchy, I believed people followed out of respect. They served because they believed in something greater than themselves—greater than me. That—my mother''s blood tainted me, marked me as an intruder. Branded me something dirty that marred the Duke and Duchy''s honor.


    Growing up in that environment, I was sure that proving my worth, kindness, and patience would earn me the same behavior and loyalty my father received. That''s what the Duke taught me—when he walked, the people moved out of the way not out of fear, but out of gratefulness and respect. Their gazes on him were reverent.


    It wasn''t long before I realized I was wrong.


    People were kind to beggars and thieves, but not me.


    After reaching the capital, I witnessed a different way of ruling, but I didn''t understand that either. There, they measured every word and gaze.


    Only now, in my third life, did all of it culminate, and started making sense.


    Loyalty was a beautiful word, dressed in honor and duty. For some, it was a quickly shrugged-on coat to keep off the summer storm, a means of self-preservation. To others, it was an embroidered dress made from hours of painstaking work, worth everything—to be cared for and sacrificed for. To both, it was worn outside so others could see—none of those choices and actions mattered if the intended audience couldn''t see and appreciate it.


    Some people could get others to swear themselves out of love, giving their heart and home, but no one could earn everyone''s loyalty. And where there was no trust, something else took its place.


    Fear.


    The Queen Dowager and her mangy grandson were masters of fear. Artfully woven until you convinced yourself it was loyalty or you were too broken down to care.


    They, too, taught me a lesson I''d just started digesting.


    I was an outsider, an inconvenience spoken about in hushed whispers and sly glances. I was to be used and discarded.


    It was a bitter truth I''d forced myself to swallow. I glanced at my hand—it was fear that caused the heady rush when I slapped Cathrine—her fear gave me power over her. And I, who had so little control over my life, almost got drunk on it.


    It was a mistake to be the type of person who only relied on fear and force to make others obey—that was like a hollowed-out tree easily toppled during strong winds—but fear had its uses.


    I knew that when I was young, but forgot as I grew older.


    In the Duchy, the maids without noble backgrounds or protection ran when they saw me. They used to ignore me when I spoke with softness and ridicule me when I was kind. But hardening my voice and looking at them with unwavering eyes that promised retribution made them listen—made them hesitate before speaking.


    I hated how long it took me to learn this lesson.


    I hated that squirming feeling in my gut when I thought about power and how it worked... How I''d have to use it.


    I hated needing it in the first place.


    A light pulled me from my thoughts when a spell was cast on me.


    I must have sat there too long. As I looked up, three people hovered close to me. Catherine and the librarian had called a priest—one I didn''t know.


    "I''m fine," I said.


    They looked skeptical, but couldn''t find anything wrong with me.


    I waved them off, and the librarian stuffed a pocket full of sweets into my hands. They tasted sour and bitter, coming right after my revelation. I was grateful kindness found me before anything else.


    The priest, annoyed and relieved, got up with a huff. "Remember to eat frequently and avoid stress." His white tabard had no symbol, which struck me as odd. "Franklin, remember that tonight is Typhon''s going away party." He turned with a final scornful glance at me, pulling the librarian with him.


    That was a man I''d have to make fear me.


    They both walked off, talking lightly.


    "Typhon?" I asked, getting up, my brows furrowed, keeping my eyes on the floor. "Who''s that?"


    Catherine answered, reaching out to steady me. I didn''t know whether to use fear or kindness with her. "He was the chief butler for the summer residence and served the former duchess, but his contract ended and the servants plan to hold a small get-together."


    "Oh," I said, sounding like I didn''t care while my insides twisted with curiosity. Typhon, the man who, a week from now, became my personal butler, was leaving?


    It was obvious what had changed—I left the Duke''s office before meeting him this time.


    It was his choice whether to renew his contract, and I didn''t see the Duke asking him to stay on because of me. That meant it was Typhon''s choice. It was conceited to think he stayed because of me, but that was how it appeared—whether that was bad or good, I''d have to decide later.


    I''d have to meet him.


    I glanced at the book in my hand. The title didn''t cause any issues, but after opening the book, the words rushed at me like a flood.


    It wasn''t as bad as the first time, but it was uncomfortable and bordered on unbearable, but I forced myself to turn the page. It was like seasickness. The walls seemed to move while I was the only thing still. It wasn''t violent or sudden—just an endless sway that made my stomach knot and rebel.


    The problem was that the rolling sensation didn''t settle, building like waves crashing onto me faster and harder as time passed—the more information soaked my brain. Each skip on the page was like wind and water battering the ship. It only stopped when I closed the cover, clearing the tempest.


    I breathed deep and steady, and it passed faster than before, but the thought of another five hundred books sent another wave of dizziness through me.


    ***


    I snapped the hundredth book closed, banging my head against the table.


    The library''s smell helped, a light earthy smell mixed with something sweet, and every so often a tan of metal. I''d learned the scent was from the parchment and ink determined by its ingredients: gum or ferrous sulfate. You could also use charcoal, but that was less common among nobles and more favored by bookkeepers—a matter of cost.


    Thankfully, none of the parchments were animal skin. I didn''t think my stomach could handle the dry, musky odor.


    I unwrapped a mint, holding it under my nose for longer than it would take to dissolve in my mouth.


    Cathrine was about—getting and returning books as I searched for something interesting. She found it funny, the headache I got as I skimmed through books. She thought I was forcing myself while trying to compete with Selena.


    ''you don''t have to force yourself, miss, if learning isn''t for you.''


    I''d feel offended if she hadn''t offered the perfect excuse for my behavior in the library.


    I was preparing myself for the ordeal of skimming another book when a sound caught my attention.


    There was the slow approach of footsteps, not the distinct click of Catherine''s heels, but a duller, heavier thud. I glanced over, seeing polished loafers.


    It was the librarian, Franklin. I looked up as he pulled out the chair opposite me—the wooden legs scraping against the stone floor with a deliberate, slow drag. He sat, his hand reaching for a book, stroking its cover before folding his hands atop the table, a finger drumming against the wood before stilling.


    I froze under his gaze. It was sharp and expectant, trailing over the scattered books between us—some open, others barely touched, all appearing abandoned in a haphazard rush—before settling on me.


    I reached for a book, opened it, and raised an eyebrow at him.


    Slow, steady, purposeful—don''t show your nerves.