I didn't sleep.
How could I? Somewhere in this castle, someone was measuring out my life in teaspoons of poison. The Head Maid wanted evidence destroyed. My husband noticed my voice changed but didn't care enough to ask why.
And somewhere, in a novel I'd read on my phone while eating instant noodles, Page 47 was getting closer.
I spent the night going through Elena's things.
Not out of nostalgia. Out of survival. If I was going to die in fifty-nine days, I wanted to know why. The original novel said she was a foolish, petty woman who died of illness. Convenient. Clean. The kind of death that made readers say "Finally" and scroll to the good part.
But novels lie.
I was learning that quickly.
---
The wardrobe was massive. Dark wood, carved with vines and thorns—a Verwood family piece, probably older than the castle's east wing. Inside hung dozens of gowns Elena had never worn. Silk. Velvet. Jewel tones that would have looked stunning against her pale skin and dark hair.
She'd worn none of them.
Elena's memories told me why. She'd ordered them in the first year of marriage, back when she still believed she could impress him. Back when she thought if she just looked beautiful enough, graceful enough, good enough, he would finally see her.
He never did.
The gowns hung untouched. A museum of hope she'd abandoned.
I ran my fingers along the fabric. Silk rustled. Velvet whispered. And at the very back, shoved behind a winter cloak so heavy it could have stopped a blade, my fingers hit something stiff.
Paper.
I pulled it out.
A letter. Folded. Unsealed. The paper was cheap—not the thick, embossed stationery Elena used for her diary. This was the kind of paper you bought in a market stall. Anonymous. Untraceable.
I unfolded it.
And stopped breathing.
---
The handwriting was Elena's.
Sharp. Slanted. Pressing too hard into the page. The same handwriting I'd seen in her diary. The same handwriting I'd used myself when I wrote Day 1 last night.
But I didn't remember writing this.
And reading it made my blood run cold.
C—
The Northern Pass patrols rotate every third Tuesday. Commander Thorne drinks at the Boar's Head Inn on those nights. The eastern watchtower is unmanned between the second and third bell.
The Duke keeps the troop schedules in his private study. Third drawer. False bottom. I've seen him open it.
Burn this after reading.
—V
I read it three times.
Then a fourth.
Troop schedules. Patrol rotations. Unmanned watchtowers.
This wasn't a love letter. This wasn't a diary entry from a lonely wife.
This was a military intelligence report.
And it was written in Elena's hand.
---
I sat on the edge of the bed, the letter trembling in my fingers.
Elena Verwood—the foolish wife, the screaming villainess, the woman readers called "annoying" and "a waste of pages"—was a spy.
No. That wasn't quite right.
I searched her memories. Dug through the fog of emotions and half-remembered arguments. There was no secret meeting in a tavern. No whispered codes. No payment received in dark alleys.
Elena didn't know she was a spy.
But someone had used her handwriting. Someone had access to her rooms, her pens, her paper. Someone had watched the Duke through her eyes and written down what she saw.
And signed it with a single initial.
V.
Who was V?
And why did they want the Northern Pass vulnerable?
---
A knock at the door made me jump.
I shoved the letter back into the cloak, closed the wardrobe, and smoothed my expression just as the door opened.
Mila slipped inside, carrying a tray.
Today's tea.
She set it down on the bedside table and met my eyes for the first time since I'd arrived. Her gaze was still wary. Still braced for impact. But there was something else there now. A question.
"I brought it before the Head Maid woke," she whispered. "No one saw me."
I crossed to the tray. The teacup was identical to yesterday's—delicate porcelain, painted with tiny blue flowers. Steam curled from the surface. Chamomile. Sweetened.
Just like yesterday.
"Do you have a plant?" I asked.
Mila blinked. "Your Grace?"
"A plant. Or a vase of flowers. Something I can pour this into without anyone noticing."
Understanding dawned on her face. She glanced at the dying fern near the window—the one I'd used yesterday. Its leaves had already begun to yellow.
"I'll bring a fresh one tomorrow," she said. "A big one."
I almost smiled. Almost.
"Thank you, Mila."
She hesitated at the door. "Your Grace... may I ask something?"
I nodded.
"Why are you different?"
The question hung in the air. I could have lied. I could have made something up about reflection, about regret, about deciding to change.
But Mila had brought me tea she wasn't supposed to bring. She'd warned me about the Head Maid. She was the only person in this castle who looked at me and saw a person instead of a threat.
"I don't know," I said. Which was the truth. "I woke up yesterday and everything felt... wrong. Like I'd been asleep for two years and just opened my eyes."
Mila was quiet for a long moment.
Then she said, very softly: "I'm glad you woke up, Your Grace."
She left before I could respond.
---
I poured the tea into the dying fern. It didn't even have the dignity to wilt dramatically. It just sat there, yellow and sad, soaking up poison like it was rainwater.
Then I went to find the only person who might know who "V" was.
---
Sir Aldric Kael was in the training yard.
I knew him from Elena's memories. Not well—she'd never paid attention to the knights. They were furniture to her. Background characters in the story of her suffering.
But I remembered him from the novel.
Sir Aldric Kael: Captain of the Ducal Guard. Loyal. Stoic. Dies in Chapter 52 defending the Duke from assassins. No romantic subplot. No backstory. Just a sword and a death scene.
Another footnote.
Another person the author threw away.
He was sparring with a younger knight when I approached. Steel rang against steel. His movements were economical—no flourishes, no wasted energy. Just precision.
He noticed me immediately.
The younger knight faltered. Aldric disarmed him with a flick of his wrist and sent the sword spinning into the dirt.
"Again," he said. "And this time, don't let a spectator distract you."
The younger knight scrambled to retrieve his weapon. Aldric turned to face me.
He was taller than I expected. Broad-shouldered. Brown hair cropped short, practical. A scar bisected his left eyebrow—not mentioned in the novel. Another detail the author forgot.
"Your Grace," he said. Neutral. Guarded.
He didn't bow. I noticed that. Knights were supposed to bow.
"Sir Aldric," I said. "I need to ask you something."
His expression didn't change. "I'm training."
"This won't take long."
A pause. Then a single nod.
We walked to the edge of the yard, away from the other knights. Aldric kept a careful distance between us—not fear, exactly. More like... caution. Like I was a wild animal that might bite.
"What do you know about the Northern Pass patrols?" I asked.
His step faltered. Just slightly. Just enough.
"The patrols are military matters," he said carefully. "Not suitable conversation for—"
"For a foolish wife who screams at maids and throws teacups?"
He stopped walking. Turned to face me fully.
His eyes were brown. Warm, in a face that had forgotten how to be warm.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
The silence stretched. Somewhere behind us, steel rang against steel.
"Why do you want to know about the patrols?" he asked finally.
I weighed my options. I could lie. I could make something up. But Aldric Kael was a man who noticed micro-expressions. He'd know.
So I told him a version of the truth.
"I found something in my room. A letter. It mentioned troop rotations. Unmanned watchtowers. The Boar's Head Inn."
His face went very still.
"Who was the letter addressed to?"
"It wasn't. Just an initial. V."
The color drained from his face.
"What?" I asked. "Who is V?"
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he said, very quietly:
"Your Grace... your maiden name is Verwood now. But before you married the Duke, you were Elena Vancourt."
My heart stopped.
V.
My initial.
"Someone is writing letters in my name," I whispered. "Military intelligence. Treason. And I didn't—I never—"
I stopped.
Because Aldric was looking at me with an expression I couldn't name. Not suspicion. Not accusation.
Pity.
"Your Grace," he said slowly. "Are you certain you didn't write them?"