The sharp scent of alcohol and antiseptic coaxed Dana's eyes open, if only barely. This slight flutter of consciousness sent a ripple of excitement through her attendants. The aide—who had spent the entire morning pressing Dana's head with herb-soaked cloths and tonics that would have earned the household doctor's and nurse's disapproval—let out a joyful yelp at seeing movement from the girl she'd nursed since childhood, a girl they'd believed lost to death just days ago.
Her eyes blinked, and the aide was back, this time the Doctor with her. The doctor's voice rippled like words heard underwater as he scolded the aide, gesturing at the herbs and tonics. The aide remained defiant, pointing to Dana. When the doctor looked at her, the hardness in his face faltered.
Another blink transported her to Rotterdam. The Engineer—similar yet different—stared down at her, his words harsh. "Look at the state of you. You want to kill yourself?" he demanded. "How long will this go on?" He paced the room, shaking his head. Dana felt oddly accustomed to this.
He stopped abruptly. "I should have stopped this a long time ago. I should have. When you got those piercings—those stupid piercings—you were only seven. God, I should have stopped you then!" His shouting made his wife flinch as she gripped his shoulders, but his finger remained pointed at Dana. "Instead, I did nothing. 'It's fun, she's just a child.' Then you dyed your hair black at nine—I should have made you wash it out..."
He paused, his head slumping as if fighting something rising within him. When he spoke again, his words were strained, barely escaping through his anger. "But by then, you'd learned to lie. 'I'm tired of Mom's blonde hair that I inherited,' you said. 'I want to look like you.' Part of me doubted you, but you were nine, my only child then... and I wanted to believe you... so I did. Then came the loud music and attitude, but you were fourteen, and everyone's distasteful at fourteen... then the drugs and alcohol... what then... what then..."
He turned away, only to spin back as she blinked again. "See how you hurt your mother! See the pain you've caused her!" Now it was the Doctor speaking, pointing at his sobbing wife. The aide looked away in silence. Though he gestured toward his wife, the Doctor's perfect face bore its own deep, tired sadness.
Dana's vision blurred, the Doctor and Engineer merging into one wavering figure. Another blink took her to Rotterdam, where the Engineer—her father—stood by her bed. Yet somehow her waking self felt a parallel presence beside her.
The Engineer pulled out his wallet, placing several notes on the bedside stand. "For food and water," he said quietly. "When you're discharged, I'll arrange a ride home... if you want. Your mother and I have taken time off work. We'll make dinner. Be there... if you want."
He stepped back three paces, as if seeking a better view of what his daughter had become—this disfigured apparition of his little girl. His face had been hard for so long that memories of his smiles and playfulness felt distant, possibly mere distortions of cocaine-induced psychosis. They might never have been real at all.
Two tears tracked down his face—the Engineer's, the Doctor's—as if the last well of love he held for her had cracked from yet another angle, leaving almost nothing behind. The tiny pool that remained, she thought, could perhaps be salvaged, mended. It could never be what it was, but what remained might be enough if she worked hard enough.
Her hand stretched out, reaching for that ideal of change, but the tragedy of her character was that such hopes were too heavy to bear. Their circumstances had made them ill-matched. That outstretched hand—which in another light might have been a little girl reaching for her father—instead grabbed the notes he'd left for her care.
She took care of herself that night. She never made it home for dinner.
She blinked—the Engineer left the room, his wife trailing behind. Another blink, and it was the Doctor again. In that moment, she understood: the flaw in their perfection had been her.
Then darkness took her.
Her eyes were pried open once more by that same antiseptic smell but this time something else, something light and fresh made her fully awake. Drawing on the strength of a long sleep, she pushed herself up to sitting. Sage burned nearby, its smoke curling past bouquets of flowers that crowned a long, flat woven basket on the windowsill. Above, stainless steel pendants dangled, catching the morning light and scattering colored rays across the room.
She drew a deep breath. A green screen flashed before her—another Axis message—but she swiped it away before it could play. She'd already grasped the mission statement: deploy to a world on the brink, save it, return, try not to die in the process. Got it. Though the Axis system urged her to review information about her borrowed body, she dismissed that too. Something told her this girl had lived a life too familiar to her own.
The aide returned—a plump woman, fair-skinned and surprisingly youthful in appearance. But Dana could tell, aided by the screen that materialized beside the woman, that she was middle-aged—thirty, ancient by this world's standards. The display revealed more: she'd never consumed ash, whatever that was, and had always cared for the girl in this bed.
Dana smiled at her. It seemed the polite thing to do.
The aide apologized for the overwhelming array of flowers, herbs, and smoky incense. As she opened the window, a fresh breeze rushed in with unexpected force, carrying the scent of grass and last night's dew, mixing with the existing fragrances.
"Don't apologize," Dana told her. The alcohol and antiseptic might have stirred her, but it was the sweetness of the flowers that truly brought her back to life. The scene was perfect. She smiled again. It seemed the polite thing to do.
Now, where the hell are those guys, she wondered.
The corridors of the estate were bustling with an energy that Jennersen couldn't quite place. Footmen hurried with silver trays tucked beneath their arms, chambermaids hustled two at a time through side passages carrying linens of deep burgundy and gold, cooks called out in the distance for fresh herbs and spices. On every surface stood some kind of ornament: vases arranged just so, wreaths of crisp foliage, and small figurines that had been dusted to perfection. Everything seemed poised on the edge of some grand occasion. Yet no one dared explain it—at least not to her.
Normally, people would announce an event. There would be calling cards, whispered hints in the servants' halls, overheard discussions of guest lists or menus. But this time, silence reigned. She didn't know if this surge of activity was meant for her, or for someone else of importance arriving soon. Only that something was underway. It made her uneasy.
Dana/Jennersen moved through the house with a careful gait, her posture rigid and face set into a scowl. She could feel it—the way everyone, from the footmen to the higher aides, darted their eyes away the moment they caught her gaze. It might have been the manner she inherited from Jennersen, whose body she now inhabited: Dana herself had never been warm or reassuring so this was not exactly alien to her. Or perhaps it was the reputation attached to Jennersen's name itself, something old and rotten still lingering around her. In any case, the sourness in her expression seemed to freeze questions in the throats of those who might otherwise have offered hints.
She needed answers, but she dared not simply demand them. There was something about this place, this manse, that put her on guard. She sensed invisible lines of allegiance, quiet rivalries and old scandals that stirred beneath the polished floors. Without knowing who she could trust, Jennersen said nothing direct. Instead, she observed, hoping a clue would surface. She paused before a cluster of footmen whispering in the corner, pretending to admire a brass candelabra. She listened near a window as two maids arranged flowers, hoping for a mention of a guest's name or a date. But they were too cautious, their conversations truncated whenever she approached.
Her patience wore thin. She needed an insider, someone overlooked and talkative when coaxed gently enough. As she wandered deeper into the servants' quarters—less grand, more cramped—she overheard jeering voices. Rounding the corner, she found several maids and junior aides gathered around a frail figure. A young servant, skin pale as ash and too thin for the rich velvets of the household livery, so an Unridden, stood hunched beneath their mocking words. They accused her of being too frail, too delicate. Some said her recent sickness had made her useless. They sneered at her absence, jeered at what they called her "weakness," and added that if she couldn't handle the workload now, she'd never manage whatever was coming next.
Jennersen's brow furrowed. Sick and weak? She thought of the statue in the main hall that she'd seen earlier that morning—a depiction of the sick and gaunt, one eyed man that all of Sveethlad seemed to rever being held by a party of healers. Which was in contrast to the image as it appeared in the rest of the city, which was the sick man, embracing a group of seemingly healthy people.
What did this household value more: sickness or health? Clearly, these servants had chosen their stance: if you showed weakness, you were fair game.
Impulsively, Jennersen stepped in. She did not raise her voice, but her presence alone—the stiff posture, the faintly menacing downturn of her lips—scattered the tormentors. They cast nervous, sidelong glances at her. She did not have to say much, only a short, cutting rebuke: "Is there no better work for you than belittling your own?" and they retreated, muttering strange parting remarks. Something about "good luck" to the girl. There was an odd ring to their tone, as if they all knew something Jennersen did not.
Now alone, the servant tried to straighten her torn sleeve and smooth her rumpled apron. She kept her eyes down, her body taut, as though expecting a trap. Jennersen realized that to get her cooperation, she'd have to show kindness. "Come," she said gently. "Your clothes… they're frayed. Let's see what can be done."
The servant's shoulders tensed, but she followed as Jennersen led her through winding hallways and up a narrow service stair into one of the smaller guest rooms. There, in the stillness, Jennersen produced a small sewing kit she had found in a drawer. Her fingers, once accustomed to coarse street fabrics and half-lit back alleys where she had stitched thrifted garments into outlandish costumes, proved deft even now. She worked the needle and thread with surprising skill, mending the tears with quick, firm stitches.
The servant girl watched, eyes wide, confusion etched into her features. Jennersen could sense her discomfort. Why the kindness? Why the help? This was not what the old Jennersen was known for. In the corner of her vision, a familiar interface flickered—her axis screen, something that allowed her to perceive underlying data. She glanced at the girl's indicators. Fear. Distrust. Terror, even. Was the girl more frightened of Jennersen than she had been of the bullies?
Jennersen wanted to ask why, but feared revealing herself too soon. So she just kept sewing and speaking softly. "They should not have spoken to you that way," she said. "It's not right. You've done nothing wrong."
At these words, the girl flinched, as though kindness itself was a blow. Jennersen did not understand. Dana's nature, was neither saintly nor monstrous—just distant. The old Jennersen, on the other hand, was a name and face in this world that came with a reputation. If only she knew more about what that entailed. If only she knew what those mocking servants had meant by "good luck."
She finished stitching and looked up, meeting the servant's uneasy gaze. And then it hit her. The axis screen flickered with sudden, newly revealed information: the old Jennersen—this body's original owner—had been cruel, vindictive, known for tormenting those beneath her station. There had been scandals, rumors, even a tale of a relationship with an aide that ended tragically in the aide's death. A suicide, clouded by whispers that Jennersen's ruthless humiliations had driven the girl over the edge. The reputation had stuck, sour and lingering, like a foul memory haunting the halls.
Now it was clear why this newly rescued servant trembled. Jennersen's kindness must look like a trap, a step in some twisted game. The poor thing might think that she was about to be the next victim in one of Jennersen's well-known, cruel intrigues. How could Jennersen convince her otherwise when, outwardly, she bore the face and name of a woman infamous for exactly that?
Down the hallway, the voices of servants working continued unabated, the hum of a grand event's preparations still thrumming through the manse. Jennersen realized, bitterly, that she had only just begun to find her footing in this strange environment—and she had already stumbled.