Chapter 15: Past Life's Story

Frederick catches her walking while he's carrying a stack of paper to the Duke's office. He peers out from behind it, shocked, "My lady, Marquess Ares will only be coming at 6:30, somewhere around sunset. Was there an issue with the viscountess?"

"It's been settled accordingly. If I have the time then I'd like to rest in my room," she says, quick to switch paths and go up another staircase before Frederick can remind her that she's not allowed to sleep during the day. Inevitably, he manages to catch up to her with struggled waddling, trying not to drop the entire stack of papers in his hands.

"Alternatively—" he wheezes out, "—You could attempt your homework for your Public Speech and English class tomorrow," he breathes, still trying to make himself visible from behind the papers.

Myra sighs, mourning her failed attempt to get some shuteye before she's expected to spar with a grown man in the state that she's in. Her mind drones on about how it's probably more difficult than it seems in theory, even when she's in the body of the most skilled fighter in all of Fleurette.

Sword-fighting takes skill, something she's going to have to build up from no experience at all, even with the most seasoned body.

"Okay, but I haven't been informed what I'm required to do. You're going to have to send someone over to help me. I'll be in the library next to my work room," she says finally, turning her back to the man who still struggles to hold up the weight of the papers in his arms.

Myra's mind spirals into a round-about of thoughts, all of which ultimately lead back to the memories from her past life which she was reminded of through her dreams. For her, these messages feel much more than surface-level, as if she needs to take apart the occurrences and force the logic out of them based on her current circumstances.

Myra sits herself down at her usual place next to the window and is greeted by Margaret who enters the room not long after. She holds out a single book and only a handful of papers, much less intimidating than many of the other sights Myra's had to lay her eyes on in the past morning.

She nods her head curtly at Margaret in thanks and proceeds to distract herself by grabbing a piece of paper to scribble on. Myra writes two names 'Ara', and then 'Mari', one which Ara used when referring to her past body.

"You may leave now," Myra speaks up when she notices Margaret simply standing on the spot, looking over her shoulder to see what she's writing.

It's only at this point where she snaps out of her reverie and recalls that it's rude for her to stay, fumbling an apology out. Myra doesn't pay much heed to this, only looking up once to make sure she's gone when the door clicks shut. Myra mutters curses under her breath as she tries to wind her mind back to the real questions at hand, scribbling unliked words in hopes drawing some form of connection.

"So I was a school girl and I wrote a story," she presses her fingers against the paper. "And I was close friends with a suspicious girl called Ara whom I still trusted," Myra's voice tilts into a distasteful, almost incredulous tone.

It's difficult to think that someone of her personality could be so forgiving, or trustful despite warning signs.

Myra's not rude by nature, nor does she wish for harm on an average person, and she's sure it's a personality trait of hers that she carried over from her previous life. Still, to be so trusting feels impossible.

"Supposedly, there was a boy I liked, Soobin?" Myra pronounces and her heart skips a beat, as if she's still in love with him despite being reincarnated into a life eons different from her previous one.

"Ara knew this, for some reason, and she could tell that the story I wrote was about him, and I was going to show it to him as a method of confession. Right, that's… okay," Myra organises her thoughts, writing Soobin's name between both of theirs.

She starts doodling arrows and then labels them with relationships she can infer from her memories.

"But I don't know how that ended, or why my life ended either," Myra winces at the jarring thought of being hit by a car and her back starts to ache, like her body has full memory of her experiences which should've been foreign to her.

It's so ridiculous to believe that she's stuck in a parallel universe, burdened with painful memories that she'll continue to carry till her grave.

Myra blanks out and words flash over her mind in a blur. Ink blotches against the paper, staining it as she holds the nib of her pen hardly against the table.

'Roses bloom into you,' four words fade over her head and Myra is quick to scribble them down. Her eyes widen at the realisation of their meaning and an epiphany shakes her to the core, realising that it's the name of the story she had written.

She taps the edge of her pen against her chin in thought, lightly knocking her fist against her brain as if it will jog another life-changing understanding. From the little she knows, there was no proper villainess. From here, she starts writing details she remembers from that story of hers.

A noble daughter who married into a royal family, a name which Myra can no longer remember. She fell in love with a prince and despite losing the 'crown princess' competition, wins his heart at the end. The antagonist, by right, is the prince's fianceé, who eventually gives up at the end and steps down.

Myra furrows her eyebrows, "Who's the prince's fianceé?"

By right, there's going to be a masquerade ball or a party at most, nothing about a competition. Myra decides she needs to know more. Standing up promptly, she flings the door of the library open and spots Frederick at the door yet again, conveniently on his way to meet her. "My lady, is there something you need? I came to ensure your work was going smoothly," he explains his presence.

"I need information on the royal family," she lays out blankly. Frederick tilts his head in confusion, almost dropping the clipboard in his hand.

Myra holds the door open for him, "Come inside, I'm sure you'd know more than Margaret or my handmaidens."

Frederick bows, tempted to run away, but reluctantly shuffles into the room as per his lady's respect. Myra sits down at her seat again, folding one leg over the other as she expects Frederick to start talking, though she realises she hadn't posed a question yet.

"How does the royal family find suitors before a new emperor rises to the throne? I was," Myra's eyes dart around the room, landing on a political infographic at the other side of the room. "I was studying regional politics."

"Oftentimes, a 'crown princess' competition is hosted," Frederick answers easily, and Myra raises an eyebrow in question, her heart throbbing louder.

"It's typically a three-day long contest between several noble girls to prove their talent to the crown prince. At the end, the woman with the highest score gets to marry the prince, if he so wishes. It varies every time there's a new emperor, however, I wouldn't be able to tell you in specific."

Myra furrows her eyebrows. "And what's the upcoming festival? It's close to July but I'm not so sure what preparations I'm supposed to make according to my paperwork. Does it have anything to do with the royal family?"

"We host a massive festival at the end of every summer! It's to mark the end of the June famines and welcomes autumn for better harvests. Not long after this, we have the current Emperor's anniversary which is a nation-wide celebration as well," Frederick explains, flailing his hands through the air a little too enthusiastically.

"The Ruskin family makes a public appearance during the festival every year."

"Are we making a donation or something? What sort of preparations am I making?" she clicks the cap of a fountain pen which she picked up in her hands, drumming it against the table.

"Unfortunately, I haven't been informed of the plans for this year. We rarely make donations, so I would say that it's materials dedicated to the float. Perhaps your father has chosen to commission a more grand one to celebrate your recovery, and so you look more dashing during the parade." Myra falls into a thoughtful silence, rocking blankly.

"Will there be a masquerade ball hosted for this occasion by any chance?"

"So you've heard the rumours, my lady," Frederick pushes his glasses higher up on his nose bridge.