I sprint for the door, getting a hand on the handle before I register I'm winded. Not dying-winded. Not fluid-in-the-lungs-winded. Ran-across-a-big-room winded. The normal kind. The kind healthy twenty-five-year-olds get.
A laugh bubbles out of me. More like a cackle, but—yeah. An honest laugh.
Wow.
Health. It's been a while. How are you?
I open the door.
A man stands in the hallway. Average height, average build, with brown eyes and brown hair, holding a tray with a glass cup of water and a small dish lined with pills.
A lot of pills.
White ones, blue ones, round ones, oblong ones—at least eight, maybe ten. I blink at them a few times, my stomach slowly sinking.
"I brought your medicine, ma'am," the stranger at the door says, sounding more detached than respectful.
My stomach drops through the floor.
No. No, no, no. Absolutely no way.
The brief euphoria of having a functioning body crumbles in an instant. This body is sick too. Of course it is. Of course I can't catch a single break, not even in death, not even in whatever fever-dream afterlife this is. I get a fantastic new face and new hair and the same expiration date? You've got to be kidding me.
But if I stand here too long, it'll be suspicious. So I take the dish from the tray, tip all of the unknown drugs into my palm at once, then toss them to the back of my throat and chase them with the water in a smooth movement, too familiar with the program.
It's depressing, but at least I'm not on my death bed yet. Even a single extra day of health is a blessing, right?
Awkward.
The man stares at me and blinks twice.
Then his mouth opens. Closes. Finally, he opens it again and says, "I'll… leave you to your morning, then?"
I nod, not sure how else to respond, still stuck on circling the idea this body's also ill. And yet it feels so healthy.
The man's eyes flash with surprise, eyebrows jerking up the littlest bit, before his face smooths out again. It doesn't take a rocket scientist (which I'm not) to realize I'm not acting as he expected.
He turns, but I grab his shoulder before he makes it a full step.
He flinches—no, scratch that. The man recoils, like my hand's made of raw electricity. Then he squares his shoulders, sucks in a deep breath, and pivots back to face me, still looking neutral and professional and not like he'd reacted as if I'd caught him stealing the cookies from my jar.
"Is there something else you need, ma'am?"
Yes, actually—where am I? Who am I? Why does this room look like a wolf-themed Versailles? And who the hell did I fuck last night?
But asking would make me sound like a crazy person. Not ruling out the possibility—I certainly feel crazy at this particular point in time, because who the hell wakes up after dying in someone else's body?—but I'm not keen on being burned at the stake as a witch, either.
… which shouldn't be a possibility, I think, but considering I woke up like this? Not taking chances.
Okay. Yes. It's a bit of an overreaction to assume someone would burn me at the stake, but come on. Wouldn't you worry about it, too?
"Ma'am?"
"I seem to have…" lost my memory. Only the words won't come out. My mouth hangs open like a demented fish, no matter how hard I try to push the words out.
Almost like last night, when it felt like someone else was moving my body, except now they're preventing me from speaking.
"To have…?"
And there we go. He's staring at me like I've grown a second head.
"… run out of towels," I finish lamely.
His brow furrows. "Towels."
"More towels. Yes. I want to shower."
He hesitates, then nods and steps past me into the bedroom—oh my God, the bed's a mess. Like, sheets so tangled you can't possibly not know what happened last night.
But he doesn't even look at it, striding toward the bathroom with single-minded professionalism.
A few seconds later he gestures to a linen closet already stuffed with fluffy white towels, then to a rack by the glass-walled shower holding three more.
"Was there a particular type you needed, ma'am? We have bath sheets, hand towels, washcloths—"
Right. Because in a room this obscenely equipped, of course towels wouldn't be in short supply. Brilliant cover story, Vivienne. Really nailed it.
I'm so getting burned at the stake.
"Black ones," I blurt out, desperate to salvage my flimsy excuse. "For my makeup. Face towels. Black."
He stares at me for a second, but finally nods like the request makes some semblance of sense. "I'll let the housekeeper know. Will that be all?"
"Uh." No, but it doesn't seem like he's going to be the source of my answers. "What's your name?"
His face is still so very neutral, but his entire body goes stiff. Then he says, "My name is Wells, ma'am."
I blink, startled. "First or last?"
"Wells is my last name."
What are the odds? So is mine. But that brings me back to another important issue; what the hell is my name now?
"I lost my purse."
His head only tilts a millimeter or so, but it's enough movement for me to wonder if it's such an absurd thing to say. But then he says, "Which purse did you use last?"
… do I have more than one? Guess it makes sense, considering the room. And the wardrobe. And the servant standing in front of me. A servant. I couldn't even afford once a week housekeeping before.
"I can't remember."
He frowns a little, before giving a decisive nod. "I'll look for it."