A voice, cold and sharp but familiar, echoed in the darkness of her mind. "Do you know what killed you?"
Delia's eyes fluttered open to a world of pain and blood. The coppery smell of blood was thick in the air, a sickening stench. She tried to lift her hand, and saw it was coated in a sticky, dark red liquid. Her own blood. Through a haze of shock, her gaze drifted past her trembling fingers to the scene just a few yards away. The carriage lay on its side like a dead animal, one wheel spinning lazily in the air. The wood was shattered, splintered into a hundred pieces. It was a complete wreck.
She blinked, and the blurry world swam into focus. A figure was looming over her, a dark shape against the gray, unforgiving sky. It was Baroness Augusta. Her stepmother stood there, perfectly unharmed, her fine clothes barely even dusty. She looked down at Delia, who was broken and bleeding on the cold, hard ground.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Augusta clicked her tongue, slowly shaking her head as if scolding a foolish child. Her expression was not one of concern or panic, but of cold observation. "It's because you trust too much, Delia. And you love too much." Augusta's voice was calm, almost informal m. "That was always your weakness. And now, it has led you to your grave."
A desperate, rattling sound escaped Delia's throat. She tried to push herself up but a searing pain shot through her body, stealing her breath. "Baroness," she whispered, her voice a fragile, broken thing. Her last shred of hope clung to this woman, her father's wife. "Please... save me."
Augusta scoffed, a short, ugly sound of pure contempt. "Save you?" she repeated, as if the idea was ridiculous. "Why would I do that?" She knelt, bringing her face closer to Delia's. Her eyes were like chips of ice, hard and merciless. "When you get to the afterlife, Delia, take some time to reflect. Think about how you lived your life, so full of pointless sentiment. Perhaps you will learn a lesson."
Then, Augusta's entire demeanor shifted in an instant. She stood up, her face transforming into a mask of frantic grief. She turned her head towards the road and began to shout, her voice filled with a convincing panic. "Help! Please, somebody help! My daughter is dying! Oh, my poor child!"
Delia watched, her mind fading, a profound and bottomless despair washing over her. The woman who was meant to be her family was leaving her to die while putting on a show for any potential witnesses. The betrayal was a wound deeper and more painful than any of her physical injuries. The last of her strength was leaving her, her vision tunneling into darkness. A single, hot tear escaped the corner of her eye and traced a clean path through the blood and grime on her cheek.
"If only..." she thought, her last conscious wish a silent scream into the void. "If only... I could go back."
Darkness consumed her completely.
Delia's eyes flew open. She gasped for air, her body jerking upright in bed. Her heart was pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird, frantic and loud in the silence of her room. Cold sweat plastered her thin nightgown to her skin, and she was trembling. Her breath came in ragged, unsteady pants as she looked around the familiar, sunlit space of her bedroom. The solid wooden furniture, the curtains swaying gently in the breeze from the open window—it was real. She was safe.
She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow down. "It's all in the past," she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse. "It was just a dream. It already happened. It's in the past."
She repeated the words like an anthem, calming the storm inside her. Her breathing gradually evened out, becoming deeper and more regular. The terror from the nightmare began to recede, leaving behind the cold, hard residue of memory. It was not just a dream. It was how her first life had ended.
As the last of the panic subsided, a strange sensation on her left wrist drew her attention. She lifted her arm into a patch of sunlight. There, etched onto her skin like a delicate tattoo, was the image of a single rose on a stem, its petals tightly closed in a bud. It had appeared the morning she woke up in the past, her second chance at life. But something was different now.
"Yesterday..." she murmured, her voice filled with a dawning sense of unease. "Yesterday the buds were full."
She stared at it, her eyes wide with disbelief and a new kind of fear. One of the tiny, flawlessly formed petals was gone. It had simply vanished, leaving a small gap in the perfect bud. A cold dread, different from the terror of the dream, crept into her heart.
"Does that mean... for each day I spend, I lose a petal?" The question hung in the silent room. A chilling thought followed. "What happens when all the petals are gone?"
She pictured the last petal disappearing, and a vision of the blackness from her dream flooded her mind. Would she die again? Would this second chance be taken away? She exhaled slowly, the breath shuddering out of her. She couldn't afford to find out.
"I have to be faster," she said, her voice low and firm with resolve. "I have to make my revenge happen before I find out what happens when the rose dies."
Riled up by this new need, Delia got out of bed, washed herself with the cool water from the basin and getting dressed in a simple, practical day dress. She chose her plainest one, the kind of dress Augusta and Anne would never be seen in, but it was comfortable and allowed for easy movement.
Once dressed, she made her way downstairs. The grand hallway was empty and silent. She glanced into the dining room. The long, polished table was bare, no places set for breakfast, no sign of her stepfamily.
"That explains why no one disturbed my sleep," she thought with a flicker of dry amusement. On any normal day, Augusta would have sent a maid to wake her at dawn with a list of chores saying it's good to help out every now and then. Their absence was actually a gift.
She continued on to the back of the house and entered the kitchen. The large, warm room was filled with the comforting smell of baking bread. Mrs. Mary, the cook, a plump woman with flour on her apron was kneading dough at a large wooden table. She looked up when Delia entered, a flicker of surprise on her face.
"Miss Delia," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Good morning. You're up early."
"Good morning, Mrs. Mary," Delia replied with a small smile. "I was hungry."
Mrs. Mary's expression turned slightly apologetic. "I'm sorry, miss. The Baroness left instructions before she went out. I was to leave only some bread and cheese out for you later in the day. She said you were not to take a full breakfast with them anymore."
Delia felt a familiar sting of humiliation, but she pushed it down. This was the old Delia's pain. The new Delia saw it only as information. "I see," she said, her voice even. She opened a cupboard and took out a pan. "Don't worry, Mrs. Gable. I can make something for myself."
The cook watched her with a worried frown. "It's not right, miss. You're the Baron's daughter."
"It's alright," Delia reassured her, her focus on her task. "Where is the Baroness this morning? And Anne?"
"Her Ladyship went to a special auction in the city," Mrs. Mary replied, resuming her kneading, though her movements were slower now, her attention still on Delia. "Something about rare tapestries. And the young lady, Miss Anne, went to a tea party at Viscountess Eleanor's estate. They won't be back until late this evening."
Delia cracked two eggs into the hot pan, and they began to sizzle. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face. Her mind lit up with the possibilities. The house was empty. Augusta was out spending money, and Anne was out socializing, likely boasting about her future prospects as a Duchess.
She thought inwardly, her heart beating with a steady rhythm, "Beautiful." The sizzle of the eggs was a delicious sound. "This gives me enough privacy to do exactly what I need to do."