Chapter 1

In the third winter of the Vesperan Era, I died in a run-down storeroom.

It wasn't built to be a storeroom at first. The servants called it the Tranquil Cottage. It sounded nice, but it was the loneliest corner of the Sinclair residence.

It had three crumbling rooms, peeling plaster, and broken windows that were never replaced.

They locked me in at eighteen, and I was twenty-one now. Three years gone, and a thousand days wasted.

The bandages on my face were stained black. Beneath them, my skin had festered, weeping and crawling with maggots at the edges. I couldn't feel the pain anymore. Maybe after so long, I'd grown numb.

Outside, I could hear music drifting from the main courtyard. Tonight, Edward Peterson was marrying my stepsister, Isabelle Sinclair.

A laugh carried through the cold. Two servants were huddled under the eaves to avoid the snow, stomping their feet to keep warm. One muttered, "That ugly girl's finally gone? Maybe Lady Margaret won't have to see her anymore."

The other spoke quieter. "I heard Charlotte got those burns saving Isabelle. What a shame. She used to be kind."

"She made a mistake. Lord Edward came by once, saw her face, and vomited. Later, he told people she shouldn't have interfered. Think about it: she risked her life for his beloved, and he called her meddlesome."

"Keep it down. She might hear."

"No worry. She's going to die anyway."

Their voices faded.

I lay on the hard wooden bed, staring up at the dark beams overhead. Suddenly, I wanted to laugh.

Meddlesome? Edward was right. That was exactly what I was.

That year, I was eighteen, and Isabelle was seventeen.

She was Lady Margaret's legitimate daughter, raised in luxury and cherished by everyone. I was born out of wedlock, my mother gone for years, practically invisible in the Sinclair residence.

But when the firewood storeroom caught fire and she got trapped inside, I heard her cries for help and rushed in without thinking.

When the beams came crashing down, I threw myself over her to shield her.

The flames licked at my face, the smell of burnt flesh hit me hard, and the pain was so bad I almost passed out. But I still dragged her out, all the way to the courtyard, to safety.

That's when I saw Edward.

He was Isabelle's fiancé, the eldest son of the Marquis of Lorindel, with a handsome face.

He rushed over and scooped Isabelle up in his arms, his eyes red with worry. I lay on the ground a few steps away, my face still smoldering, hoping he'd spare me a glance.

That look stayed with me for three years.

His eyes were full of disgust, like he'd spotted a dirty rat crawling out of the sewer. He frowned, his lips barely moving as he muttered, "You shouldn't have saved her. So meddlesome."

Burned all over, I saved the girl he loved, and that was the comment I got.

After that, they locked me away in this firewood storeroom. Lady Margaret said my face was too frightening for guests, so I should "rest" in the Tranquil Cottage. Rest? What a joke. It was a prettier way of saying I was being shut away.

No one brought me medicine, no one cared if I was freezing or in pain. Sometimes the servants would shove food through the crack in the door, like they were feeding a dog.

I overheard the gossip outside. Isabelle came out of the fire with nothing but a faint scar on her temple, and Edward scoured the city for doctors and miracle cures.

Their wedding was scheduled for next spring.

Next spring. I wouldn't live to see it.

My eyelids grew heavy, my breath thin. Outside, the music played on. People laughed, toasted, and celebrated.

I remembered years ago, when my mother was still alive. She held me and pointed at the moon. "Charlotte, when you grow up, you'll marry someone who treats you right, keeps you safe, and never lets you suffer."

Guess I wouldn't live to see that, Mom.

One last thought surfaced: if I got another chance, I wouldn't be that foolish again.