*What happened to this relic in my first life?*
Juliet turned the key slowly between her fingers, watching the blue gemstone catch and release the lamplight. She couldn't remember. The key, the mansion, everything she'd owned — it had all likely been swept away when Gaspard sold off the estate and sold *her* along with it, as though she were just another fixture of the house.
As she sat with the strange weightlessness of the key resting in her palm, a memory surfaced — faint and warm, rising from a place she hadn't visited in a long time.
*When I was small, I was scolded for playing with this without Father's permission.*
Little Juliet had been convinced that somewhere within the mansion, there existed a door this key was meant to open. The logic had seemed irrefutable to a child's mind: the key was three hundred years old, and the Montagu mansion — gifted to their family by the first Emperor himself — was three hundred years old as well. Surely the two were connected. Surely one was made for the other.
And so she had gone from room to room, pressing the key into every lock she could find — closets, pantries, cellar doors, the rusted gate behind the servants' quarters. She tried them all, crouching on tiptoe or crawling on her knees, the key clutched in her small, determined fist.
She never found a matching door.
When she confessed this adventure to her father — half expecting another scolding — the Count had simply laughed, his eyes crinkling with affection.
"Perhaps it wasn't made to open a door, Juliet."
"Then what does it open, if not a door?"
*What is this key for?*
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Count Montagu's smile turned gentle, almost wistful. "Even I don't know what it was meant to unlock."
He looked at her for a long moment, then placed his hand over hers — the key warm between their palms.
"But it's yours now. I'm sure that one day, you'll find its purpose."
---
## — The Lovely Bluebell —
The mystery of the key, however, was promptly forgotten — because the summer ball was the very next day, and there were far more pressing matters to attend to.
The ***Lovely Bluebell***.
That was the official name of the summer ball, though most of society simply called it the "Bell Party." It ranked among the season's grandest events, standing shoulder to shoulder with the imperial New Year's Ball held in winter and the Spring Debutante Ball that launched each year's fresh crop of hopefuls into society.
Unlike the New Year's Ball — a rigid, formal affair that the imperial family was obligated to attend — the Bluebell was lighter in spirit. Warmer. More forgiving. All men and women of legal age were welcome, regardless of rank or title, and the evening carried a tradition that made it the favorite of every unattached heart in the empire.
Each guest was given a small bouquet of bluebells upon arrival. Over the course of the evening, they were required to present that bouquet to someone — anyone — of their choosing. The person who received the most bouquets by evening's end was crowned the ball's favorite and ceremoniously presented with a wreath of bluebells. That lucky soul could then make a single wish, which the assembled guests were honor-bound to grant.
The rule was simple. The implications were *intoxicating*.
It was no wonder, then, that Juliet's servants had been hovering around her since dawn, refusing to let her out of their sight.
"You *must* win this wreath at any cost, miss!"
"…I'll try."
"Trying is *not enough*, miss!"
The young maids who styled her hair attacked their task with the ferocity of generals marshaling troops for battle. They wove white flowers through Juliet's long chestnut waves, threading in tiny seed pearls that gleamed like scattered dewdrops.
"Everything is ready!"
True to her word to Fatima, Juliet wore her mother's dress.
The gown was crafted from layers of light cornflower blue and smoky silver silk that shifted color with every movement, like mist over water at dawn. It was airy and cool — perfect for the lingering warmth of a summer evening — and its tailored bodice traced the slender curve of Juliet's waist as though it had been made for her rather than inherited.
Juliet loved it. She loved the way it whispered when she walked, the way the fabric caught the light and held it.
Her mother, Countess Montagu, who had initially been quietly disappointed by her daughter's refusal to buy a new dress, pressed a hand to her heart when Juliet descended the staircase. Her eyes glistened.
"Oh, my darling…"
And her father — the Count stood at the foot of the stairs, hands clasped behind his back, a wide, helpless smile breaking across his face the moment he saw her.
"You look like a summer fairy," he said softly.
---
The Count's carriage arrived at the Imperial Palace just as the evening's first lanterns were being lit.
When Juliet stepped out, the cool night air swept across her bare shoulders — a blessed relief after the day's clinging heat. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed it in: the scent of night-blooming jasmine drifting from the palace gardens, the distant murmur of music and laughter already spilling from the open doors.
The dress code for the Bluebell Ball was notably relaxed, and the guests had taken full advantage. Elaborate costumes filled the courtyard in a riot of color and imagination — feathered capes, jeweled bodices, waistcoats embroidered with fantastical creatures. A number of guests wore masks as well, lending the evening a delicious air of masquerade.
But what Juliet loved most, as she stepped through the towering entrance, was the banquet hall itself.
Soft golden light filled the space — not the harsh blaze of a thousand candles, but something gentler, warmer, as though the room were lit by captured fireflies. And everywhere she looked, bluebells. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Arranged in vases both small and grand, their delicate purple-blue heads nodding gently in the breeze that drifted through the open windows. The air smelled sweet and green, like a meadow after rain.
Juliet's gaze swept the crowd — and immediately found a flash of unmistakable bright pink.
"Fatima!"
"Hm? …*Juliet?*"
Fatima turned, and her eyes went wide. She stared at Juliet — at the dress, the flowers in her hair, the pearls — and for a rare, unguarded moment, seemed genuinely speechless.
Juliet, meanwhile, was thinking that coming tonight had not been a mistake after all. She liked this place far more than she'd expected. The music was lovely, the hall was beautiful, and the night felt gentle.
*This evening is going to go smoothly*, she thought.
---
"Tonight, we have the great honor of introducing a most distinguished guest!"
The voice rang out across the banquet hall — sharp, imperious, slicing through the music and chatter like a blade. A man in imperial livery, the Empress's personal attendant, stepped forward with an expression of self-important gravity.
*Clink. Clink. Clink.*
He tapped a silver spoon against his crystal glass, commanding silence. Every head in the hall turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. The orchestra lowered their bows.
The attendant drew himself up to his full height and announced the name of the guest now entering through the grand doors.
"His Grace — the ***Duke of Carlisle!***"
***Crash.***
The champagne flute slipped from Juliet's fingers and shattered against the marble floor, sending a spray of golden liquid and glittering shards across the tiles.
---
"Oh—!"
"Are you all right, Juliet?"
"Miss, are you hurt?"
Within seconds, startled servants converged around her, dropping to their knees to sweep away the broken glass with practiced urgency.
"I'm so sorry," Juliet whispered, bowing her head. "It — it slipped from my hand."
She could not bring herself to look up.
Because a moment ago — just as he had crossed the threshold of the banquet hall — Lennox Carlisle's eyes had found hers.
It lasted no more than a heartbeat. A single, fleeting collision of gazes across a crowded room.
Black hair. Blood-red eyes.
The young Duke of the North looked exactly as she remembered.
*No… a little younger?*
Juliet's heart hammered against her ribs so violently she was certain everyone around her could hear it. Her fingers trembled at her sides, and the air in her lungs felt thin and sharp, as though she'd been plunged into ice water.
She would never — *could never* — forget the face of the man who had killed her.
Without another word, Juliet turned and began weaving through the crowd, slipping between dancing couples, pressing deeper into the farthest corner of the hall. She moved quickly but carefully, keeping her head low, letting the sea of silk and laughter close behind her like a curtain.
---
Meanwhile, the Duke — who had attracted the riveted attention of every soul in the room the moment he appeared — stood at the entrance, his gaze fixed on the Empress's attendant with an expression of monumental disinterest.
"Your Grace, if you would allow me to explain the rules of this evening's celebration…"
The servant's voice shook. His hands shook. His entire body trembled visibly as he fulfilled the Empress's orders, launching into a lengthy and increasingly nervous explanation of the Bluebell tradition.
When at last he finished, he thrust the small bouquet of bluebells into the Duke's hand with the desperate relief of a man who had just survived an audience with death itself.
"And what," Lennox said flatly, glancing at the flowers as though they had personally offended him, "am I supposed to do with this?"
He had clearly not listened to a single word.
---
From her refuge in the far corner, Juliet watched him through the shifting gaps between dancers and felt her pulse slowly begin to settle.
*…I overreacted.*
Those indifferent red eyes — utterly empty, devoid of warmth or recognition or any human feeling she could name — had rested on her for no more than a second. He hadn't followed her. He hadn't reacted. She was nothing to him — a stranger in a crowd, as forgettable as the shattered glass the servants had already swept away.
And yet, the memory of that momentary contact still sent tremors through her hands.
*But he shouldn't be here.*
According to everything she remembered from her first life, the Duke of Carlisle only ever appeared in the capital for the New Year's Ball. That was precisely why Juliet had avoided the winter event each year, fabricating excuse after excuse to stay home — a convenient illness, a social obligation, a prior engagement.
She had been so *careful*.
But why? Why was he here tonight, at a summer ball he had never attended before?
*What did I change? What action did I take that caused this?*
The butterfly effect. One small alteration in the past, rippling outward in ways she could never fully predict. She had spent three years reshaping the future with meticulous precision, but the future, it seemed, had ideas of its own.
"Are you all right, Juliet? You look terribly pale."
She turned to find her fiancé, Vincent, watching her with gentle concern. His brow was creased, his hand half-extended as though he wanted to steady her but wasn't sure he should.
"It's nothing." Juliet managed a thin smile. "I just — I need to step outside for a moment. I'm sorry."
She didn't bother constructing a believable excuse. There was no room left in her for pretense — only the suffocating certainty that if she remained in this hall one moment longer, surrounded by music and light and the distant presence of those blood-red eyes, she would collapse.
---
The night air hit her like cold water, and she gasped it in — one breath, then another, then another — until the dizziness began to recede.
But as soon as Juliet stepped through the palace doors, a familiar shape materialized before her.
"…Father?"
"Juliet."
The Montagu family carriage stood at the edge of the courtyard, the Earl's crest gleaming faintly on its door in the lamplight. Her parents were already outside, and beside them stood one of the household servants — a young man whose face was drawn tight with barely contained panic.
"What's happening?" Juliet looked between them. "Are we leaving?"
"Juliet, please — stay here and enjoy the ball."
"Miss, a thief has broken into the house!" the servant blurted, his voice cracking. He caught himself immediately when the Count shot him a sharp, silencing glare — but the words were already out.
*A thief.*
Far from alarming her, the news struck Juliet as a perfect excuse.
"I've already contacted the capital guard," her father said, his tone measured and calm. "They'll arrive at the mansion shortly. There's nothing to worry about, so please — stay and—"
"I'll go with you."
*Any reason to leave this place. Any reason at all.*
Count Montagu opened his mouth to protest, but Juliet had already gathered her skirts and climbed into the carriage before he could form the first word.
---
The stars that had glittered so brilliantly when she'd arrived at the palace were gone now — swallowed by a tide of dark clouds rolling in from the east. The sky hung low and heavy overhead, black as wet ink, pressing down on the treetops like a warning.
When her parents finally joined her in the carriage, they set off from the Imperial Palace at a brisk pace.
The city fell away behind them. The cobblestones gave way to packed earth, and the lights of the capital dimmed to scattered pinpricks before vanishing entirely. Soon, the carriage entered a narrow road that wound through dense forest on the outskirts — the trees pressing close on either side, their branches interlocking overhead to form a tunnel of absolute darkness.
"Was anyone hurt?" Countess Lilian asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper in the rattling quiet.
"I can't say for certain, my lady. As soon as we reach the mansion, we'll tend to anyone who—"
It happened in an instant.
***Bolt!***
A deafening crack of thunder split the sky. The horse screamed — a terrible, raw sound — and reared violently, its hooves clawing at the air.
The carriage lurched. Juliet grabbed for the edge of the seat, not understanding what was happening, and twisted toward the window—
***Flash!***
White light flooded the world — blinding, absolute — and in the same breath came a savage jolt that threw her sideways. Her body slammed against the carriage wall. A burst of searing pain exploded at the back of her skull.
And then — darkness.
Everything went dark.