*Knock, knock.*
Marin rapped her knuckles against the worn wooden door and pushed it open, balancing a tray carefully in her other hand. The hinges groaned in protest—another thing that needed fixing, another expense she couldn't afford.
Her mother lay in the narrow bed, propped against a mound of threadbare pillows. Even in the dim light filtering through the patched curtains, Roenna looked utterly exhausted. Her once-lustrous golden hair had faded to a dull straw color, shot through with grey. Her cheeks had grown so hollow that the bones beneath seemed ready to break through the papery skin.
*She's getting worse.*
Marin buried the thought deep and forced brightness into her voice.
"Mother!"
Roenna's eyelids fluttered. It took visible effort for her to open them fully, and even then, her gaze remained unfocused for a long moment before settling on her daughter's face.
"Marin..." The name emerged as barely more than a whisper.
Slowly, painfully, Roenna pushed herself upright against the headboard. The movement cost her—Marin could see it in the way her mother's jaw tightened, in the slight tremor of her arms.
"Your complexion looks *much* better today." Marin set the tray on the bedside table with exaggerated cheer. "I think you'll be completely well soon!"
A ghost of a smile touched Roenna's cracked lips.
"Thank you, dear." She paused, studying her daughter's face with eyes that saw too much despite their weariness. "You know, you're old enough now that you don't have to keep calling me 'Mother' like a little girl."
"What are you *talking* about?" Marin widened her eyes in mock horror. "Even when I'm as old as you, I'll still call you Mother! I'll be a wrinkled grandmother myself, and I'll *still* be calling you—"
"Oh, who could stop you..." Roenna's smile warmed slightly. "Unless your brother—"
The words cut off abruptly.
The smile froze on Roenna's face, then crumbled away like ash. Her eyes went distant, fixed on something Marin couldn't see—*wouldn't* see, if she had any choice in the matter.
*Don't think about him. Don't think about any of it.*
"Mother!" Marin's voice rang out too loud, too bright, shattering the moment before it could drag them both under. She thrust the tray forward with theatrical flourish. "Your restless daughter has brought you some *delicious* medicine and soup! Well—" she wrinkled her nose "—the medicine isn't delicious. It's actually quite disgusting. But the soup is... acceptable!"
Roenna blinked, the shadow in her eyes receding slightly. She looked down at the tray—a chipped bowl of thin soup, a small vial of murky medicine—then back up at her daughter.
"Did you eat?"
"Of course I did!" Marin patted her stomach and affected a satisfied expression. "Two whole bowls! I'm absolutely stuffed. Couldn't eat another bite if I tried."
The lie tasted sour on her tongue. She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, and even then it had only been a crust of stale bread.
Roenna's gaze lingered on her daughter's face for a long moment. Something shifted in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or sorrow. Then she turned away and lay back down, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin.
"I have no appetite. You should eat my portion."
*No.*
Marin had made that soup using the very last scraps of food in the house. A single wilted carrot. A handful of dried beans. A precious pinch of salt she'd been hoarding for weeks. Everything that remained had gone into that pot, and every drop of it was meant for her mother.
"Mother, please—"
"I'm really not hungry." Roenna's voice had gone firm, that particular tone she used when she'd made up her mind and nothing in the world would change it. "Truly. You eat it."
*She knows I lied. Of course she knows.*
Marin's hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Arguing would only upset her mother further. She needed another approach.
"Would you like me to read to you?"
It was the one thing that still brought Roenna comfort—the one pleasure left to her in this miserable existence. Marin had discovered early in her mother's illness that reading aloud could soothe her when nothing else worked, easing her into the peaceful sleep that so often eluded her.
A flicker of hope sparked in Roenna's tired eyes.
"Are you busy today? I know you have so much to do, and I hate to burden you, but..." She hesitated, her voice growing smaller. "I haven't been sleeping well. When you read to me, I feel calmer. I can actually rest."
"You should have told me sooner!" Marin scolded gently. "I would have—"
"I didn't want to be a burden. You're already doing so much."
Marin's heart clenched.
*You could never be a burden. You're all I have left.*
"I'll read to you," she said firmly. "But *only* if you eat the soup."
Roenna shook her head weakly, a silent refusal.
*Knock-knock-knock.*
The sound came from the front of the cottage—sharp, insistent, far too loud for politeness.
Marin stiffened.
"That's the door." She was already moving, her body responding before her mind caught up. "I'll go see who it is. I'll read to you afterward, I promise. And Mother—" she paused at the threshold, glancing back "—please try to eat something while I'm gone? Even just a few spoonfuls?"
No answer.
Marin swallowed her worry and hurried through the cramped kitchen to the cottage's entrance. The knocking came again, more aggressive now, and she took a steadying breath before lifting the latch.
The man standing in the doorway made her stomach turn.
Jorno. The landlord. Middle-aged and soft in all the wrong ways, his enormous belly straining against his stained shirt like a grotesque pregnancy. His small eyes swept over her body the moment the door opened, crawling from her face down to her feet and back up again with undisguised hunger.
"Marin!" He spread his arms wide, as though greeting a dear friend. His smile revealed tobacco-stained teeth.
"Mr. Jorno." Marin kept her voice carefully neutral, her expression blank. "Good afternoon. Is there something you need?"
"Oh, I'm *always* doing well." He leered at her, stepping closer than propriety allowed. "And how are *you*, Marin? You're looking... healthy."
The way he said it made her skin crawl.
"I'm fine, thank you. Did something happen?"
Jorno laughed—a wet, unpleasant sound that seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep in his gut.
"'Did something happen?' Ha! What could happen between *us*, hmm?"
His eyes traveled over her body again, slower this time, lingering on curves that her threadbare dress did little to hide. Marin's hands clenched at her sides. This married man, father of three, looked at her like this *every single time* they crossed paths. Like she was meat on a butcher's hook. Like she was something he had every right to *take*.
*I should hit him. Just once. Right in his piggy little face. Hit him and run and—*
But her mother was lying in the next room, too weak to walk, too sick to survive on the streets.
Marin forced her hands to unclench. She hid them behind her back so Jorno wouldn't see them trembling.
"If there's nothing else, I'm quite busy."
She moved to close the door.
Jorno's meaty palm slammed against the wood, holding it open.
"Not so fast, sweetheart." His smile had turned sharp, predatory. "I came to deliver some news. Starting this month, your rent is tripling."
The words hit her like a physical blow.
"*What?*"
"You've always paid on time, so I've been *generous* with you. Haven't raised your rent once, even though everyone else in this area has been paying more for years." He shrugged, an exaggerated gesture of false sympathy. "But generosity has its limits. The new amount is due in five days. I'll come collect it personally."
Marin's mind raced, performing frantic calculations. Triple the rent. Five days. She didn't have a fraction of that amount. She barely had enough to buy food for the next week.
"But—but you can't just triple it overnight! Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?" The words tumbled out before she could stop them, her pride crumbling under the weight of desperation. "Please, if you could just give us more time—a month, even two weeks—"
"Oho?" Jorno's eyes glittered. He leaned closer, close enough that she could smell the alcohol on his breath, the stale sweat clinging to his clothes. "Well, well. There *might* be another arrangement we could come to..."
His gaze dropped meaningfully to her body.
Marin didn't let him finish.
She grabbed the door with both hands and slammed it shut with every ounce of strength she possessed.
*CRACK.*
"AAGH! My *nose*! You broke my—you little—"
*Serves you right.*
Marin threw the bolt home and pressed her back against the door, bracing herself. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps.
The handle rattled violently.
"Open this door!" Jorno's muffled roar penetrated the thin wood. "Open it right now! You think I'll keep being nice to you after this? Who the hell do you think you are? Skinny little thing, flat as a board, like a dried-out broomstick! No man would want you anyway! You should be *grateful* I'm even offering!"
He kicked the door once, twice, three times.
Marin pressed harder against the wood, her whole body shaking.
Then—finally—she heard heavy footsteps retreating. Muttered curses fading into the distance.
He was gone.
Marin let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her legs threatened to give out beneath her.
*Mother.*
The thought struck her like lightning. Her mother must have heard everything—the shouting, the threats, the violent pounding on the door. And in her fragile state, any stress could—
Marin rushed to her mother's room. She raised her hand to knock, then hesitated, her knuckles hovering an inch from the wood.
*What would I even say?*
Could she comfort her mother? Could she lie and promise that everything would be fine, that she had a plan, that there was nothing to worry about?
No. She couldn't. Not convincingly. Not when she didn't believe it herself.
Marin lowered her hand and turned away.
---
Her own room lay across the narrow hallway—barely more than a closet, really, with just enough space for a bed and a single piece of furniture. The door hinges shrieked in protest as she pushed it open. Rust. They'd needed replacing for months.
*Add it to the list of things I can't afford.*
The room held nothing of value except memories. A narrow bed with a lumpy mattress. A small, ancient dressing table pushed against the far wall—the only remnant of their former life, the only thing she'd refused to sell when they'd lost everything else.
Her father's face flashed through her mind. That gentle smile. Those warm eyes.
*"Take care of this table, Marin. It belonged to your grandmother. Promise me you'll keep it safe."*
She had promised. And so, even when they'd been forced to sell the jewels, the furniture, the silver candlesticks and silk dresses—even when they'd had nothing left to sell—she had kept this one piece. This one connection to the family she'd lost.
Marin sank into the rickety chair and stared at the wall.
"I need money."
The words fell into the silence of the room, flat and heavy.
She needed money desperately. A sick person required proper food—nourishing meals with meat and vegetables and fresh bread. Not watered-down soup made from scraps. Every time she watched her mother struggle to swallow that thin, tasteless broth, something inside Marin cracked a little more.
And now the rent had tripled. Five days to produce an impossible sum.
*When it rains, it pours.*
"Damn landlord."
She reached into the corner of the dressing table drawer, her fingers finding the hidden compartment she'd carved out months ago. From within, she withdrew a single sheet of paper—folded, worn soft at the creases, covered edge to edge with cramped handwriting.
Writing that no one else in this empire could read.
Her eyes fell on the first line:
> **『The Western Duke's Bluebird Doesn't Cry』**
---
Marin had realized she was living inside a novel three years ago, after a carriage accident that should have killed her.
She'd lingered at death's door for over a month, trapped in fever dreams and fractured memories. When she finally clawed her way back to consciousness, the truth had struck her like a bolt from the heavens: she was no longer just Marin Schwentz, daughter of a minor viscount. She was Marin Schwentz living in the world of a novel she had read in another life.
*The Western Duke's Bluebird Doesn't Cry.*
She remembered reading it on a whim. She'd grown tired of the endless parade of "Northern Duke" romance novels that flooded the market—all brooding heroes and frozen wastelands—and had chosen this one simply because a *Western* Duke seemed refreshingly different.
The plot was straightforward enough. The Duke of Vines, ruler of the Western territories, loses his sight in a devastating monster attack. He spirals into despair, withdrawing from the world, convinced his life is effectively over. Then he meets *her*—a brilliant young herbalist with a mysterious past and an uncanny gift for medicine. She heals his eyes. They fall in love. The usual romantic fantasy fare.
Marin had enjoyed it well enough at the time.
She was not enjoying it now.
"This is absurd..."
The problem was simple: she wasn't a main character. She wasn't even a side character. She was a nameless extra, a bit of background scenery, someone who existed only to fill out crowd scenes and make the world feel populated.
No grand destiny awaited her. No handsome duke would sweep her off her feet. She was simply... *present*. A nobody. A piece of furniture that happened to breathe.
If she did nothing, life would continue as the novel dictated. Eventually, news of the Duke's grand wedding would spread across the empire. The romantic leads would get their happily-ever-after. And Marin would—what? Starve to death in a crumbling shack? Watch her mother waste away from illness and poverty?
*No.*
She refused to accept that fate.
"I need money."
The Schwentz family had once been wealthy—not extravagantly so, but comfortable. Respectable. They'd had lands and a manor house and servants and all the trappings of minor nobility. Then had come the accident. Then had come the debts.
Enormous, crushing debts that her father had apparently been hiding for years.
After his death, the collectors had descended like vultures. The lands were sold. The manor house was seized. The jewels, the art, the furniture, the dresses—all of it stripped away piece by piece until nothing remained.
Marin had sold her last good dress to pay for this miserable two-room cottage at the foot of the mountain.
Her mother had collapsed shortly after the move and never recovered.
And now it was just the two of them. A fallen noblewoman who'd never even made her social debut, and an invalid who could barely lift her head from the pillow.
*The title of "Viscount's daughter" is worthless when the viscount is dead and the family is disgraced.*
"I need money."
Marin repeated the words again, a mantra, a spell to steel her wavering resolve.
Until now, she had done everything in her power to avoid interfering with the novel's plot. She knew the dangers of meddling with destiny. She'd read enough stories about transmigrated heroines who accidentally changed the course of history and suffered terrible consequences. Better to stay invisible. Better to remain in the background where she belonged.
But she had reached her breaking point.
Survival trumped caution. Desperation trumped fear.
Her soft green eyes—the color of new spring leaves—fixed on the paper in her hands. Every important event from the novel was recorded there in her cramped, careful script. Plot points. Character motivations. Future developments that hadn't happened yet.
She knew things about the Duke of Vines that no one else in this world could possibly know. She knew his past, his future, his secrets.
The time had come to use the only weapon she possessed.
---