I feel like I've entered another world.
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a chandelier—blindingly bright, dripping with crystals, sparkling like it had something to prove. _Expensive_, my brain supplied immediately. While I lay there calculating its probable cost, I tried to remember how I'd died.
She had always boasted about her good health, so illness seemed unlikely. She hadn't started any new work yet, so overwork was out of the question. She hadn't thrown herself in front of a car to save a child or a stray cat. She hadn't met with God. She hadn't visited any fortune tellers who might have cursed her.
Whatever the explanation, it seemed she had simply... fallen asleep and woken up in another body.
_Well. That's anticlimactic._
It's not unheard of these days—transmigration, reincarnation, all that business—but couldn't the universe have chosen someone with a bit more *ambition*? Someone who actually wanted this?
No matter. What's done is done.
Since I've already been reborn, there's no point in mourning my previous life. The important thing now is figuring out whose body I'm inhabiting.
Perhaps it's because of this botched reincarnation, but the memories of my body's former owner refuse to surface. I lifted my hands and examined them—pale, slender, soft. Definitely not the hands of someone who's ever worked a day in her life. Not a child's hands either, though they were small enough that I could have possessed someone younger.
_Great. No memories, no context, no idea who I am._
Since I know nothing about my past life, I'll simply have to pretend I've lost my memory. Amnesia is a classic excuse for a reason.
Judging by my alabaster skin and these delicate fingers, I'm definitely an aristocrat. But no specific characters spring to mind. Usually, transmigrators end up in a book they've read or a favorite novel, don't they?
I didn't have any favorites.
The last thing I read was a wuxia about the Demon Lord's return. I remember it best because I finished it quite recently—but judging by that chandelier overhead, this is definitely *not* a wuxia setting. If I'd landed in a martial arts world, someone would have tried to kill me by now.
_So perhaps this is a blessing in disguise._
No—thinking like that won't help.
I can't figure this out alone. In situations like this, I need outside assistance. My gaze drifted to the man sitting beside me, looking utterly lost. His somber robes and the thick leather-bound book clutched in his trembling hands screamed *priest*. If I'm in the body of some sickly heroine, then his presence makes perfect sense.
And it would make faking amnesia considerably easier.
_But wait—where exactly am I?_
I looked around.
And nearly died of fright all over again.
Why were there so many *people*?
I'd felt eyes on me, but I hadn't realized the entire room was staring. Dozens of faces, all dressed in black, all holding their breath. The silence was so thick it pressed against my eardrums.
_How did I not notice this immediately? Have I lost my mind?_
I'd been staring at an unfamiliar ceiling and assumed I was in a bedroom. The surface beneath me was soft, so I'd thought it was a bed. But now I saw flowers everywhere—pale pink petals scattered around me like snow. Cherry blossoms? Plum? No wonder the air smelled so sweet and heavy.
_...Wait._
The shape I'm lying in seems terribly familiar.
_Is this... a coffin?_
I was lying in a **coffin**.
Which means my funeral is currently taking place. Which explains why everyone is wearing black.
My head began to spin.
Being reincarnated into the body of a deceased person isn't all that uncommon—transmigrators typically possess those destined to die, or those already dead, so there's no moral quandary about displacing the original soul. But shoving me into a body *in the middle of its own funeral*?
No wonder they're looking at me like I'm a **ghost**.
_They should have at least waited until after the burial! This is such shoddy workmanship that it's almost impressive._
The priest beside me looked ready to faint.
From his perspective, a corpse had just opened its eyes and started looking around. Nothing less.
I needed to fix this somehow. What should I say? *Surprise! You thought I was dead? It was a prank!* No, that wouldn't work. I needed to say *something*. But before anything else, I needed to ask the most important question.
"What is my name?"
My voice came out hoarse, rusty from disuse. I didn't bother with formal speech—I was obviously in the body of an aristocrat, so there was no need to address anyone above my station.
The priest's face went from pale to grey.
---
## — Two Days Later —
My name is Evangeline Rohanson.
Just as I suspected—I have absolutely no idea who that is.
It's been two days since my resurrection. The first day was consumed by priests and doctors who prodded at me like I was some fascinating specimen. The second day I spent gathering information about Evangeline and this world.
Apparently, I've been reborn as a **villain**.
The evidence is overwhelming. Servants bow their heads the moment they see me, trembling like aspen leaves whenever I speak. One of them actually *fainted* during a walk through the garden—I'd only asked her about the weather.
_How wicked was the body's former owner that people react like this? She should have tried living like a decent human being._
Also, Evangeline has red eyes.
In the world of romantic fantasy, red eyes are practically a brand of villainy. The color is considered an ill omen; those born with such eyes are ostracized and shunned until some protagonist comes along and says something nauseating like, *"I think they're beautiful,"* and the villain immediately falls head over heels in love.
_How predictable. How tiresome._
Furthermore, Evangeline is Count Rohanson's only daughter. Her mother died young, so the household consists of just father and daughter. Their relationship must have been strained, because my father hasn't shown his face once in the two days since my "resurrection."
His daughter *died* and *came back to life*, and he doesn't care enough to visit?
_Villainous fathers are either complete tyrants or they dote obsessively on their daughters. It appears I've been assigned the former._
Beyond that, I know almost nothing.
There's no fiancé. No engagement. Usually in these stories the male lead is a crown prince, so I investigated him first—but it turns out His Royal Highness is already getting on in years with two children of his own. There's no brooding northern duke. No saintess. No prophecy about a chosen one.
_Nothing to work with at all._
I gathered most of this information from the maid assigned to me.
I'd hoped to find a diary in Evangeline's room—something that might explain her life, her relationships, her sins—but I found nothing. And even if I had discovered one, I wouldn't have been able to read it.
Because I am, apparently, **illiterate**.
_How is that even possible?_ I can speak this language fluently—the words flow from my tongue without effort—but the written symbols look like meaningless scratches. My brain refuses to decode them.
_In my previous life, I never studied a second language. Now I'll have to learn one from scratch, like a child._
The maid nearly collapsed when I confessed I couldn't read. I've never seen such naked fear in someone's eyes. Fortunately, the amnesia excuse held; she promised to bring me an alphabet primer.
The book arrives tomorrow.
Until then, I'll conduct what research I can within the confines of this house.
_Evangeline Rohanson. Red-eyed villain. Estranged father. Terrified servants._
_What exactly did you do?_
---