Weeks had passed since Martha had been couped up in that little room recovering from the wounds on a body she was still struggling to adjust into and learning to get used to being called Mary, a name so foreign to her. She hadn't spoken in weeks, the sound of the voice coming out of her throat was not hers and it was difficult to get used to. The strange faces she couldn't recognize at first slowly began to become faces she got a little comfort seeing especially the little boy, but she hated the life she was living, one of poverty and lack.

Whoever brought her here could at least have given her a better life, not this poor miserable life in the body of a weak girl, a bastard at that. She had been told this morning that she was being called at the main house by the lady of the house, her supposed father's wife. From what was described to her by the little boy, she was wicked, at least to

Mary sat with such poise, legs crossed in front of the screen connected to the cameras planted in the ballroom, sipping what had been Martha's favorite wine, she starred at how elegant the ball looked, the tv stations carried news about the event all week. The guests all dressed glamorously, some looking like clowns in her opinion. She was living the dream her previous life could not fulfill, the glamour, elegance, money, fame, and power. Yes, it was vain but then again life in itself is vain.

"Ma’am, it’s time to grace them with your presence” Mr. Moses’s voice rang out, distracting her from her thoughts. He was the only one she discovered that knew Martha well.

"Moses, do you think these people love me?”, she asked, keeping her eyes on him to note his body movement. With a poker face, he looked her in the eyes and said, "yes they do”. He was good at keeping his expression neutral, bu

Martha knew something was wrong even before she opened her eyes. Her face felt wet and sticky like melted rubber. She tried to move her hands to inspect it, but her limbs had a mind of their own. They didn't budge. She felt drained and empty.

"She is crying, mama, Mary is crying," a young voice kept chanting. Martha could make out it belonged to a child of 11-13 years of age.

"The poor girl has gone through a lot, my boy," another pity-filled voice responded. Pity, she hated that emotion. Nobody had a right to pity her! She needed no man's pity.

"Go check if your father has returned with the physician," the pity-filled voice belonging to an older lady said, and the scrambling of feet, the sound of the door opening and closing told her the young boy had gone to carry out the command.

"What dream is this?" Martha was supposed to be getting rid of her husband and his vile mother, not be

Weeks had passed since Martha had been couped up in that little room recovering from the wounds on a body she was still struggling to adjust into and learning to get used to being called Mary, a name so foreign to her. She hadn't spoken in weeks, the sound of the voice coming out of her throat was not hers and it was difficult to get used to. The strange faces she couldn't recognize at first slowly began to become faces she got a little comfort seeing especially the little boy, but she hated the life she was living, one of poverty and lack.

Whoever brought her here could at least have given her a better life, not this poor miserable life in the body of a weak girl, a bastard at that. She had been told this morning that she was being called at the main house by the lady of the house, her supposed father's wife. From what was described to her by the little boy, she was wicked, at least to him.

Lady Winston hated the girl whose body she was in and she could see why. This girl Mary was a

Chapter 5