"Stop! You'll kill him—" the voice tore itself into the dark, and a riding crop cracked on bone. "Stay still," Grace snapped. "You don't get to pretend you're brave now." "Father—" I tried to speak. The word came out thin, useless. The crop struck again. Pain lanced across my ribs. I tasted metal and old dust. My past life memories hit like sudden light: a study lamp overturned, lacquered inkstone shattering, a paper with someone else’s handwriting—then a face I could no longer wear. I did not narrate how I died. I remembered a pattern and moved. "Open your eyes," Grace ordered. I opened them. The bedchamber blurred, the lantern flickered, and Ernest Coleman's boots thudded on the floor outside, muffled by the door. He was already talking to someone unseen, bargaining in staccato bursts. "Is he awake?" Ernest barked. "Don't damage him. He must save face." "Save face?" Grace repeated. Her voice was a blade. "You trade your son's ribs for a favor?" "Do you want me disgraced?" Ernest demanded. "I want him alive," Grace said. She stepped closer. Her hand took mine with a grip that hurt in a good way. "Rohan, listen. Move your left hand to the hem." I did it. My fingers scraped satin. I felt the fabric of another name, another life sewn into the seams. One memory slammed into place: a hairpin hidden in a sash during a midnight exam hall escape, nimble fingers, the