Despite her best intentions, Aliya remained in bed and in a trance the first ten days. And she had a cold.

In Ella's books, when characters found themselves in a parallel world, they just shrugged their shoulders and marched off to change it however they wanted. They made it look easy. Aliya didn't believe life worked that way. And she didn't really read Ella's fantasy books; she just flipped through them at night when she wanted to fall asleep. It helped. Now, however, she was sorry she hadn't read more about time travelers Those unfortunate wretches. If she had, she would at least know where to start.

As it was, she was clueless, and her inability to find a starting point left her in a dark depression. Besides, she couldn't stop worrying about lice and fleas. Somewhere, she had read that French women used to use gold tweezers to catch fleas; just the thought made her nauseous. So, her only demands were hot water for a bath every day and a daily change of sheets. Close inspections of her hair revealed no insects; that was good news.

Aliya wanted to stay in bed as long as she could. She usually didn't allow herself to fall to pieces like this, but her body hurt like nothing she had experienced before. Just getting out of bed to take a bath was an ordeal; her muscles shook, sweat stood out on her skin, and she felt dizzy. She was in the wrong world in the wrong body, and those two things came with side effects—muscle spasms, for example, or sudden fits of hysterical crying. Common sense told her that there was nothing to cry about, but the tears just streamed down her face.

She had strange nightmares... in bright colors... about a little girl.

She sat at a table while an oddly familiar woman pleaded with her.

"Eat a spoonful for Mama, eat a spoonful for Papa."

"I don't want to!" she complained. "Leave me alone, Nanny!"

Porridge and spoon fly off the table, but, instead of boxing her ears like Aliya would have been tempted to do, the nanny picks her up and continues to plead with her. "Lily, my dear, my angel..."

Then the picture changes.

Grown-up Lilian is watching a dream as if it were a movie on television. She sees the same girl at five, at seven, at ten... She throws tantrums, tries on new dresses, argues, demands something, hits a servant in the face, screams at a tired old man.

Somehow, Aliya knew that the old man is Lilian's father. The dream was unpleasant, but Aliya couldn't turn it off. Then the picture changed, swimming up out of a dark pool of memories.

"Daughter, the Earl of Earton has asked for your hand in marriage."

"The earl?"

"Yes. I have decided to give my consent."

"Didn't it occur to you to ask my opinion? Is he old and horrible?"

"The earl is young and very handsome."

That doesn't stop her; she yells and throws something that looks like a vase. Her father holds firm. The picture changed again.

An engagement party. She saw a handsome young man with long, dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a hard, muscular body... She also saw distaste in his eyes. He bent down to hand her a bouquet of flowers. He said something to her. Her heart is racing so fast she's afraid he can hear it.

Is this really my husband? To have and to hold, for better and for worse...

The young man's lips touched her plump hand. Her cheeks grew suspiciously warm. But his eyes remained cold and unemotional. He just didn't care about any of this. He was indifferent, and that scared her.

She was also scared of the wedding night. When the time came, she blew out all the candles. Her young husband stubbed his toe on a piece of furniture and cursed. Then he lights a candle.

"Please don't," she begged him.

"Why? Do you think being in the dark will give me feelings for you?"

She froze. Her husband went on, his tone lethal. "I'm not attracted to you in the least, but I have to have an heir. Your job is to lie still and keep your mouth shut. Maybe that way, I won't feel so nauseous."

She couldn't remember what came next. She just remembered the humiliation... and the sharp pain between her legs that she felt after each visit from her husband.

She was like a second-rate purebred mare—not a person, not a lover, not even a wife.

She was just a vessel he would use to obtain an heir.

Icy, black despair rolled over her.

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