The first thing I see when I open my eyes is an unfamiliar ceiling. It's white, grungy at the corners, and not textured like the stairwell at all. The grunge, like black soot collected in the edges, makes me think that this isn't a hospital and it most certainly isn't my apartment with its yellowing paint. So where am I? Nowhere I can place off the tip of my tongue, that's for sure.

  Something moves out of the corner of my eye and I flinch automatically away. Big mistake, as the movement causes agony to shoot through my head and back. I hiss and the movement stops as if contemplating something. "So, you are hurt after all," comes the low voice of a woman as identifiable as the room's ceiling. "I thought the others were just exaggerating."

  I squint against the pain and turn my aching head to look at the source of the voice. A prim and proper woman in a strict black dress looks back at me, unimpressed by my actions. I had fallen off of a flight of stairs, so I can't even really defend myself much. It's not exactly the most glamorous reason to need medical care. I have so many questions that it's hard to pick where to start. Who is this woman? Where am I? What 'others' is she talking about?

  All that manages to leave my mouth is a succinct "Huh?"

  This is clearly the wrong thing to say to this austere woman. She purses her wrinkled lips, equally wrinkled old hands folding over her front gracefully, and that low voice sounds disappointed in me as she sighs. "Foolish girl, did you rattle your brain when you fell? Speak up in complete sentences if you wish to be understood."

  I clear my dry as sandpaper throat to try again. "Who are you," I manage after a few disgraceful stops and starts. "And where am I?"

  For a moment, it looks as if the woman pities me. But that moment passes as quick as a breath. "You really must have hit your head to have forgotten that much. I am Mrs. Galina, the head housekeeper. Your employer." From the way she says it, it's like she's doubting her initial estimation of the severity of my head injuries.

  I'm doubting it too. Mostly because I would remember going from call center work to suddenly being employed by such a thing as a head housekeeper. My boss is a heavy-set woman named Antoinette, pale from too much time spent indoors, who dresses like the '60s were the height of business casual fashion. I can't say that I dislike her, as that's too strong of a word to apply to someone so milquetoast, but we certainly aren't on casual speaking terms. But who even still has a head housekeeper in this day and age? And who would waste their money like that living in the small city of Pendleton? "Okay. Uh, I thought I was unemployed." My mouth can only manage croaks, dry as it is, but at least I'm trying.

  Mrs. Galina takes pity on me. Or she's annoyed by the croaking. It's hard to tell with that strict scowl of hers. Either way, she gets up to pour me a cup of water from a wooden pitcher beside the bed I find myself laying on. She hands me the wooden cup carefully, making sure that I don't drop it all over myself, and waits for me to drink.

  I sit up, struggling to scoot up the pillows, and greedily gulp down the room temperature water. It's weirdly satisfying, metallic taste and all. My throat instantly feels better, even if my back and head still ache.

  Mrs. Galina takes the empty cup from me and sets it back down on the nightstand. She looks down at me, a pitying expression on her pickled face. "You've been employed here for several years. Do you truly not remember that?" She settles herself down on the side of the bed, taking my hand in hers. "Tell me, girl, do you remember your name?" Mrs. Galina looks so serious as she asks that I can't help but get concerned.

  Do I remember my name? I should hope so. I open my mouth and all that comes out is a weak cough. That's apparently enough for Mrs. Galina to get the wrong idea entirely.

  She frowns all the deeper. "Your name is Mariya and you have been a maid in the Dauphin's residence for the past five years." My name is Mariya? When did that happen? Apparently around the same time I started working for the Dauphin, for all I know.

  Wait, the Dauphin? There are no Dauphins in Pendleton, no nobles whatsoever in this modern democratic country. There hasn't been a singular Dauphin in generations, not since the French Revolution. There is a Dauphin in A Song of Ash and Bone, but that's a fantasy novel and not reality. I'd gotten into this whole new novel series about a necromancer turned detective and her harem of attractive and powerful men, one of whom was the Dauphin, some pretty heavy reading that I'd like nothing more than to finish.

  It's a heavy read partially because the author writes like they're trying to win an academic award and partially because the novel is so cavalier with the characters' lives. There is no guarantee that any character will survive. But, even if they do die, the odds were high that the character will just end up resurrected by the female lead and added into her harem. It's such a convoluted mess.

  My delay and silence made Mrs. Galina pat my hand awkwardly. "Poor dear. You've suffered tremendously from your accident. I'm told you fell from the top landing and had quite the concussion afterward. I suppose we'll just have to add amnesia onto your maladies."

  "If this is a prank, it's not a very good one," I mutter darkly. I barely even read the first book, so I'm not the best person to pull this on. That was the wrong thing to say.

  Mrs. Galina sighed as if deeply put out. "I can assure you, girl, pranks of any kind are far beneath me. Now, I will give you grace considering your current condition. You may have the weekend to recover, but I expect you back to work after the morning bells." With that, Mrs. Galina pats my hand one last time before rising to leave with more grace than I'd expected from such an elderly woman.

  When she leaves, I flop uselessly back onto the bed.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  What is going on?

  ***

  I'm beginning to have the sneaking suspicion that something isn't quite right here. The names, the dress code, everything here is suspicious. I've read enough books to know this is one hell of a prank. Unless it isn't. In which case I'm some kind of a fool and I'm not prepared for this in the slightest. I never even finished the first book. There were more after that one and I'd just started reading the first one in the series.

  If this is a prank about A Song of Ash and Bone? They picked the wrong person to do it to. I'm not a super-fan of the writing or anything else in it and possession of a book at the time of an accident doesn't make one a die-hard fan. I'm not the right person to prank like this.

  Someone brings me breakfast and dinner while I rest, recovering in bed from my nasty fall. There's still a giant knot on the back of my head by the time Monday rolls around, but I can move around without much suffering and that's what matters in the long run. Especially if I'm expected to clean some kind of palace. If this isn't a prank (which is growing more and more likely the longer I'm here), then it wouldn't be a good idea to start by being seen as a slacker.

  My sole definitive proof that this isn't a prank at all comes from my reflection. No matter how good a prank is, it can't cover the reflection in the bottom of my cup of water. See, here's the thing: my eyes are brown. There's no changing that overnight to a muddy green. It's just not physically possible. I could excuse the smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose with makeup and the long copper color of my hair with dye and extensions. But my eyes?

  There's no explaining my eyes. Not after wiping away at them so hard the whites turned red and still they stayed the same muddy green, no sign of contact lenses. Therefore, faced with all of this evidence, I have no choice but to conclude that this might not be a prank. It could still be a prank that got grossly out of control, but it's growing more and more likely that it isn't.

  Mrs. Galina said that I needed to go back to work on Monday and so back to work I go, despite never working here in my life. Or is it Mariya's life that's in question here? It's hard to tell which is which in this complete mess. I've spent the last two day sin bed, healing from falling from the stairs, and I'm bored to tears of just sitting around in slowly decreasing pain. It's time to figure out if this is, in fact, a very elaborate prank or not.

  The only clothes in the little room that I woke up in are straight out of an Edwardian period piece. There are two maid uniforms in the closet, navy blue with white pinafores and long skirts, and a single bright green dress that looks like it rarely gets any use. If this isn't a prank, then I get the feeling that Mariya doesn't get the chance to get out much. I'm still hoping that this is a prank, because the alternative is starting to look depressing.

  But if this isn't a prank and I'm stuck like this? I refuse to ruin things right out of the gate.

  I get dressed in the deceptively simple maid uniform and head out of what it my room now, careful to remember where I had started. Locking the door behind me with a heavy metal key that I found in the nightstand drawer, I make my way down the stairs to the kitchen. Someone will put me to work or won't, it makes no difference to me. What matters is that I go along with this, for now.

  The stairs lead straight down all the way to a bustling kitchen area filled with more maids and other staff than a production budget for a full scale movie could cover. This is the servant's mess, clearly, because there's no reason for so many people to congregate in this one room before the sun is even really in the sky. The morning bell rings at dawn and the giant grandfather clock against the wall says that it's five.

  Nobody leaves the long tables to greet me. In fact, it's like nobody even cares. If this isn't a prank, then that's downright depressing. Poor Mariya. Nobody even cared to notice that she, or rather I, is back.

  At least, not until a bright-looking young man waves me over. "Over here, Mariya!" He looks younger than me, tanned from probably working outside, and smiles broadly enough that even I can tell that he's happy to see me. His hair is a mess of brown curls, his smile gap-toothed, and I have no idea who he is. Ostensibly, he's Mariya's friend and that makes him mine as well.

  He clears the spot next to him on the bench and pats it companionably. "I saved you a seat." It's surprising how cheerful this strange young man is at the crack of dawn and I sympathize with his neighbors who are just trying to have their breakfast in peace. I make my way across the cafeteria to him, swinging my legs over the bench to sit beside this stranger. "Here, let me help you." He grabs a bowl and begins loading it down with porridge from a communal pot in the middle of the table, then hands it to me.

  It's a surprising amount of kindness from a complete stranger. It warms the very cockles of my heart to see it directed at me. "Thanks," I mutter as I take the bowl.

  The young man looks expectantly at me as if he's waiting for something, face falling when it doesn't magically happen. "So it's true then, what they're saying? You really did lose your memory." He shakes his head as if such negative thoughts are beneath him. "But you have to remember me at least."

  There's no point in lying to the man. "Sorry, I don't. I didn't even remember my own name. Well, I know it now." How far are they willing to go for a prank. "Should I remember you? Were you like, my best friend?"

  He looks so crestfallen that it feels as if I've kicked a puppy. "It's me, Dmitri. We grew up together in Westham." My blank stare makes him deflate all the more. Whatever answer he was expecting, that wasn't it. "You do remember that, don't you?"

  I remember nothing of the sort. I, after all, was born and raised in Pendleton and honestly thought I would die there. If I'm right, then I really did die there, back on the stairwell leading to my apartment. But I'm not about to tell Dmitri that and have him think that I'm completely insane. I feel insane just thinking about this. The fact that I've even entertaining the thought of somehow dying and coming back to life inside the world of a novel? Madness.

  Dmitri takes my silence as a clear indicator to continue giving me Mariya's entire character background in brief as I shovel porridge into my face. "Your name is Mariya Sinclair and you were born in Westham. Your favorite color is green and your—."

  I cut him off with a wave of my spoon. "I get it. Childhood best friends, you know everything about me that I don't remember." I won't ever remember it, either, because this isn't my life to remember. I am not Mariya Sinclair but I am now, until proven otherwise, but that doesn't mean that I'm obligated to live my life exactly the same. I don't know this man and he doesn't know me. That doesn't mean that we can't be civil about it.

  Dmitri looks at me like a sad puppy some more and I guiltily look away from him, unable to stand those watery eyes. Poor man. His friend doesn't exist and, here I am, making light of it. "Oh. So you already remembered that? That's good at least." He smiles again, wobbly at the edges, and I can't help but think that he's just putting on a brave face to mask the pain of being dismissed so casually.

  For awhile, we eat in silence, trying to be as quick as possible. We have jobs to get to, whatever those may be. I'm pretty confident in my ability to at least clean a room. Cleaning is cleaning no matter what the scenario is, right? This is what maids do, isn't it?