I couldn't quite remember what happened after they picked me up. Just a few vague fragments: a garden, some kind of gazebo, a bathtub full of water... I slowly drifted back to consciousness with a severe headache, a faint sensation of cold in my right foot, and a disgusting irritation and sour taste in my mouth. I think I threw up after all.

  At least this time I was in a bed—not digging in the dirt on a garden path.

  I opened my eyes, and for a moment, the world around me was once again a jumble of blurry, colorful spots. Which, of course, made the headache worse. But once my eyes adjusted, the pain eased a little. I was able to look around the room I found myself in.

  The bedroom was quite spacious, but utterly gloomy. Dark gray walls with a few paintings of mountain landscapes. A massive chest of drawers, a pair of tall cabinets, and a nightstand next to the bed. A small vanity, with an open book on it, and several chairs along one wall. A jet-black cardigan hung over one of them. I hadn't noticed it at first—all the furniture in the room was also black.

  The bed itself was wide, with a dark burgundy canopy. Curtains of the same color almost completely covered the window across from me, leaving only a narrow opening through which a ray of sunlight dared to pierce.

  The whole place looked like a movie set about an aristocratic recluse. But even to my eye, it exuded luxury—restrained, refined, and not pompous, just for show. But... everything was so gloomy, oppressive. I felt like I was in some kind of dark box or egg, and the faint sliver of light only intensified the feeling. A tiny, fragile crack of light.

  I wasn't claustrophobic, but I still felt uneasy. It was nothing compared to the panic I'd experienced earlier, but a certain anxiety and tightness in my chest returned.

  I just wanted to get out of bed and go somewhere far away from everything, despite my discomfort. If this really was some king of prank, I’d make sure the culprit heard exactly what I thought of it—and none of it would be pretty.

  Throwing back the blanket and dangling my legs, I remembered the abrasions and soreness in my right foot, and decided to examine myself first.

  My feet were clean—but oddly pale—and neatly bandaged. Something bulged beneath the bandages on my right foot. I touched it with my finger and pressed it slightly – it was cool and resembled a bag of small granules. But I didn't feel any pain in my leg. That was good.

  My hands had been treated too, and instead of the torn nightgown, I was wearing a new one, a pale blue one. Someone had taken good care of me, but I was still irritated by this stupid prank. And the thought that someone had changed my clothes here made me very uncomfortable.

  The desire to get away from here as far as possible grew stronger.

  But as soon as I rose from the pillows, the bedroom door opened and in walked… a woman in a maid's uniform, holding a tray.

  I remained sitting there with the edge of the blanket lifted, staring at her, puzzled. She, too, looked at me somewhat confused, but the next moment a soft smile appeared on her round, freckled face. The maid went to the table to leave the tray there, then began to work on the curtains. I took a few seconds to examine the items on the tray: a pitcher, a glass, a small box, and a folded towel. The box made me uneasy. I instinctively tightened my grip on the blanket.

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  “You gave us quite a fright, my lady,” the woman's voice was soft. I merely nodded in response, somewhat taken aback by being addressed as ‘my lady’. A strange picture was starting to form in my mind: a garden, a room like from a mansion, a maid... The latter was completely unaware of my thoughts and simply poured water into a glass, and then picked up the box.

  The more I saw, the more it felt like someone had taken this prank way too far. It was even a little creepy. I didn't know where I was, why all this was happening, or who exactly could have done it.

  I must have looked quite sick, because the maid looked at me with a hint of concern. She adjusted her red braid and continued speaking, opening the box:

  “Isaac warned us about this, but apparently one of the newcomers wasn't paying attention. Luckily, you didn't stray far from the mansion, and Isaac was able to find you in the garden before your condition worsened... I beg your pardon, my lady, but your humble Fimi will definitely deal with the girl who failed to keep an eye on you…”

  The woman who introduced herself as Fimi explained everything calmly, but I still found it difficult to concentrate on her words. She certainly played the role of a servant well. But damn, it was all so irritating. I didn't remember anyone named Fimi or Isaac, and I doubted they were their real names.

  I sighed and run my fingers through my hair—and froze. I gripped one strand tighter, running my hand through it... So I wasn't imagining it that time in the garden. Long, much longer than usual. Darker, thicker, a little more wavy…

  Whoever the hell this prankster is, put a wig on me? Who's that idiot?

  “Okay, whose idea was this?” I asked as calmly as I could, looking at Fimi. But I apparently couldn't keep the coldness out of my voice—the maid was taken aback.

  “An idea? What idea, my lady?” she asked, blinking in confusion.

  Somehow, I didn't lose my temper right then. I wasn't usually known for my temper, but fatigue, a headache, and the whole situation had gotten me downright worked up.

  “The garden, this room…”, I continued in the same tone. The words ‘props’ and ‘sets’ were on the tip of my tongue, but I didn't say them. “This whole utterly unfunny joke with ‘my lady’, the mansions, and the wigs…”

  I tried to yank the ‘wig’ off, but pain shot through my scalp. I didn't even understand why, and I yanked again. Tears welled up in my eyes.

  Fimi immediately rushed to me, exclaiming, “My lady, please don't!”

  She grabbed my hands, quietly apologizing, and tried to pry my fingers away. I noticed the maid's movements were somehow cautious, tense. She was seriously scared. But it was only a wig…

  However, I wasn't so sure anymore.

  “Oh, gods… it seems Isaac underestimated the afteraffects,” Fimi continued worriedly. She managed to pry my fingers loose, and only then did I feel a slight tremor and stiffness in them. After making sure I no longer tried to tug at my hair, she added, “My lady, I'll call him now; he should know what to do. For now, take this medicine…”

  Fimi reached for the box on the tray.

  Even though I didn't understand what was happening, and anxiety was growing inside me again, in that second, a clear understanding formed in my mind: there was no way I was taking any medicine in a place I didn’t even recognize.

  “No,” I said suddenly, sharply. “No medications.” After that answer, a thought occurred to me. “But I'd like to talk to Isaac.”

  Whether it was a fake name or some unfamiliar person I didn't remember—which I doubted—I hoped something would become clear once I saw his face. I wouldn't be surprised if Isaac actually turned out to be one of my colleagues. And if he was the one behind the prank, then... I definitely won't hold back.

  I continued to stare at Fimi until she nodded hesitantly, as if expecting me to start pulling at my hair again, and left the room.

  Fatigue washed over me, as if the whole wig thing and my last words had drained all my strength. I leaned back against the pillows to catch my breath before Isaac arrived.