Prologue

"You're impossible, Megan!"

My father's voice thundered through the house, but I barely flinched. I'd heard it all before—how reckless I was, how I never listened, how I was a disgrace compared to Amber. It was the same script, just a different day.

"Why do you care now?" I snapped, crossing my arms. "You barely even talk to us unless it's to scold me!"

His jaw tightened, his hands clenching at his sides. "Because you're throwing your life away!"

I scoffed. "No, Dad. I'm just living it."

"Living? You call this living?" He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Partying all night, skipping school, disrespecting your teachers? You're better than this, Maria Georgianne."

I hated when he used my full name. It felt like a reminder that I wasn't just Maria—I carried something more, something heavy, something I didn't understand.

"You sound just like Amber," I muttered.

"Amber actually cares about her future!"

That one hit harder than I wanted it to. Not because it wasn't true, but because I hated being compared to my perfect twin. The good daughter. The smart one. The one who never disappointed him.

I clenched my fists. "Maybe if Mom was still here, she wouldn't be so damn hard on me."

Silence.

The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

My father's face darkened, his eyes flashing with something I couldn't decipher—pain, anger, maybe both. "Go to your room," he said, his voice quieter but sharper than before.

I didn't move. "Why do you never talk about her?" I demanded. "Just because she's gone, really? You act like she was never alive!"

His expression shut down completely. "Go. To. Your. Room."

But I didn't. I turned on my heel and stormed out of the house instead.

I showed up at the biggest party of the year, drowning my anger in music and cheap alcohol. Neon lights flashed across the sweaty crowd, bass shaking the walls. I danced, laughed, and pretended I didn't care.

By the time I stumbled back home, the sun was rising. My father was waiting.

He didn't yell this time. He just gave me a look, the kind that made my stomach churn. "Pack your bags," he said simply.

"What?" I groaned. "Seriously?"

"You're going to your grandmother's. Maybe some time away will make you think about your life choices."

"Are you serious? There's no WiFi there!"

He didn't budge. "Go. Now."

Amber and Klare exchanged glances but said nothing. They knew better than to argue when Dad made up his mind.

I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Whatever."

The car ride to our grandmother's house was long, quiet, and boring.

I slumped in the back seat, arms crossed, watching trees blur past the window. No WiFi. No escape. Just the endless hum of the car and the occasional rustle of Amber flipping through one of her thick history books.

"You're acting like we're going to a prison," Klare said from the front seat, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

I sighed dramatically. "We are going to a prison. A prison with no WiFi, no parties, and a grandmother who probably thinks a smartphone is a tiny television."

Amber rolled her eyes. "You could use a break from your phone, Meg. And what prison has a WiFi, and parties?"

I shot her a glare. "And you could use a break from being a walking encyclopedia, but here we are."

Klare snorted, trying to hide her laughter behind her hand. "She's got a point, Amber. You're taking a history book to our grandmother's house. That's like bringing sand to the beach."

Amber shut her book with a sigh. "Unlike some people, I actually care about learning. It wouldn't kill you to pay attention in class, you know?"

"It might," I said. "That's why I avoid it."

Klare laughed. "Okay, but to be honest. This whole trip is a punishment for you, Megan. Dad wasn't exactly subtle about that."

"Don't remind me," I grumbled, kicking the back of Klare's seat. "This is all because he refuses to talk about Mom. How is that fair?"

Amber's face softened slightly. "Maybe he has his reasons."

"Maybe he should stop treating me like some failure and actually answer my questions."

Klare sighed. "Look, I get why you're mad, but maybe spending time with Grandma won't be so bad. At least she's nice."

I scoffed. "She also called me María Georgiana the last time we visited. That was weird."

Amber hummed in thought. "She does that a lot, huh?"

"She's just old," Klare said with a shrug. "Old people mix up names."

"Yeah, well, she doesn't mix up your names," I pointed out.

That was true. No matter how much time passed, no matter how many times we corrected her, she would just say Georgiana. It's Georgianne, not Georgiana. That sounds so rustic and ancient.

And for some reason, that made me uneasy.

"Whatever," I muttered, slumping back in my seat. "Let's just get this over with."

Amber sighed but didn't argue. Klare just turned up the music, letting the conversation fade into silence until we arrived.

Grandmother's house was exactly as I remembered—old, creaky, and way too quiet.

She welcomed us with open arms, her silver hair neatly tied back, her wrinkled hands soft but strong as she hugged us. "Oh, my sweet girls," she murmured. "It's been too long."

I faked a smile, already dreading the week ahead.

But then she pulled back and looked at me. And her eyes—blue and sharp like ice—filled with something strange.

"María Georgiana."

I blinked. "What?"

She touched my face gently, her eyes misty. "You look just like her…"

"Like who?"

She smiled sadly. "Come, child. I have something to show you."

I followed her into the sitting room, where an old wooden chest sat beside the fireplace. She knelt and opened it, pulling out a faded photograph.

I took it, my fingers brushing against the edges. My breath hitched.

The woman in the picture… she looked exactly like me.

Same dark hair, same sharp eyes, same face.

"Who is this?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Her name was María Georgiana Salviari," Grandmother said. "She lived over a hundred years ago."

A chill ran down my spine. "And?"

"And," she said softly, "she died for love."

"María Georgiana lived in an ancient town, where love was dictated by power and alliances. But she fell in love with the wrong man. A Roman. The town turned against her, and with nowhere left to go, she threw herself into the Red River."

I frowned. "That's a little dramatic, don't you think?"

Grandmother just gave me a knowing look. "Some stories are more than just myths, child."

Amber was listening intently, fascinated as always. Klare just shrugged.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that this story meant something more.

The next morning, in history class, I refused to listen. That was until my teacher mentioned something.

"The Red River," she said, "was once believed to be cursed. Some say a woman took her own life there, and her spirit still lingers, waiting."

My breath caught.

Was it the same river from Grandmother's story?

That afternoon, I decided to find out.

I stood on the bridge, staring down at what was now nothing more than an empty riverbed. No water, no blood—just cracked earth and overgrown weeds.

"Some legend they say," I muttered.

But then—

I heard a whisper.

"The past…the past."

A chill crawled up my spine. Who was that?

And before I could turn—

Someone pushed me.

I gasped as I tumbled over the railing, my scream swallowed by the wind.

I braced for impact. For pain.

But instead—

The world shifted.

The sky darkened. The air thickened. My body felt weightless, like I was falling through time itself.

And then—

I wasn't in 2025 anymore.

I was standing in a bustling town square, my dress heavy, my hair pinned in elaborate curls. My heart pounded. My breath came in shallow gasps.

And when I caught my reflection in a glass window.

I wasn't Maria Georgianne Salvia anymore.

I am María Georgiana Salviari.

And this was the year 1880.