My eyes won't open. 　Precisely speaking, they are open. A thin light filters through. But something feels wrong. Very wrong. 　The ceiling is too high. 　In my previous life, the ceiling of my six-mat apartment was low enough to touch if I stretched. Yet now, the stone ceiling stretching across my vision is distant, with decorated beams crossing it multiple times, and morning light streaming through narrow windows. A linen curtain sways. I smell wind. The damp scent of earth and grass. （...Where is this?） 　The word "previous life" came naturally to me, and somewhere I observed myself objectively. In my previous life, I was Tanaka Alice, twenty-seven years old, an office worker in the accounting department of a major trading company. I went to work at seven every morning and came home on the last train or the one before it—five years of that routine. Monthly settlements, quarterly reports, audit responses. Every day was a battle with numbers. 　My last memory was—a late-night office. 　The white light of fluorescent bulbs. Stacks of invoices piled high. Three hundred journal entries I hadn't entered yet. Six hours until the deadline. My eyes were dry. Even after three cups of coffee, the drowsiness wouldn't lift, and my fingertips were strangely cold. 　Then my vision blurred. 　Slowly. Like ink dropped in water, darkening from the edges. I only felt myself collapsing from my chair. After that, nothing. （I think I thought I was dead.） 　The moment I remembered, something tightened in my chest. But my heart is beating. Properly, rhythmically. My lungs are working. I can breathe. 　I'm alive. 　The moment that reality sank in, something leaked from my throat. A pathetic sound—neither laughter nor crying. I hurriedly covered my mouth. I was lying on a large bed. 　I pushed myself up and looked around. 　The room was vast. Three or four of my previous apartment would fit inside. The furniture was heavy wood, and old portraits hung on the walls. A mirror on the vanity reflected the window's light. 　—A mirror. 　For some reason, I was afraid. But I felt I had to look. 　I got out of bed. My bare feet touched cold stone. Unsteady, I stood before the mirror. 　A stranger's face was there. 　...No, the facial structure was certainly beautiful. High cheekbones, a straight nose, well-shaped lips. But the hair was different. In my previous life, I had black short hair, neatly trimmed with a slight inward curl. Yet the girl in the mirror had golden hair down to her waist, spread out messily from bedhead. And her eyes—a deep brown. Large pupils framed by delicate lashes. An expression as if frightened of something. （It's not me. But when I move, it moves.） 　I raised my right hand as a test, and the girl in the mirror raised hers too. A slender body, about the same height as before. She wore a white nightgown. 　It took me a while to understand. 　I had been reincarnated. Apparently, that's what happened. 　As I stared blankly at the mirror, a knock came at the door. "Miss Alicia, oversleeping again?" 　A woman's voice. But without warmth. Businesslike, even faintly cold. Not quite contempt, but clearly the feeling of "here we go again." （Alicia, then.） 　My new name, apparently. Alicia Valton. Alice and Alicia sound somewhat similar. Coincidence or fate? 　I had to respond. But how? I had no idea how a noblewoman spoke. "...I'm awake now." 　I answered briefly and safely. From beyond the door came a listless "I see." "I'll be ready shortly. Please wait a moment." 　Another businesslike voice. But the door didn't open. Apparently, she would wait in the hallway. 　Alice—or rather, Alice who had become Alicia—looked in the mirror once more. （First, assess the situation. Don't panic. Gather information.） 　An old habit from my previous life. When panic threatened, I organized the situation first. Emotions could wait. 　This was a stone mansion, a noblewoman's room, with gold-thread embroidery on the bed's canopy. Through the window, I could see blue sky and a small town in the distance. Medieval European-style buildings lined the streets. The faint sound of horse hooves echoed. 　I didn't yet know if this world had magic. But at least there were no fluorescent lights. Candle stands sat in the room. （My previous knowledge might be useful. My accounting knowledge too, probably.） 　That alone steadied me a little. --- 　The maid who came to help me dress was a woman in her early twenties with a sparse expression. She combed my golden hair skillfully without saying anything. I said nothing either. 　Time passed in mutual silence. 　From outside the window, perhaps from the Minol River. I heard the faint sound of flowing water. This town was called Treene, I learned—Alicia's memories slowly seeped through. The center of Valton County. Three days' carriage ride southwest from the capital, Heiligen. （So I became a daughter of House Valton.） 　After the maid finished my hair and left, I heard whispers in the hallway. "Last month alone, four dresses..." 　I heard it. Just one wall away. Completely audible. "Ones worth more than a farmer's yearly income, no less." 　The maid's voice. "I wonder what she'll buy next. Do you know how much trouble Lord Leon in the accounts office goes through?" 　Giggling, then footsteps fading away. 　I gripped the bedding lightly. （Four dresses worth more than a farmer's yearly income, just last month.） 　I didn't yet know exactly how much a farmer earned in this world. But instinctively, I understood this was considerable spending. And the phrase "last month too" suggested this level of expense continued weekly or monthly. （The previous Alicia was really hated.） 　Being despised by servants was serious. The relationship between nobility and servants was fundamentally hierarchical. Yet to be mocked behind one's back meant accumulated resentment. 　I was starting from below zero, I thought. No—worse than that. I was at the bottom of a deep hole. （But I have to start.） 　Complaining wouldn't help. In my previous life, I'd been handed messy ledgers countless times. Organizing them was my job. 　I would build trust from zero—no, from negative. I steeled myself. --- 　At noon, I was called to the great hall. 　The great hall of Valton Manor was a spacious room at the back of the first floor, with a long table and high-backed chairs arranged in rows. Light from the windows fell diagonally across the stone floor, and I could see dust drifting slowly through the air. 　The elderly man seated at the head of the table was my father, Victor—I knew this from Alicia's memories. Fifty-two years old, white-streaked hair, a gentle face. Yet something about him seemed unreliable. His gaze didn't settle. The eyes of someone who wanted to entrust decisions to others. 　Standing at his right was the steward, Galbert. 　Probably in his late fifties. Well-built, with a straight posture and a white-streaked mustache neatly trimmed. He held documents under one arm, a smile plastered on his face. But his eyes didn't smile. The composed bearing of a long-serving servant. （An arithmetician...no, a steward.） 　Alicia's memories told me that in this world, a "steward" handled finances, personnel, and diplomacy—the highest position among servants. It required three or more years of study at an arithmetic academy, and there were only about three hundred fifty in the entire kingdom. Managing ledgers was part of the job. 　The young man seated across from Father Victor—my stepbrother Leon, presumably—had his back to me, so I couldn't see his face. I would face him once the meeting began. 　When I entered, Galbert stood and bowed. "Miss Alicia, we have been awaiting your arrival." 　His voice was low and smooth. Polite. But something caught slightly. Overly perfect courtesy sometimes becomes armor for hiding things. In my previous life, I'd seen accountants like that. Affable, smooth in their explanations, but they managed the ledgers themselves and wouldn't let anyone else touch them. 　I said nothing and sat at the end of the table. 　The meeting began. 　Father Victor spoke about the territory's tax revenue for the year. Galbert supplemented his remarks. My stepbrother Leon interjected with questions occasionally. I listened while absently watching a stack of documents on a shelf in the corner of the room. 　The ledger came to me after a while. "Please review it." 　A thick tome. Leather-bound, with the year embossed on the cover. Galbert had each person review it in turn. 　When it reached my hands, I opened it casually. 　—My eyes stopped. 　I flipped through the pages, and the senses from my previous life awoke quietly but surely. My gaze was drawn to where numbers appeared. The reflex of accounting. Five years of facing hundreds of lines of numbers daily. （Irrigation repair expenses...double compared to last year?） 　I turned back to find last year's figures. Comparing the repair costs side by side. Definitely doubled. But the completion report column that should have been beside it was blank. （Expenses recorded without the work being completed?） 　Next, I checked the total revenue column. Adding the figures in my head quickly. 　—It didn't match. 　The rounding was wrong. The decimal adjustments were in unnatural places, consistently making revenue appear smaller. Not within margin of error. It looked intentional. （The smell of double-entry bookkeeping.） 　I felt a gaze the moment I thought that. 　Galbert. 　For just an instant—truly just an instant—something sharp flickered beneath his smile. A look checking where I was looking in the ledger. （I've been noticed. No—I'm being watched.） 　I slowly closed the ledger. As if nothing had happened, I passed it to the next person. Galbert's voice resumed its smooth flow as he continued speaking with Father Victor. （I have no proof yet.） 　Not yet. --- 　Night fell. 　The mansion was silent. The servants had retired to their rooms, and the hallway candles burned low. Occasionally, wind rattled the windows. The sound of the Minol River drifted faintly from a distance. 　I sat upright on my bed. 　A single candle in my hand. （The ledger vault is at the back of the first floor. It has an iron door. Galbert manages it.） 　I confirmed fragments of Alicia's memories one by one. I knew where the vault was. The key? The key was—I'd heard—in a drawer of the steward's office desk. （I'll move when everyone's asleep. Wait two hours. Probably deep night.） 　I got out of bed. I moved silently down the hallway. The stone floor was cold. The night air was slightly chilly. 　I slipped into the steward's office and searched the desk drawer. The key was there. Three small iron keys bundled together. Which one opened the vault, I'd have to try. 　I moved soundlessly down the hallway to the back of the first floor. 　The vault's iron door was heavier than I expected. The second key fit. A rusty bolt caught with an unpleasant sound. I held my breath. I waited, but no one came. 　I pushed the door open and stepped inside. 　The smell of dust hit my nose. Old paper and mold mixed together. The candle flame flickered, and rows of shelves appeared. Three walls were lined with shelves, and ledgers with years embossed on their spines were packed tightly together. （About two hundred forty volumes...more than thirty years' worth.） 　Where to start? 　I thought for a moment, then pulled out ledgers from three years ago, five years ago, and eight years ago. Long-term fraud always follows a pattern. Patterns only become visible when comparing across years. 　I sat on the floor and arranged the three volumes. I placed the candle nearby and opened the pages. 　I found the repair expenses column. I traced my finger along the numbers. 　—There. 　Three years ago, five years ago, eight years ago—the repair expenses all had "completed" marks. Each year, there was a record of work being done. But. （The next year's ledger has no inherited assets listed.）