A week into my new life as Dianella, and I still kept reaching for a smartphone that didn't exist. The cognitive whiplash was brutal—one moment I was Jane Wright, running a two-million-dollar con on a tech billionaire, and now I was Dianella Veronese, the sickly daughter of a deceased blacksmith in some backwater village called Elmbrook in the Kingdom of Rosenfels. Year 1583. No electricity, no internet, and definitely no indoor plumbing.
This has to be some kind of cosmic joke.
I sat up on my straw mattress, wincing at the lingering soreness in my muscles. The fever had passed, but the reality of my situation remained. Through snippets of conversation and careful questioning that wouldn't make me sound completely insane, I'd pieced together the basics of Dianella's life.
"You're finally looking better," Mary said, entering our one-room cottage with a basket of laundry. She was Dianella's sister—my sister now, I supposed—older by four years and already married to the miller's son. "Mother says you can come help with the washing tomorrow if you're up to it."
Washing. Great. From high-stakes cons to scrubbing clothes in a river.
"Thanks," I mumbled, watching her hang linens near our small hearth. Our home was barely more than a wooden box—dirt floor, thatched roof, and just enough room for three straw mattresses, a table, and the cooking area. The walls were bare except for a few simple tools and a small wooden cross.
"The tax collector came by again," Mary said quietly, glancing toward the door to make sure our mother wasn't nearby. "He says if we don't pay by month's end, they'll take the cottage."
I felt a familiar tightness in my chest. "How much do we owe?"
"Ten silver marks. Might as well be a thousand for all we can afford."
Ten silver marks. I'd already learned that was roughly six months' wages for someone in our position. Our father had borrowed money for medicine before he died, and the interest had been piling up.
"What about your husband? Can't Thomas help?" I asked.
Mary's face darkened. "He barely makes enough at the mill. And his father won't give us a copper penny—says father's debt isn't their concern."
Of course. Family drama is apparently timeless.
I looked around our meager home. In my past life, I'd had a luxury apartment in Manhattan with a view of Central Park. I'd worn designer clothes, eaten at Michelin-starred restaurants, and slept on sheets with thread counts higher than most people's credit scores.
Now, I was back to poverty—the very thing I'd spent my whole life trying to escape.
Growing up in Chicago's worst neighborhood, Jane Wright had learned early that being poor was a sentence no one deserved. I'd clawed my way out the only way I knew how—by taking from those who had too much and giving to myself. Five years of successful cons had built me a fortune.
And now? Back to square one.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
"Where's Mother?" I asked, pushing myself up from the mattress.
"At the market, trying to sell her embroidery. She thinks she might get a copper or two for it." Mary's tone said exactly what she thought of those chances.
I hobbled to the small window, my legs still unsteady. Outside, Elmbrook was exactly what you'd expect from a Renaissance village—muddy streets, thatched cottages, people in homespun clothes going about their business. In the distance, I could see the stone manor house on the hill where Lord Blackwell, our local nobleman, lived in relative splendor while the rest of us scraped by.
Some things never change. The rich living high while everyone else suffers.
My frustration grew with each passing hour. I'd spent years perfecting the art of the con, learning how to read people, how to manipulate situations to my advantage. All that skill and knowledge, and here I was in a time when women were property and most people couldn't even read.
"The Harvest Festival is in three days," Mary said, interrupting my thoughts. "Maybe Mother can sell more embroidery there."
Festival. People gathering. Money changing hands.
Something sparked in my mind—that familiar tingle I used to get when spotting a mark.
"Tell me about this festival," I said, trying to sound casual.
Mary shrugged. "Same as every year. Everyone from the surrounding villages comes to trade and celebrate before winter. There'll be dancing, food, merchants..." Her voice trailed off. "Not that we can afford any of it."
"Lord Blackwell attends?" I asked.
"Of course. He opens the festival and judges the competitions." Mary gave me a curious look. "Why do you ask?"
"Just wondering." I traced patterns in the dust on the windowsill. "And other wealthy people come too?"
"Some merchants, the Bishop's representative, maybe a few minor nobles passing through." Mary narrowed her eyes. "Dianella, what are you thinking? You have that same look Father had when he was about to make a terrible decision."
I smiled despite myself. Apparently, Dianella had inherited something from her father after all.
"Nothing. Just curious."
Mary didn't look convinced, but she returned to her laundry. "Just rest. Mother will be back soon, and you need to recover your strength."
I nodded, but my mind was already racing.
That night, as Mother and Mary slept, I sat by the dying embers of our fire, thinking. Mother had returned empty-handed from the market—no one wanted to spend money on embroidery when winter supplies were more pressing. The desperation in her eyes when she thought no one was looking had been painfully familiar.
You didn't escape poverty just to end up poor in another century.
During dinner—a watery stew with more water than vegetables—I'd carefully asked questions about Lord Blackwell, the tax collector, and the Harvest Festival. Each answer had filled in another piece of the puzzle I was assembling.
Lord Blackwell was in his fifties, a widower with a gambling problem and a fondness for young women. The tax collector, a man named Harold Griggs, was known for taking bribes to lower assessments. And the Harvest Festival would bring together the wealthiest people in the region, all looking to show off and be entertained.
It's almost too easy.
Conning people in 1583 wouldn't be that different from 2025, I figured. People were still people. They still had the same weaknesses, the same blind spots. Greed, lust, pride—these things hadn't changed in centuries.
I'd been Jane Wright, after all. The woman who could talk her way into exclusive parties and out of police stations. The woman who had nearly convinced a tech billionaire to hand over two million dollars for a company that didn't exist.
If I could do that in New York, I can certainly run a few simple schemes in a Renaissance village.
The problem was capital. Every good con needed seed money, a way to look the part. In this world, Dianella had nothing of value except...
I touched my face, feeling the unfamiliar features. Dianella was pretty—I'd gathered that much from the way the blacksmith's apprentice stammered when he'd brought me an apple earlier that day. And beauty was a currency all its own.
No. Not going down that road.
There had to be another way. I mentally inventoried our cottage again. There was Mother's sewing box, a few copper cooking pots, Father's old tools...
Wait. The tools.
I crept to the corner where a small chest contained the remnants of Father's blacksmith equipment—hammers, tongs, a few small knives. Not valuable enough to sell, Mother had said, but too precious to discard.
Among them was a small leather pouch. Inside, I found what I was looking for—a set of small chisels and etching tools. The kind used for delicate metalwork.
Perfect.
By morning, I had my plan. It was risky—if caught, I'd face punishment far worse than jail time in the 21st century. But the alternative was watching Mother lose her home, possibly being separated from the only people who knew me in this world.
And honestly? I was tired of being poor. Again.
"You look better today," Mother said as I helped her prepare breakfast—a sad affair of hard bread and thin porridge. Her face was lined with worry, her hands rough from years of labor. "Color's back in your cheeks."
"I feel better," I said, and it wasn't a lie. Having a plan energized me in a way that rest never could.
"Good, because we need to gather herbs today. The apothecary will pay a few pennies for feverfew and comfrey."
I nodded, playing the dutiful daughter while my mind worked on the details of my scheme. I needed to create something valuable enough to start my con, but simple enough that I could do it with my limited resources.
Use what you know. What would work in this time period?
We spent the morning gathering herbs in the woods outside the village. As Mother taught me—or rather, re-taught Dianella—which plants to pick, I found myself drawn to a stream where the sunlight caught on something shiny.
Curious, I waded in and picked up a smooth stone with flecks of mica that glittered like gold in the light. Not valuable, but...interesting.
That might work.
"Mother," I called out, holding up the stone. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"
She glanced over, then shrugged. "Just a river stone, dear. Come, we need more comfrey."
But I pocketed the stone, along with several others like it. By midday, my apron was full of herbs and my pockets heavy with selected stones.
"You've developed quite an interest in rocks," Mother commented as we walked home.
I gave her my most innocent smile. "They're pretty. Maybe I could polish them or something."
She laughed—a rare sound. "Always the dreamer, my Dianella. Just like your father." Her smile faded. "Though dreams won't pay our debts."
"Maybe not," I said carefully. "But I've been thinking. The Harvest Festival—there will be wealthy people there, yes? People who might pay for nice things?"
Mother sighed. "No one wants our simple crafts, Dianella. I've tried selling my embroidery for months now."
"What if we had something different to sell? Something...special?"
She gave me a suspicious look. "What are you planning?"
"Nothing bad," I lied smoothly. "Just an idea. Trust me?"
The guilt that flashed across her face told me everything I needed to know about Dianella's relationship with her mother. They trusted each other. They were close.
Don't think about it. You're doing this for her as much as for yourself.
"I always trust you," she said finally. "But please, no foolishness. We can't afford any trouble right now."
I squeezed her hand. "No trouble. I promise."
Another lie. But some lies were necessary.
That night, after Mother and Mary were asleep, I slipped outside with Father's etching tools and my collected stones. Behind our cottage was a small shed where Father had once worked on smaller projects. It would be perfect for what I needed to do.
Working by candlelight, I carefully etched symbols into the stones—nothing specific, just mystical-looking patterns that resembled runes or ancient writing. Then I used a small amount of pine resin to seal the etchings, making them look older, more permanent.
By dawn, I had created five "ancient stones" with "mysterious markings." To the untrained eye—which in 1583 was practically everyone—they would look like artifacts or charms.
I hid them under a loose floorboard and returned to bed before Mother woke. As I drifted off to sleep, I found myself smiling.
Jane Wright is back in business.
The next day, I began phase two of my plan. While helping Mother in the garden, I strategically mentioned hearing stories about magical stones that could bring good fortune.
"Old Agnes in the next village supposedly has one," I said casually. "People say her chickens lay twice as many eggs since she found it."
Mother rolled her eyes. "Superstitious nonsense."
"Maybe," I shrugged. "But people pay good money for hope, don't they?"
That seed planted, I moved on to Mary, telling her a similar story when she visited that afternoon. By evening, I'd 'remembered' that Dianella had once found strange stones in the stream as a child.
"Father said they might be from the old times, before Christ came to these lands," I told them over dinner. "I wonder if they'd be worth anything to a collector."
Mother frowned. "If you found something valuable, we would have sold it long ago."
"Unless I forgot where I put them," I said, tapping my temple. "The fever might have jogged my memory."
The con is all about creating a story they want to believe.
The next morning, I made a show of searching around the cottage, eventually 'finding' one of my etched stones in a corner of the garden.
"Look!" I exclaimed, brushing dirt from the stone I'd planted earlier. "It's one of those marked stones I remembered!"
Mother examined it skeptically, but Mary's eyes widened.
"Those markings do look strange," she admitted. "Like nothing I've seen before."
"There were others," I said excitedly. "If I could find them all..."
Mother handed the stone back. "Even if it is old, who would buy such a thing?"
"The Bishop's man might," Mary suggested. "He collects curiosities for the church."
"Or Lord Blackwell," I added innocently. "Everyone knows he likes rare things."
Mother sighed. "You two and your fantasies. We have real problems to solve."
But I could see I'd caught her attention. Hope was a powerful motivator—I'd used it in dozens of cons before. Give people a reason to believe things could get better, and they'd convince themselves of almost anything.
That night, I 'found' another stone hidden in Father's old chest. By the morning of the Harvest Festival, I had 'discovered' all five, each with its own story about where child-Dianella might have hidden it.
"They do look unusual all together like that," Mother admitted, examining the collection. "But I still don't see how this helps us."
I wrapped the stones in a clean cloth. "Let me try something at the festival. If it doesn't work, we've lost nothing."
She looked uncertain, but nodded. "Just be careful. And be back before dark."
Oh, Mother. You have no idea what you've just unleashed.
As we walked toward the village green where the festival was being held, I felt that familiar rush of adrenaline—the feeling that had carried me through every con I'd ever run. The anticipation, the risk, the sheer thrill of it all.
For the first time since waking up in this strange world, I felt like myself again. Jane Wright, master con artist, was back.
And Elmbrook would never be the same.
As we approached the bustling festival, I tucked the cloth-wrapped stones into my pocket and straightened my simple dress. Music, laughter, and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Merchants had set up stalls selling everything from pottery to leather goods, while villagers from miles around mingled and celebrated.
And there, surveying it all from a raised platform, sat Lord Blackwell himself—portly, red-faced, and draped in finery that would feed our family for years. Beside him stood the tax collector, Harold Griggs, and a thin man in clerical robes who must be the Bishop's representative.
My targets. All in one place.
I turned to Mother, my eyes bright with determination. "I know how to pay our debt. All of it."
"Dianella, what are you—"
"Trust me," I said, already moving toward the crowd. "I learned a few things in my fever dreams."
As I disappeared into the throng of festival-goers, I felt a wild, dangerous freedom. The old life, the chandelier, New York—all of that seemed distant now. This was my reality, and I was going to conquer it the only way I knew how.
Time to play the game I was born to play.