CHAPTER 20: CHAPTER TWENTY

An idea, sharp and brilliant, pierced through the fog of fear and accusation in Marissa’s mind. She saw the little boy with his sticky, red-stained fingers, and she saw the thick, red substance trickling down the ancient stone. She knew the answer. But a logical explanation would not be enough to sway a room seized by superstitious terror. First, she had to fight fire with fire.

She turned away from the bleeding tablet, her expression shifting from confusion to one of solemn, divine purpose.

"If that is the case," she announced, her voice ringing with clarity that captured everyone’s attention, "if the ancestors are truly trying to send us a message, then I will ask them personally what secret lies behind it."

The Dowager Duchess Beatrice stared at her, her face a mixture of fear and confusion. "What are you doing, child?"

Marissa offered her a small, reassuring smile before turning her gaze towards the grand exit doors. Her expression softened into one of unexpected, radiant warmth.

"Hello there, my darling," she said, her voice as sweet as honey. She raised a hand and gestured gently. "Come here. Don’t be afraid."

The little boy, Ryan, who had been peeking from the shadows, hesitated for a moment. But the lady’s voice was so kind, her smile so pretty, that he couldn’t resist. He stepped out into the light, his sticky treat still clutched in one hand, and walked shyly towards her.

The entire hall watched in stunned silence as Marissa crouched down, bringing herself to his eye level. The grandeur of the Duchess and the innocence of the child created a striking, disarming picture.

"What is your name?" she asked softly.

"My name is Ryan," he replied, his voice small but clear.

Marissa reached out and gently patted his head, her fingers brushing through his dark, unruly curls. "That’s a lovely name," she said. Ryan, who was used to being either ignored or formally instructed by the adults in the manor, broke into a wide, happy smile.

"Ryan, you see that shiny coin over there?" she asked, pointing towards a small copper coin resting in a dish of offerings on the altar. "Can you be a brave helper and bring it to me?"

Eager to please the nice lady, Ryan nodded. He trotted over to the altar, carefully picked up the coin, and brought it back, placing it in her outstretched palm.

"Thank you, you are a very good boy," Marissa said, her smile never wavering. As Ryan scurried back to his hiding spot, she closed her hand around the coin.

Clutching the coin, Marissa turned back to the altar and went to her knees on the cold stone floor. Her posture was one of utter piety and reverence.

"Dear ancestors of the esteemed Thompson family," she began, her voice filled with a tremor of heartfelt emotion. "Please enlighten us, your newest descendant. Marissa is in deep trouble today. The omens have been terrible, and my heart is filled with fear." She paused, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Are the events of today... are they due to a malicious framing?"

She held the coin aloft, then tossed it into the air. It spun, catching the dim light, before landing on the stone floor with a soft, metallic clink.

Heads.

A low murmur rippled through the onlookers. Marissa tossed it again. Clink. Heads. And a third time. Clink. Heads.

Beatrice took a shaky step forward, her eyes wide with awe. "Heads," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Three times in a row. That signifies a holy intent... a sign of approval from the spirits." She looked at Marissa, her expression of superstitious fear now warring with a dawning sense of doubt. "Could you... could you really be framed?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

Marissa bowed her head, hiding a small, triumphant smile. The Dowager is a very superstitious woman, she thought. She still believes in the power of the supernatural. If that is the world she lives in, then I will have to borrow the help of her gods to escape this accusation.

She raised her head, her face a mask of solemn purpose, and threw the coin again. Heads. And again. And again. Three more times she threw it, for a total of seven tosses, a number of deep mystical significance. Every single time, the coin landed with the symbol of the king facing the ceiling.

Beatrice gasped, her hand flying to her heart. "Seven times!" she declared, her voice ringing with absolute conviction. "She has thrown the coins seven times, and it is still heads! The divine will is clear!" She raised her own hands towards the ancestral tablets, her voice trembling with righteous fury. "Ancestors above, forgive our foolishness for doubting! Please, clear Marissa of this terrible injustice!"

Marissa bowed her head low to the floor. "Thank you, honored Ancestors, for upholding justice," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

As she slowly raised her head, she let her eyes drift to the bleeding tablet. Just as she had suspected, the edges of the crimson trickles were no longer liquid; they were congealing, becoming dull and opaque, solidifying like cooling wax.

So that is it, she thought, a smirk touching her lips.

She rose to her feet, her vindication now firmly established. The fear in the room had been replaced by awe and a burning curiosity. She turned, her calm gaze sweeping over Lorena and Ashlyn, whose faces were now pale with confusion and dawning dread, and finally settled on the trembling form of Clara.

"You tampered with the incense to harm me," Marissa stated, her voice no longer pleading, but commanding. "The ancestral tablets weeping blood... was that also your doing?"

"I’m innocent! I’m innocent!" Clara cried, though her words now lacked any conviction.

Beatrice turned to Marissa, her brow furrowed. "The bleeding... you believe that is also man-made?"

"Yes, Grandmother," Marissa nodded, her voice clear and logical. She pointed to the tablet. "It is not a miracle or a curse. It is a simple, cruel trick. Someone sealed a blood-like substance—perhaps animal blood, or even a thick, sugary syrup—inside a layer of soft, white wax. That wax was then smeared discreetly into the carved grooves of the tablet’s name. The ancestral hall is always filled with the heat from burning candles. The constant warmth slowly melted the wax, causing the ’blood’ to seep out and trickle down the stone, creating the illusion of a weeping tablet."

A wave of murmuring filled the hall as the guests processed her explanation. It was clever, logical, and it made perfect sense.

Derek, who had been watching the entire performance with a look of growing admiration, finally stood. He strode to the altar, ignoring the gasps from his family. He reached out a hand to the weeping tablet and, with his thumbnail, scraped at one of the semi-solid, reddish trickles. He brought his finger up to his face, examining the waxy, sticky residue.

He turned to the room, his expression unreadable, but his voice was firm and clear, leaving no room for doubt.

"She’s right," he announced. He looked from the residue on his finger back to the tablet. "There is indeed wax on the tablet."