CHAPTER 33: CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

The pre-dawn quiet of the Thompson estate was shattered by a sound of pure, frantic panic.

"Dowager! Dowager!"

Lorena’s voice, a high-pitched, desperate shriek, echoed down the long, silent corridor of the south wing. The two guards stationed outside the Dowager Duchess’s chambers moved as one, their large bodies forming a human wall, their hands instinctively going to the hilts of their swords as Lorena came running towards them. Her usually immaculate hair had come loose from its pins, and her eyes were wide and wild with terror.

"Let me pass!" she cried, trying to push through them. "It’s the young master! Dowager! Please, you must save Ryan!"

"Let her enter."

The voice from inside the chambers was frail with sleep but held an unshakeable core of authority. The guards immediately stepped aside, releasing Lorena’s arms.

She stumbled past them and burst into the room, falling to her knees on the plush carpet before Beatrice’s grand, canopied bed. The old woman was already sitting up, a silk robe hastily thrown over her shoulders, her sharp eyes alert and alarmed.

"Dowager, please, you must save Ryan," Lorena sobbed, her words tumbling out in a torrent of grief. She clutched at the edge of the bedspread, her body shaking.

"Lorena, compose yourself," Beatrice commanded, her voice steady despite the shock. "What is wrong with him?"

"He fell unconscious last night," Lorena wailed. "He just collapsed. His skin is cold, his breathing is shallow. We called the royal physician immediately, but even he is baffled! He can find no cause, no illness, no poison!" She looked up, her face a mask of terrified desperation. "I’m afraid... I’m afraid he’s possessed by something evil! Please, Dowager, I beg of you, grant me permission to invite an exorcist to take a look. We have no other choice!"

The word "possessed" struck Beatrice. The color drained from her face. Her deep-seated belief in spirits, omens, and the supernatural world, a belief that had guided her for over seventy years, now seized her with an icy grip.

"Guard!" she shouted, her voice trembling. A guard appeared instantly at the door. "Hurry!" she commanded, her voice cracking with urgency. "Find the exorcist from the city! Bring him here at once! Now!"

Less than an hour later, a small, grim procession stood gathered in the heavy, oppressive silence of Ryan’s bedchamber. The room was dark, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the rising sun, the only light coming from a branch of flickering candles that cast long, dancing shadows on the walls.

Ryan lay in the center of his large bed, looking terribly small and still. His face was a waxy, unnatural pale, and his lips had a faint blue tint. He was perfectly motionless, his chest rising and falling in shallow, almost imperceptible breaths. He looked not like a sleeping child, but like a beautiful, lifeless porcelain doll.

Beatrice stood by the bedside, her hand clutching a religious amulet at her throat, her face etched with fear. Lorena was beside her, sobbing quietly into a silk handkerchief. And standing near the door, a silent, unreadable observer, was Marissa. She had been summoned from her chambers, and she now stood, her expression calm, her eyes taking in every detail of the scene.

The exorcist was a gaunt man with a face like a dried riverbed and eyes that seemed to look through, rather than at, the people in the room. He wore dark, embroidered robes and carried a small wooden box of tools. He lit a stick of foul-smelling incense, the thick, acrid smoke curling towards the ceiling. He began a low, guttural chant, his voice a strange, hypnotic drone as he walked a slow circle around the child’s bed, shaking a small brass bell.

The tension in the room was so thick it was hard to breathe. Beatrice and Lorena watched his every move, their faces filled with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. Marissa watched him too, but her gaze was cold and skeptical. This was not a holy man; this was a performer. And his performance was just beginning.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, his chanting growing louder, more frantic. He raised his hands to the ceiling, then brought them down sharply. Suddenly, he let out a choked, gagging sound. He hunched over, his body seized by a sudden, violent retch. A spray of dark, red liquid erupted from his mouth, spattering the priceless rug at his feet. It was blood.

Beatrice cried out, stumbling back a step. Lorena’s sobs grew louder.

The exorcist wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a crimson smear on his pale skin. He looked up, his eyes wide with a terrifying, prophetic light. "This is a great spirit of misfortune," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "It is ancient, and it is powerful."

"What’s wrong?" Beatrice whispered, her voice trembling. "What is attacking my great-grandson?"

"It is not the boy the spirit wants," the exorcist replied, his gaze sweeping over the occupants of the room. "The young master is pure. He is merely the victim. Someone in this very household has committed great sin. Someone has been carrying this deadly spirit around with them, a darkness that has now latched onto the child."

"Who?" Beatrice demanded. "Who is this person?"

The exorcist eyes, dark and accusing, moved slowly past Beatrice, past Lorena, and came to rest, with damning finality, on Marissa. He raised a long, bony finger and pointed directly at her.

"It is this woman," he declared, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.

A cold, clear certainty settled in Marissa’s heart. So, this is it, she thought. This is Lorena’s revenge. She did not gasp. She did not flinch. She simply stared back at the exorcist, her expression one of utter indifference.

"She has committed too many killings in her previous life," the exorcist intoned, his voice rising in a dramatic crescendo. "She is haunted by a legion of evil spirits. The grudges from her past have not dissipated, and their evil energy is now poisoning this house and attacking its heir!"

Beatrice looked from the exorcist to Marissa, her face a mask of pure horror. "Is... is there a way to avert this?" she stammered. "A way to save the boy?"

The exorcist closed his eyes for a long, dramatic moment. When he opened them, they were burning with fire, fixed solely on Marissa.

"Demon spawn!" he commanded, his voice a powerful roar that filled the room. "I command you to kneel! Kneel before the spirits you have angered and beg for this child’s life!"

Lorena, still sobbing into her handkerchief, looked up, and through her performance of grief, a flicker of pure, triumphant victory shone in her eyes. This was it. The public humiliation, the undeniable proof of Marissa’s evil nature. She was finished.

Marissa did not kneel. She did not speak. She took a slow, deliberate step forward, her movements calm and measured. She never lost eye contact with the exorcist, her gaze so steady and intense that he was the one who seemed to falter for a split second.

She walked to the side of Ryan’s bed, her eyes softening as she looked down at his pale, still face. A wave of anger washed over her. They were using this child, this innocent boy, as a weapon in their petty games.

I can endure their tricks, she thought. I can endure their hatred. For Ryan’s sake, I can endure it all.

" I can endure it all, for Ryan’s sake," She looked back up, her gaze once again locking with the exorcist’s. The softness was gone, replaced by a will of pure, unbending steel.

"But that," she said, her voice quiet but ringing with a power that silenced the entire room, "does not mean I can endure you bullying me."