CHAPTER 37: CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

The great clock in the main hall of the Thompson estate struck three in the morning. The sound was a heavy, mournful chime in the absolute, deathly stillness of the house.

From a side door, a figure shrouded in a dark, heavy cloak emerged, moving with a frantic, stumbling haste. It was Lorena.

Her face, illuminated for a second by a sliver of moonlight, was a mask of terror. Her eyes were wide and tear-stained, her hair a wild, undone mess.

She ran down the servants’ steps, her cloak catching on the stones, her breath coming in ragged, painful sobs. She found the stable boy she had woken with a handful of coins and a desperate, whispered order. "The carriage," she hissed, her voice cracking. "Is it ready? It must be discreet!"

From an upper-story window, hidden in the deep shadows of her own unlit room, Ashlyn watched. She saw Lorena’s panicked, clumsy movements. She saw her nearly fall as she scrambled into the simple, unmarked carriage. She saw the carriage lurch away, disappearing into the darkness at a reckless speed.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Ashlyn’s lips. She felt a cold, deep, and thrilling sense of victory. Her plan, her perfect, terrible plan, was working flawlessly. She thought back to three nights ago, to the moment the first seed of her true plan had been planted.

~ • THREE NIGHTS PRIOR • ~

It had been just after dusk. Ashlyn pretending an evening walk, had seen Lorena carrying a silver tray with a steaming bowl of porridge toward Ryan’s chambers. She had followed at a safe distance wanting to know what Lorena had planned. She watched as Ryan, his face bright and happy, politely asked Lorena for the food.

"I’ll have it ready in just a moment, my love," Lorena had said, her voice full of genuine affection. She brought the tray into his room and placed it on his small table. "You wait here. Let me dismiss the other servants for the night. I will take care of the rest myself."

She had shooed away the junior maids and the guard from his door, her authority absolute. As she did, Ryan, oblivious, was not looking at the food. He was looking for something. He had told Marissa he would find her a present to thank her for the honey cakes. He ran into his large bathing area, which was connected to his room. "I know I have something here," his small voice echoed. "Something that smells sweet, just like Mother..."

With Ryan out of sight, Lorena’s entire demeanor shifted. Her loving smile vanished, replaced by a look of stressed, nervous resolve. Her hand, shaking slightly, retrieved a small vial of clear liquid from her pocket—the sleeping draught the "exorcist" had provided. She uncorked it and poured the entire contents into the warm, steaming porridge, mixing it in quickly. She placed the spoon back, her face pale but determined.

She then walked towards the bathing area. "Ryan, dear," she called out. "Come and eat while it’s warm."

The moment she went into the bathing area, Ashlyn slipped into the room. She was extremely careful, her soft-soled slippers making no sound on the thick rug. She had been waiting for this. She had known Lorena’s hatred, fueled by her own careful words, would lead to this.

She went to the table. She looked at the porridge, a faint, herbal smell rising from it. "So," she thought, her eyes glittering, "she really drugged Ryan to frame Marissa, all because of what I said." A wicked, cold thrill shot through her. "But a simple sleeping potion isn’t enough. It wears off. They will just blame the exorcist, and Marissa will be cleared."

True victory required a permanent solution.

From her own pocket, Ashlyn produced a different bottle, a very small, dark-glass container. It was filled with a thick, black, odorless liquid. A poison she had procured long ago, a last resort from her previous life that she had never used.

She didn’t touch the porridge. She uncorked her bottle and emptied its entire contents into the small glass of water sitting beside the bowl. The dark liquid dissolved instantly, leaving the water as clear and innocent as before.

"Only when he is truly dead," she thought, her heart pounding with a terrible, exhilarating power, "will Marissa be done for. They will call her a demon. She might receive a death sentence. She will never return."

She heard Lorena and Ryan’s voices approaching. She slipped back into the shadows of the hallway and was gone, unseen.

~ • PRESENT DAY • ~

The unmarked carriage clattered to a stop on a dark, muddy lane at the edge of the city. Lorena tumbled out before the wheels had even stopped turning. She ran to the door of a small, dilapidated house—the home of the exorcist.

She pounded on the heavy wooden door, her small fists beating a desperate rhythm. "Sir! Sir, open the door!" she screamed, her voice hoarse from her earlier sobs. "Something has gone terribly wrong! Please, open up!"

The door, however, was already unlatched. It creaked open under the force of her blows, revealing a dark, empty entryway. A single, flickering fire in the back room was the only source of light.

"Sir?" she called out, her panic turning to a new, cold dread. She rushed inside, her eyes scanning the shadowed room.

And she saw him.

A figure in the exorcist’s dark, heavy robes was sitting in a high-backed chair by the fire, their back to her. The figure was calmly holding a cup of tea, lifting it to their lips for a slow, unhurried sip. The absolute, peaceful calm of the scene was a grotesque mockery of her own frantic terror.

Lorena’s legs gave out. She fell to her knees on the dusty, cold floor.

"Sir, please," she begged, her voice breaking. "You said the drug... you said it would only cause unconsciousness! You said it would make him sleep for a few days! Why did he lose his breath? Why did he stop breathing?"

The figure was silent. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the soft click as the teacup was placed back on its saucer.

The silence was unbearable. It was the silence of a tomb. Lorena, frustrated and utterly terrified, finally broke. "Speak up!" she shrieked, crawling forward on her knees. "I paid you! I paid you a fortune to help me stage the scene, to ruin the Duchess! What did you give me? What did you put in that bottle that killed him?"

The figure in the chair sat perfectly still for one, long, agonizing moment. Then, with a slow movement that seemed to fill the room with a dreadful weight, the person stood up. The dark robes hung from their frame, concealing their shape.

Slowly, the figure turned.

It was not the gaunt, old man.

It was Marissa.

Her face was as pale as marble, her eyes were not just angry; they were burning with a cold and terrifying fury. She looked at the woman kneeling at her feet, at the woman who had murdered a child just to spite her, and her expression was one of pure loathing.