CHAPTER 46: CHAPTER FORTY SIX

The sweet, calming melody of the harp drifted across the sunlit garden, a fragile veneer of peace over a pit of vipers.

Ashlyn’s sudden, bright support was a discordant note in the air, a sound more jarring to Marissa than any shout of anger.

Marissa stared at her sister, her mind racing, the polite smile on her own face feeling like a porcelain mask. Why? Why did she speak up for me? she thought, her suspicion instant and sharp as glass. This feels fake. She wants me to fail. She wants to watch me crash into the rocks, so why is she pretending to guide my ship? What is she planning?

Marissa knew she could not refuse the test. But she did not have to take it on alone. Her face relaxed into a small, grateful smile that perfectly mirrored Ashlyn’s. "Thank you for your confidence, sister." She turned her gaze from Ashlyn’s false, beaming face to the Dowager Duchess, her own expression a mask of perfect, thoughtful duty.

"Grandmother," she said, her voice clear and respectful. "The Crown Princess is not just a guest. She is royalty. The gift we present to her reflects our entire family’s honor and respect for the throne."

She rose slowly from her chair and performed a graceful, deliberate curtsy. "This is a great responsibility. So great, in fact, that I do not feel I can bear it alone."

She looked up at Beatrice, her gaze earnest. "Please, Grandmother, let Ashlyn help me. She has a wonderful eye, and as she is also a daughter of the Austen family, our tastes are similar. Together, I am sure we can prepare something worthy."

The move was brilliant in its simplicity. Ashlyn’s smile froze, the bright, supportive mask cracking for a split second. She had been pulled in. This was not the plan. The plan was to watch Marissa fail, not to be tied to her, ankle-deep in the same potential disaster.

Beatrice, however, was visibly delighted. She saw only what she wanted to see: her two new granddaughters, united in a common, familial goal. "Oh!" she said, her hands clasping together. "What a wonderful idea! Yes, of course. All right. The two of you will prepare it together."

Marissa straightened, a small, victorious smile on her lips as she turned to face her sister. Ashlyn, recovering quickly, mirrored the smile, though hers was tight and brittle. The two women stared at each other, the harp music swelling around them, their true intentions hidden behind identical, polite masks.

You want to use this to win the household authority, Ashlyn thought, her heart burning with a cold, familiar resentment. I won’t let you have it so easily. I will find a way to make this your failure, and my success.

You think you can stand on the sidelines and watch me burn, Marissa thought, her own smile unwavering. But I am not the fool I was in my last life. If I pull you into this with me, and something goes wrong, if this gift is ruined or found to be insulting in any way, no one, neither you nor I, will get out scot-free. If I get in trouble, sister, I am pulling you down with me.

~ ••••• ~

Two days later, In the center of the vast, organized room sat a large, imposing chest, carved from dark, heavy mahogany and bound with polished brass. This was their chosen gift.

Marissa and Ashlyn stood before it, waiting. They were soon joined by Mrs. Alma, the Dowager’s most trusted senior servant, a stern, gray-haired woman who missed nothing. She inspected the chest, the contents, and the way it had been sealed with a critical, appraising eye.

"The Dowager is very pleased with your choice," Mrs. Alma said, her voice a formal, dry rustle. "At the princess’s arrival tomorrow, this chest will be presented to her. There must be no mistakes."

She produced a small, velvet-lined box. Inside, resting on a bed of silk, was a single, ornate brass key. "This key is one of a kind, crafted specifically for this chest. Which one of you will keep this key safe until the presentation?"

Before Marissa could speak, Ashlyn stepped forward, her hands clasped, her expression one of humble deference. "Mrs. Alma," she began, her voice soft. She reached into the box and took the key, her fingers closing around the cool metal.

Her mind was racing. This was the moment. She had come prepared. In the deep pocket of her dress, her fingers had been anxiously clutching a small, soft, palm-sized bar of soap she had taken from her bathing room.

She turned her body slightly, angling herself between Mrs. Alma and Marissa, her back partially to her sister. She held the key up for Mrs. Alma to see, forcing the older woman’s eyes to focus on her face, on her words. This was the distraction.

"Such a great responsibility," Ashlyn said, her voice earnest. "Surely, the Grand Duchess should be the one to hold it. As the wife to the eldest son of the family, it is her duty, and her right."

As she spoke, her hands, held low and close to her body, came together for a brief, hidden moment. Her left hand, holding the soap, met her right hand, holding the key. With a quick clench of her fist, she pressed the teeth and shape of the key hard into the soft, yielding soap, her nails digging into her own palm from the force. It took less than two seconds. She felt the deep, perfect impression form. The mold was made.

She then separated her hands, tucking the soap bar back into her pocket in a single, fluid motion.

She turned to Marissa, her smile now bright and supportive, holding out the key as if it were a great honor. "Sister, please keep this safe for us."

Marissa’s eyes were sharp. She had seen the way Ashlyn had taken the key first, the slight, unnatural tension in her shoulders, the way her hands had met for just a second. She knew, with an unshakable certainty, that something had just happened. But she had no proof.

She accepted the key, its brass surface still slightly waxy and slick from the soap. She curled her fingers around it, the weight of the trap settling into her palm.

"I won’t let you or the Dowager down, Mrs. Alma," Marissa said, her voice firm as she turned to the older woman, slipping the key into a secure pocket of her own gown.

"Very good, Your Grace." Mrs. Alma nodded, satisfied that the responsibility was now in the proper hands. She gave a short, stiff bow and left the warehouse, her footsteps echoing until the heavy door shut behind her, leaving the two sisters alone in the quiet, dusty light.

The moment the door clicked shut, Ashlyn’s supportive, sisterly smile vanished, as if it had been wiped clean, leaving her face cold and hard.

"You dragged me into this," she said, her voice a low, bitter hiss. "You did it just to share the blame, in case you failed." She took a step closer to Marissa, her eyes narrowed. "Well, you got your wish. Now we are in this together." She forced a thin, unconvincing smile. "I won’t cause you trouble, sister. I want this to succeed just as much as you do."

Marissa, who had never stopped smiling, simply watched her. Her own smile was bright, cold, and held no warmth at all.

"You better not," she replied softly.