CHAPTER 53: CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

The next morning, the Thompson estate’s main drawing room was filled with tension and the unspoken, terrible weight of death.

Beatrice sat in her main, high-backed chair, her face a pale, grim mask of exhaustion. She looked as though she had aged ten years in a single night. Marissa and Ashlyn stood on either side of her, two opposing forces in silks. Marissa was composed, her face pale but her expression unreadable, her hands clasped calmly in front of her. Ashlyn, by contrast, looked pale with a feigned, delicate worry, her hands nervously twisting a lace handkerchief.

In the center of the room, the maid Nora knelt on the expensive carpet, her head bowed, her body trembling under the watchful eye of two household guards who stood by the door.

A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the sharp, measured thud of a guard’s boots approaching in the marble hall. A moment later, one of the Duke’s guards, the one Marissa had sent, entered.

He bowed low, his expression grim. "Dowager." He then turned his head, his gaze respectful, to Marissa. "Grand Duchess. I went to the dark room, as you instructed."

His gaze dropped to the floor, as if he were reluctant to continue. "Miss Lorena is... indeed dead."

Beatrice let out a small, pained sound, her hand flying to her chest. It was one thing to hear it from a hysterical maid; it was another to have it confirmed by a trusted guard.

"Her body was... as the maid Nora described," the guard continued, his voice heavy. "She has been deceased for some time." He reached into a small, oiled-cloth pouch at his belt. "We found this clutched tightly in the decaying corpse’s hand."

He pulled out a small, dark, and filthy object. It was a piece of torn fabric, stiff and stained with what looked like dried blood and grime. He held it up for them to see.

The moment it was visible, Ashlyn let out a sharp, horrified gasp.

Marissa and Beatrice both turned to look at her. Ashlyn’s hand was pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with what looked like a terrible, dawning recognition.

"Ashlyn?" Beatrice asked, her voice a sharp, sudden crack. "Do you recognize this fabric?"

Ashlyn looked from the fabric to Marissa, and then to Beatrice, her face a perfect picture of a woman caught in an impossible, agonizing dilemma.

"Grandmother," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I... I dare not speak rashly. I would not want to wrongly accuse anyone..."

"Speak, child," Beatrice commanded, her patience wearing thin.

"It’s just that..." Ashlyn continued, her eyes filling with fake tears. "The color... the embroidery... it looks just like one of my sister’s dresses. A new one she was wearing just a few days ago."

The accusation, so skillfully delivered as a reluctant observation, landed with devastating force.

Marissa’s blood ran cold. So, she thought, her mind a sudden, clear calm. She went about this in a roundabout way. The witness, the ’confession’ about the gift... all of it was just a performance to set the stage for this. This was always her real trap.

Lily, who had been standing behind Marissa, stepped forward, her face pale with panic. She knew her mistress was being framed. "Dowager, that’s not possible!" she interjected, trying to be helpful. "A few days ago, the Grand Duchess was wearing that dress. While she was playing with the young master in the garden, a corner of the hem got caught on a rose bush and it was torn. I saw it myself!"

Lily’s words, meant to provide an innocent explanation for the tear, were a fatal mistake.

Ashlyn’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with a new, terrible, logical question. "But Lily," she asked, her voice full of a dreadful, simple reason, "if the dress was torn inside the estate, in the garden, then how did a piece of it appear clutched in Miss Lorena’s hand, in a locked cell, on the other side of the manor?"

Lily’s face went white. She had no answer. She had just confirmed the dress was torn, and in doing so, had destroyed Marissa’s only alibi.

Beatrice’s expression hardened. "Bring me the dress," she ordered, her voice a low, grim command.

Lily, her body trembling with the knowledge that she had just made a terrible error, curtsied and fled the room.

The silence that remained was heavy, suffocating. Marissa remained perfectly still, her face a calm, unreadable mask. She was trapped. Ashlyn’s plan was brilliant. She had used two separate, true facts, Marissa’s lost earring and her torn dress, and had woven them into an undeniable, murderous lie.

After what felt like an eternity, Lily returned. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the folded violet gown. She held it out to Beatrice.

The Dowager took the dress, her old, frail hands surprisingly steady. She spread it across her lap. There, on the hem, was a distinct, L-shaped tear. The guard stepped forward and held the stained, dark piece of fabric next to the gown.

It was a perfect match. The color, the fine silk, the intricate silver-thread embroidery—it fit into the tear like a missing puzzle piece.

"This..." Beatrice’s voice was a low, horrified whisper. She looked up at Marissa, her eyes filled not with anger, but with a deep, profound, and terrible disappointment.

"Grandmother," Marissa finally spoke, her voice as calm and clear as a bell. "If I had truly killed Miss Lorena, do you think I would be so foolish as to leave the torn dress in my own room, waiting for you to find it? Would I plant the evidence so plainly? Would I leave the body to be found at all, knowing a witness had seen me?"

Her logic was sound. It was a good defense.

But Nora, the kneeling maid, was not finished. She looked up, her face a mask of pitiful, righteous grief. "As the Grand Duchess, you sit high above us all," she said, her voice trembling but clear. "Of course you would not be afraid. You are powerful. You know that every piece of evidence can be dismissed as a coincidence, or a ’trap’. You can make anything go away. But I am powerless. I am only a servant. I am risking my life to speak the truth. I am only asking for justice for Miss Lorena."

It was a masterful performance. The word of a powerful, "arrogant" duchess against the "dying," "truthful" plea of a commoner. In Beatrice’s world, the latter held a heavier, more honest weight.

"Grandmother..." Marissa began, ready to tear Nora’s claims apart, piece by piece.

But Beatrice raised a hand, silencing her. The Dowager Duchess looked tired, broken, and old. She had been pushed too far.

"Since there is a witness," she said, her voice a heavy, final judgment, "and since there is physical evidence, and since this concerns the matter of a life... I have no choice."

She looked at Marissa, her eyes filled with a pained resolve. "I will temporarily take back the household authority I gave you."

The words were a public, humiliating blow. The key and the seal, still heavy in Marissa’s pocket, suddenly felt like worthless, leaden toys. Ashlyn, standing behind Beatrice, let a small, triumphant, almost invisible smile touch her lips. She had won.

"You will go to the ancestral hall," Beatrice continued, her voice weary. "You will kneel, and you will pray to the ancestors to help you clear your name. You will remain there until your husband, the Grand Duke, returns. He will be the one to investigate this case, and he will decide what punishment is to be given... to whoever is found guilty."

The exile was set. The power was stripped. The suspicion was now a formal, public stain on her name.

Marissa stood still for a long, silent moment, absorbing the full weight of her defeat. Then, she slowly, gracefully, curtsied to the Dowager Duchess. Her head was high, her back was straight, and her eyes were clear.

"The truth will surely come to light, Grandmother," she said.

She turned, without another glance at Ashlyn, at Nora, or at the damning evidence, and walked out of the drawing room.

As she watched her sister’s proud, retreating back, Ashlyn’s smile widened. Our fortunes have been entangled for a long time, dear sister, she thought, her heart soaring with a cold, giddy victory. You won’t be able to turn things around this time. My good days... my good days are about to arrive.