Marissa held Clara's hand up for all to see. "You deliberately bumped into me in the hallway," she announced, her voice resonating with cold authority. "And in that moment, you smeared phosphorus powder onto my hand. It's a simple but cruel trick. Thus, when I, the new Duchess, went to light the incense, you created an ill omen to disgrace me." She looked down at the sputtering sticks. "But you forgot one crucial detail, Clara. Your own hands still carry the trace of your crime."
Clara ripped her hand away from Marissa's grasp as if she'd been burned. "I'm innocent!" she shrieked, falling to her knees. "Her Grace is lying! I would never!"
The Dowager Duchess Beatrice's face was covered in fury. The disrespect, the plotting, the blasphemy in this sacred hall—it was all unforgivable. She raised a trembling, age-spotted hand and pointed a finger at the prostrate maid. "You…" she began, her voice shaking with rage, ready to pronounce a severe judgment.
But Lorena stepped forward swiftly, her expression one of grave concern. "Dowager," she interrupted, her voice urgent but respectful. "If we do not offer the incense soon, we will miss the auspicious time. The ancestors are waiting. We must not disrespect them with further delay."
It was a masterful move. She didn't defend her maid; she appealed directly to Beatrice's deep-seated piety and superstition. Beatrice hesitated, visibly torn between her anger and her duty to tradition. After a long, tense moment, she gave a stiff nod. The ancestors comes first.
"Marissa," she said, her voice strained. "Offer the incense. We will handle these other matters later."
"Yes, Grandmother," Marissa replied, bowing her head.
A junior maid, her eyes wide with fear, quickly brought a silver bowl filled with clean water and a fresh linen towel.
Marissa dipped her hands into the cool water, carefully washing away the chemical residue, the trickery, the lingering touch of her enemies. She dried her hands, took a new, clean stick of incense, and approached the altar once more.
This time, when she touched the tip to the candle flame, it caught with a soft, gentle glow. A thin tendril of fragrant smoke curled upwards towards the high, shadowed ceiling. All was as it should be.
She bowed three times, paying her respects to the generations of Thompsons who had come before.
As she did, her mind was racing. In my last life, there was no broken incense. The ceremony was eventful. This is new. It seems I am being actively targeted this time. They are not waiting for me to make a mistake; they are creating them for me.
She straightened up, her duty complete. But as she looked at the central ancestral tablet—the one belonging to the first Duke of the Thompson line—a collective gasp rippled through the onlookers.
From the deeply carved characters of the ancient name, a thick, dark reddish liquid began to well up, like blood from a wound. A single, viscous drop formed, hung suspended for a heart-stopping moment, and then trickled slowly down the face of the black stone tablet. It was followed by another, and then another, creating a series of horrifying, crimson tears.
The tablet was weeping blood.
The room, already tense, was now seized by a primal, superstitious fear. Ashlyn and Lorena and the other relatives cried out, their hands flying to their mouths. Derek, who had resumed his bored posture, put his teacup down on its saucer with a sharp, definitive clink. His full, undivided attention was now on the altar.
Beatrice's hand went to the jade amulet at her throat, her knuckles white. "What is going on?" she asked, her voice a low, terrified whisper.
Lorena's voice rang out, filled with a terrible, triumphant awe. "It is the ancestors," she declared, pointing a trembling finger at the weeping stone. "They are weeping in blood! They have seen the first omen and now they send a second, undeniable warning! The Thompson ancestors does not accept her! The Grand Duchess is ill-omened!"
At her words, the entire assembly, as if moved by a single thought, took a unified step backward, away from Marissa. They left her standing alone before the horrifying spectacle, a circle of empty space around her, isolating her in their fear and suspicion.
Derek leaned forward in his chair, his earlier mockery gone, replaced by a look of sharp, genuine intrigue. The first trick was clever, but this is a masterpiece of psychological warfare, he thought. What will she do now? How does a shrew fight a ghost?
Marissa turned, her face pale but her eyes blazing. "Is this truly the ancestors' will," she challenged, her gaze locking onto Lorena, "or is it merely more human sabotage?"
Ashlyn stepped forward, her expression a perfect blend of pity and piety. "Sister, if your incense breaking could be explained away as an accident or a trick, how do you explain this?" she asked, her voice ringing with sorrowful conviction. She gestured to the bleeding tablet. "This is no simple trick with powders. Why would the ancestors keep crying blood if not to warn us? They are in agony!"
Marissa's mind raced, her rational thoughts battling against the wave of superstitious fear that was suffocating the room. Ashlyn was right. This was far more difficult to explain. There were no wires, no powders, no obvious mechanism. The stone was solid, ancient. How could anyone make it bleed on command? What is the explanation for this? How did they do it?
The pressure was immense. She could feel the weight of every fearful, accusing stare. Beatrice was looking at her not with anger, but with a deep, shaken dread, as if Marissa herself were a curse upon their house. Lorena and Ashlyn stood like righteous prophets, their trap having succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. For the first time, Marissa felt a flicker of true uncertainty.
Her desperate gaze swept the room, searching for any clue, any detail she might have missed. She looked past the horrified faces of the relatives, past the stern portraits on the walls, towards the grand exit doors.
And then she saw him.
Partially hidden in the shadows of the doorway stood the little boy from the hallway, the young master of the house. He had finished his sticky treat, but his face and fingers were still stained a deep, syrupy red. He was secretly watching her, his dark, curious eyes wide with a child's fascination at the drama unfolding.
Marissa's eyes flicked from the boy's stained fingers back to the thick, reddish liquid that was still trickling slowly down the black ancestral tablet.
The color. The consistency. The way it clung to the stone.
It wasn't blood.