The ancestral hall of the Thompson family was a place of deep, reverent silence. The air was cool and smelled of aged sandalwood, polished wood, and the faint scent of incense. Sunlight struggled to pierce the high, stained-glass windows, casting long, solemn columns of light upon the dark, carved portraits of the Dukes and Duchesses of generations past. Their stern, painted eyes seemed to watch everything, judging the living from the walls of the dead.
At the far end of the hall stood a large, stone altar, upon which sat rows of ancestral tablets, an ornate incense burner, and a series of flickering candle flames.
As Marissa stepped across the threshold, the heavy doors closing behind her, all the assembled family members turned. She walked gracefully to the center of the room where the Dowager Duchess, Beatrice, stood waiting.
"May Her Grace live a long life," Marissa greeted, sinking into a deep, respectful curtsy.
A genuine smile softened Beatrice's stern features. "Rise, my child," she said, her voice warm. "You are family now. You will call me Grandmother from now on."
"Yes, Grandmother," Marissa replied, rising.
From the side of the room, Clara, the maid, moved to stand near her mistress, Lorena. Lorena's eyes flickered towards her, a silent, questioning signal passing between them. Is it done? Clara gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod in affirmation. yes.
Derek sat in a heavy, throne-like chair off to the side, seemingly detached from the entire ceremony. He held a delicate porcelain teacup, his gaze focused intently on the intricate, hand-painted design, his posture exuding indifference. He was making it clear that he was a spectator, not a participant.
"The new Duchess offers incense to the ancestors first," Grandmother Beatrice announced, her voice echoing in the hallowed space. "It is the proper way."
Marissa inclined her head and began to walk towards the family altar. As she passed Carlos and Ashlyn, they both offered a perfunctory bow and curtsy.
Ashlyn's eyes, however, glittered with a strange, anticipatory light.
Marissa reached the altar and took a single, slender stick of incense from a carved wooden box. She approached the candle, its lone flame dancing in the still air. She was calm, her heart steady. She lowered the tip of the incense stick into the flame.
The reaction was instantaneous and violent.
Instead of catching fire with a gentle glow, the incense stick erupted in a furious crackle. A shower of angry, bright white sparks shot out, sputtering and hissing like a nest of furious snakes. Marissa let out a startled gasp, her hand recoiling out of pure, reflexive fear. The sparking stick fell from her fingers, clattering onto the cold stone floor where it broke cleanly in two.
A collective gasp swept through the room.
Derek's teacup, which had been halfway to his lips, paused. His eyes, no longer on the cup but fixed on the broken incense, narrowed. He instantly knew. This was not an accident. This was a deliberate, malicious trick. She was being targeted again. A slow, cruel smirk touched his lips. He did not intervene. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his tea, content to watch how the shrew from last night would get out of this new, very public pit.
Lorena was the first to speak, her voice ringing with feigned horror and superstition. "The incense broke!" she cried out, her hand flying to her mouth. "This is a terrible omen! A sign of an heirless marriage!"
The color drained from Beatrice's face. She was a deeply superstitious woman, a firm believer in signs and fortunes. An omen of this magnitude, during the very first ancestral ceremony, was a sign of the heavens' disapproval. Her kind expression from moments before was replaced with one of dawning horror.
Marissa, still shaken from the sudden shock, was momentarily speechless. "I… I don't…" she stammered, looking from the broken stick to the Dowager's fearful face.
Derek let out a soft, mocking chuckle that cut through the tense silence. "How ill-omened," he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. He calmly poured himself another cup of tea from the pot beside him, the sound of the liquid filling the cup unnaturally loud. He took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes locking with Marissa's over the rim of the cup.
"Perhaps," he said, his voice a silken threat, "a divorce is in order after all."
Marissa's head snapped up, her eyes flashing with fury as she glared at him. He held her gaze, unafraid, and took another sip of tea.
Lorena, seizing the opportunity, rushed to the Dowager's side. "Dowager, this is a disaster! Such an unlucky person, bringing the Dowager Duchess and the entire family bad luck on her very first day!" She looked at Marissa with utter contempt. "Please, allow His Grace to divorce his wife! We must not allow this ill fortune to fester in our house!"
Derek stood up. He walked slowly towards the altar, his movements casual and elegant. He pretended to adjust a fallen flower petal, but as he passed Marissa, he leaned in, his voice a barely audible whisper in her ear. "I already helped you once by being in your bed last night. This time, in front of the whole family, I can't help you."
Marissa didn't even turn her head. "No need for His Grace to intervene," she whispered back, her voice tight with resolve.
Derek's smirk widened. He had thrown down the gauntlet, and she had accepted the challenge. He turned and walked back to his seat, settling in to watch the show.
The momentary shock had passed, replaced now by a clear anger in Marissa. She had connected the dots: the strange, residue on her hand from Clara's touch, the violent chemical reaction of the incense. It was phosphorus powder, or something very similar. A childish, but effective, trick.
"Such a clumsy trick," Marissa said, her voice now loud and steady, ringing with a confidence that stunned the room into silence. She turned, her gaze bypassing Lorena and landing squarely on the terrified maid. "How dare you scheme against me so publicly, Clara?"
Beatrice looked from Marissa to the maid, her expression confused.
Clara began to wring her hands, her face a mask of panicked innocence. "Your Grace," she cried, her voice trembling. "You mustn't wrong me! I am innocent! I would never do such a thing!"
Marissa strode over to the maid. She didn't slap her. She didn't shout. She simply grabbed Clara's hand, her grip like a vice. "Come," she commanded. Ignoring Clara's frightened protests, she dragged the maid across the room, back to the family altar.
Derek watched the scene, utterly fascinated.
"You claim you are innocent," Marissa said, her voice dangerously calm. "Let us ask the ancestors for their judgment." She took a few fresh sticks of incense from the box. Then, she took Clara's palm—the same hand that had touched hers—and rubbed the tips of the incense sticks vigorously across it, ensuring a thorough transfer of any substance.
"Before I came into this hall, I only had physical contact with you, Clara," Marissa stated, her voice echoing. "No one else touched me."
She then turned, holding the newly-tainted sticks, and brought them to the single, steady flame of the candle.
The result was even more spectacular than the first time. The incense sticks exploded in a furious, sputtering shower of white-hot sparks, crackling and hissing with a violent energy that lit up the entire altar.
The proof was undeniable, smoking and sparking in her hand. The conspiracy was laid bare for all to see. Every eye in the room moved from the spitting incense to the terrified, ashen, and utterly guilty face of Clara.