CHAPTER 47: CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

The sunlit garden of the Thompson estate was a picture of serenity. On a wide marble terrace, under the shade of a silk canopy, a formal luncheon was underway.

A harpist, tucked in a shaded alcove, strummed a soft, intricate melody that mixed with the gentle sound of the fountain and the polite, low murmur of conversation.

"Long live Her Royal Highness," the women chanted, a chorus of silks and jewels, as the Crown Princess took her seat at the head of the long, elegant table.

Beatrice, the Dowager Duchess, sat at the other end. The Thompson family women—Marissa and Ashlyn—were seated along the sides, interspersed with the Princess’s own ladies-in-waiting. The atmosphere was one of refined grace. Servants in Thompson uniform moved silently, serving delicate courses of poached fish, roasted quail, and sweet, chilled wine.

After the main courses were finished and the plates were cleared, Beatrice signaled to the harpist, who softened her melody to a barely-there whisper. The Dowager Duchess smiled warmly at her royal guest.

"It is a rare honor for you to visit the Grand Duke’s estate, Your Highness," Beatrice began, her voice clear and proud. "To mark the occasion, I have prepared a small gift for you."

The Crown Princess, an elegant woman with intelligent, appraising eyes, smiled graciously. "You flatter me, Your Grace. You are too kind."

"This gift," Beatrice continued, pointedly shifting her gaze to Marissa, "was prepared by my new granddaughter-in-law, the Grand Duchess. I hope you will like it."

The Princess’s gaze turned to Marissa, her smile becoming a little more curious, a little more intent. "I am looking forward to it," she said with a smile. "Please, show me."

Beatrice gave Marissa a small, encouraging nod of approval. This was the moment. Marissa’s heart was a steady, measured beat. She had known this test was coming. She had also known, with a cold, sinking certainty, that her sister would not let her pass it easily.

Marissa stood and performed a deep, flawless curtsy. "Your Highness."

She walked to the large, mahogany chest that two footmen had just carried onto the terrace. It was the same chest from the warehouse, the one for which she, and she alone, held the key. She took the ornate brass key from a secure pocket in her gown. She inserted it into the lock. It turned smoothly.

She paused, took a single, quiet breath, and lifted the heavy lid.

For a moment, she just stared. The chest was housing a single, large, folded garment. A cloak. But it was not just a grand or beautiful cloak. It was a rare feathered cloak.

She reached in, her hands strangely steady, and pulled it out.

A collective, sharp gasp erupted from the entire table.

The garment she held up was, or had been, a magnificent cloak of feathers. But it was ruined. Great, ragged tears ran through the delicate fabric, as if a knife had been taken to it. Clumps of the feathers—rare, iridescent, white swan feathers—were missing, leaving bald, ugly patches. What remained was stained, spattered with what looked like dark, dried mud. It was a vision of deliberate, violent destruction.

"This cloak," Marissa thought, her mind a cold, clear chamber of logic as she examined the rents and stains, "Why is it like this?"

One of the Crown Princess’s ladies-in-waiting, a woman known for her expensive tastes, leaned forward, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and offense. "That... that is a feathered cloak made from the winter plumage of the northern swan," she whispered, her voice carrying in the sudden, shocked silence. "Gathering so many flawless feathers must have taken time and effort. It would have made a lovely gift and now... it is ruined."

The silence that followed was heavier and more absolute than any shout. Marissa’s gaze, sharp and knowing, flickered across the table to her sister. Ashlyn was staring at the ruined cloak, her hand to her mouth in a perfect performance of shock. But Marissa saw it. She saw the small, smug smile that played on her sister’s lips for one split second before it was hidden, the triumphant, satisfied light that danced in her eyes.

She used the key mold, Marissa thought. She got in, destroyed the gift, and left this... this insult.

Beatrice stood up so quickly her chair nearly toppled. Her face, which had been so full of proud, peaceful pleasure, was now a mask of pale, confused fury.

"Marissa," she demanded, her voice a sharp, strangled sound. "What happened? What is the meaning of this?"

Marissa did not answer her. She let the ruined cloak fall from her hands, as if it were a diseased and filthy thing. She turned, walked to the head of the table, and in a single, fluid motion, sank to her knees on the marble terrace before the Crown Princess.

"Please, Your Highness," she said, her head bowed low, her voice clear and steady, showing no panic, only a deep, respectful contrition. "Please, do not be angry."

The Crown Princess looked down at her, her face no longer warm or gracious. It was a cold mask. "Grand Duchess," she said, her voice quiet but ringing with displeasure, "it is just a cloak. If it is ruined, so be it." She paused, her cold gaze sweeping over the horrified faces at the table. "But the Dowager’s good intentions were also ruined. And the happy, peaceful atmosphere of this celebration has been utterly destroyed."

She turned her full, icy attention back to the kneeling Marissa. "What punishment, Grand Duchess, is fitting for such embarrassment?"

Marissa kept her head bowed. "I know my crime, Your Highness. I failed in my duty, and I have caused you and the Dowager a great embarrassment." Her voice did not tremble. "Please, grant me a chance to make amends. Grant me the time to find the culprit who did this."

The Princess raised a single eyebrow. "And if you fail? If you cannot find this culprit?"

"Then I will accept a double punishment," Marissa said, her voice unwavering. "One for failing to present the gift, and one for the disrespect of wasting your time with a false promise."

A long, tense silence stretched. The only sound was the distant, indifferent melody of the harp.

"So be it," the Crown Princess finally said, her voice flat. "You have until I depart this evening. Find your culprit."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

Marissa rose to her feet. Her back was straight, her chin was high, and her eyes were filled with a cold, absolute authority. She turned, her gaze sweeping past her shocked family, past a confused looking Ashlyn, and landed on the closed doors of the main entrance.

"Bring it out here," she called out, her voice not loud, but carrying the unmistakable ring of command.