CHAPTER 48: CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

The command, "Bring it in," echoed across the marble terrace, sharp and cold, cutting through the horrified, heavy silence.

The doors leading out the the courtyard opened. Two tall footmen entered, carrying small, elegant wooden stands. They were followed by four maids, each holding a heavy, polished silver bowl filled to the brim with crystal-clear water. They placed the bowls on the stands, setting them in a line on the terrace for all to see.

The entire assembly—the Crown Princess, her ladies-in-waiting, Beatrice, and Ashlyn—watched, their expressions a mixture of confusion and tense, morbid curiosity.

Marissa stood tall, her back straight, her face a mask of calm, cold purpose. She turned to the Crown Princess and bowed her head.

"Your Highness," she began, her voice clear and strong, carrying to every corner of the terrace. "This gift was, as you have heard, incredibly rare and valuable. Because its care was entrusted to me, I took a simple precaution."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the silent, watching faces. Her eyes flickered for a single, sharp moment to Ashlyn.

"I coated the brass lock of the chest and the head of the key with a special, invisible substance," Marissa explained. "It is a fine, colorless powder. It is harmless to the touch, but it clings to the skin and cannot be washed off just once or twice. Its one, unique property is this: the longer it stays on the skin, it becomes hard to wash off and when it comes in contact with clean water, it reacts, turning the water a deep, unmistakable color."

As she spoke these words, Ashlyn’s face, which had been a mask of perfect, shocked innocence, fell. Her small, smug smile vanished. Her eyes widened, and a flicker of cold panic shot through them before she quickly masked it, lowering her gaze to her hands, which were now clasped tightly in her lap.

The soap mold!

she thought, her heart giving a single, hard jolt. She must have coated the key before I ever touched it. I washed my hands, I washed them ten times! But did I wash them enough? That witch!

Marissa, who had been watching her sister, saw the flicker of fear. She had her.

"Anyone who tampered with the trunk," Marissa continued, her voice like a judge’s, "anyone who unlocked that chest, will have this powder on their hands. By dipping their hands into this water, the culprit will show themselves."

She looked around the room, her gaze sweeping over the nervous servants and the wide-eyed ladies. "So..." her eyes landed, with deliberate, heavy intent, on her sister. "Let us begin with those who were in charge of the gift."

"Ashlyn," she said, her voice polite but unyielding. "Let my sister, who helped me prepare this gift, go first."

Ashlyn’s head snapped up. She stood quickly, her chair scraping slightly on the marble. Her voice, when she spoke, was a perfect imitation of offended dignity.

"What do you mean by this, sister?" she asked, her voice calm. "I helped you prepare this gift with all my heart. I supported you. How could you accuse me? How could I be the one to destroy it?"

"I am not accusing you, Ashlyn," Marissa replied, her voice dangerously smooth. "I am clearing our names. We were the ones responsible. We handled the chest and the key more than anyone. If we do not prove our own innocence first, how can we expect others to believe us?"

The logic was a steel trap. It was inescapable. Ashlyn was surrounded by the highest echelons of society. To refuse would be an admission of guilt. Beatrice and the Crown Princess were watching her, their expressions hard and appraising.

Ashlyn was silent for a long, tense moment. Her mind was racing. She’s bluffing. It’s a trick. She has no proof. Even if the powder was there, I washed my hands until they were raw. I will be fine. She is the one who will look like a fool.

"Very well," Ashlyn said, her voice tight.

Marissa signaled with her hand. One of the maids brought a silver bowl of clear water and placed it on the table in front of Ashlyn.

Ashlyn looked at Marissa. Marissa looked back, her eyes cold and steady. This is it, Marissa thought, her heart pounding. I have her. She is finished.

With a slow movement, Ashlyn began to peel off her fine, silk gloves, finger by finger. She laid them on the table. Her hands were pale, smooth, and perfectly steady. She raised them and plunged them, up to the wrists, into the crystal-clear water.

Everyone leaned in. The only sound was the distant, indifferent strumming of the harp.

Ashlyn held her hands under the water for a count of five. Then, she lifted them out, the water dripping from her fingertips back into the bowl.

The water was perfectly, absolutely, and undeniably clear.

Marissa’s eyes widened. Her mind went blank with a shock so profound it was almost dizzying. Impossible. It was the only word she could think. It is impossible. She made the mold. I felt the soap residue on the key. I know she did it. How? How is the water clear? Did she use a chemical to clean her hands? Did she know about the powder? How?

A servant, her hands trembling, offered Ashlyn a clean, white towel. Ashlyn dried her hands with slow, graceful movements.

"Your Highness," she said, turning to the Crown Princess. Her voice was a mask of wounded, vindicated innocence. "I am innocent."

She picked up her gloves and began to put them back on, her movements calm and deliberate. As she smoothed the silk over her fingers, she turned her head and gave Marissa a tiny, sly, victorious smile. It was a look of pure, triumphant contempt.

And in that one, fleeting moment, Marissa understood. The shock evaporated, replaced by a cold, sinking clarity. She knew. This wasn’t a failed trap. This was part of HER trap. The smile said it all. Ashlyn hadn’t been worried, because she knew her hands were clean. She had used someone else. Looks like she has already picked her scapegoat.

Marissa had to recover. She had been outmaneuvered, but the game was not over. She had to follow the new path her sister had so cruelly laid for her.

She turned, her expression once again hard and determined. "The substance was on the lock too," she announced, her voice strong. "The culprit is here. My sister is truly innocent." She turned her commanding gaze to the drawing room doors. "The rest of you, come in."

The doors opened again. Four young housemaids, dressed in the simple black and white of the Thompson uniform, filed in. They were terrified, their heads bowed, their hands clasped so tightly their knuckles were white.

"Your Highness, Grandmother," Marissa explained, her voice echoing. "These are the maids who were assigned to clean the warehouse where the trunk was kept for the past two days." She then turned to the four trembling women. "You all saw what the Second Lady of the house just did. You will now do the same. Dip your hands in the water. One by one."

"Yes, Your Grace," they whispered, their voices a chorus of fear.

Marissa watched them like a hawk. The first maid stepped up to a fresh bowl. She was trembling, but she dipped her hands. Clear. She let out a sob of relief and stepped back.

The second maid stepped up. Dipped. Clear.

The third maid, a young girl with pale hair named Nora, was next. She was visibly shaking, her whole body trembling so hard her teeth were chattering. Her face was a sickly color, and she kept wiping her sweating palms on the skirt of her uniform.

Her eyes, wide with pure terror, kept darting, not to Marissa, not to the Princess, but to Ashlyn.

Marissa’s eyes narrowed. There. That’s the one. This was the scapegoat. This was the reaction she had been waiting for.

"Nora," Marissa said, her voice sharp. "It is your turn."

The girl, Nora, let out a small, terrified whimper. She looked at Ashlyn, her eyes a desperate, silent plea. Ashlyn, her face a mask of polite, concerned interest, refused to meet her gaze.

"Go on, Nora," Marissa commanded. "Dip your hands. All the way."

Nora squeezed her eyes shut, a tear leaking from the corner. As if walking to her own execution, she took a shaky step forward and plunged both of her hands into the clear, still water.

The effect was instantaneous.

The water exploded with color. A dark, swirling, purple-black dye, like ink dropped in a glass, bloomed from her fingertips, instantly clouding the entire bowl in a thick, dark stain.

A collective, horrified gasp erupted from the table. The Crown Princess sat bolt upright. Beatrice cried out, her hand flying to her chest.

Nora pulled her hands out of the bowl and stared at them. They were stained a deep, incriminating purple. She let out a high-pitched shriek of terror.

Marissa acted instantly. Her rage, her humiliation, her fury at being outplayed, all channeled into one, decisive action. She seized Nora’s wrist, her grip like a steel trap.

"Your Highness!" she called out, her voice ringing with vindication. She began to drag the sobbing, collapsing maid forward, pulling her across the marble terrace. A servant, holding the bowl of dark purple water, followed them, presenting the undeniable proof.

Marissa threw the girl down at the feet of the Crown Princess.

"It seems," she said, her voice like ice, "we have found our culprit."