Chapter 782
“The Dowager is chanting in the chapel,” the servant replied.
The chapel? Dowager Vance rarely went to the chapel in the morning. What was different today? A moment later, Rosemary remembered: it was the anniversary of her brother Quinton’s death. Every year on this day, the Dowager would go to the chapel early in the morning to chant prayers for his soul. The following day, she would release fish into a nearby river.
Rosemary immediately rushed toward the chapel.
The air inside was thick with the scent of sandalwood. The Dowager was rhythmically tapping a wooden prayer mallet with one hand and fingering a string of prayer beads with the other, her lips moving in a silent prayer for the dead.
Kneeling beside her was Flavia.
She had been there for hours, kneeling directly on the hard floor, unlike the Dowager, who had a soft cushion beneath her knees. Flavia had nothing. She held three lit incense sticks in her hands, letting the hot ash fall onto her skin. It burned, and her fair hands were already dotted with red marks.
A new piece of ash dropped onto her hand. The sharp pain made her hand tremble slightly.
Today was a day of prayer for Quinton. It was believed that those who died tragically would linger at the site of their death, unable to be reincarnated. To ease their suffering, a widow must kneel before the gods on the anniversary of her husband’s death, holding incense without fear of being burned, and pray devoutly. The gods, moved by her devotion, would then grant the soul peace and passage to the afterlife.
So, every year on this day, the Dowager forced Flavia to kneel in the chapel for seven or eight hours, holding incense. When one set burned down, it was replaced with another. As a result, Flavia’s hands and arms were a patchwork of new burns and old scars.
Noticing Flavia’s trembling hand, the Dowager swung the prayer mallet and struck her across the face.
Smack!
The blow was heavy. Flavia’s cheek immediately swelled, and a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. Fresh pain on top of old wounds. Her face felt numb, but she clutched the incense sticks tightly, her back ramrod straight, like a solitary pine tree on a mountain-proud and unyielding.
The Dowager glared at her, hissing, “You useless harlot, you can’t even hold a stick of incense properly! I know you’re doing this on purpose. You don’t want to pray for Quinton at all p>
“My poor Quinton! If it weren’t for you, you ruinous wench, he would still be alive today! It’s all your fault, all of it p>
Hitting her with the mallet wasn’t enough. The Dowager began kicking her repeatedly, channeling all her grief and rage onto Flavia. The days surrounding the anniversary of Quinton’s death were always a living hell for Flavia. She was used to it.
Even as the blows rained down on her, she held the incense high, making sure it didn’t go out or fall. She was the widow; this was her duty. Quinton had died because of her. How could she let his soul wander without peace?
The Dowager’s grief intensified, her chest heaving with sobs. She prostrated herself before the altar, crying out, “Oh, merciful gods, my Quinton suffered so much! He was so brilliant, with such a bright future, but because he met this harlot, he lost his life! He’s gone p>
“I beg you, please don’t let him suffer in the afterlife! Please, have mercy p>
Hearing the Dowager’s cries, Flavia’s own heart ached. It was true. Her husband was only twenty-eight when he died, in the prime of his life. How could a mother not be devastated?
The Dowager turned on Flavia again, grabbing her by the throat. “You jinx! It’s all your fault! My Quinton gave his life for you, and what have you done for him? I ask you to offer some incense and pray and you cart even do that night! Tell me! Has some man outside turned your head p>
“I’m warning you, as long as I’m alive, you will not be thinking about other men p>
Flavia looked at the Dowager, her eyes red. “Mother, rest assured, I will never betray Quinton p>
“You’d better not!” the Dowager snarled, her grip tightening. “Or I will make your life a living hell p>
A flicker of bitter irony crossed Flavia’s face. As if it wasn’t already. She often wondered why she wasn’t the one who had died that day.
“Mother p>
Rosemary burst in to see the Dowager attacking Flavia. Her brow furrowed. That little bitch, what did she do to upset Mother now? She’s nothing but trouble, just like thất other little bitch from the Gonzales family p>
Hearing Rosemary’s voice, the Dowager’s expression softened slightly, and she released her grip on
Flavia’s neck. “Get out! Get out of my sight! filthy thing like you doesn’t deserve to be in this chapel, much less kneel here and pray for Quinton p>
Flavia remained kneeling, unmoving. The ritual was not yet complete; she couldn’t leave.
Rosemary’s eyes flashed with disgust. She strode over and kicked Flavia to the ground. “Flavia! Are you deaf? Mother told you to get out p>
The incense sticks clattered to the floor. Flavia slowly picked herself up and walked out of the chapel, her steps heavy.
Rosemary immediately shut the door behind her.
The Dowager, sensing her daughter had something important to say, asked, “What is it p>
Just then-
Snap.
The string of prayer beads in the Dowager’s hand suddenly broke. The beads scattered across the floor with a series of soft clicks.
A broken string of prayer beads. A terrible omen.
The Dowager’s face went pale just as her daughter spoke.
“Mother, that little brat from the Gonzales family… she actually cured Brock.” What? How is that possible?