Chapter 87: The Shattering of the Curse
**Thelma Zane’s Perspective**
Panic coursed through me. The sudden announcement of Carolyn’s supposed illness was unexpected and could spell disaster for our carefully laid plans. Had the witch somehow discovered the southern Duke’s cooperation with us? Was this a test, a trap to expose his true intentions?
If nothing suspicious happened to him, he would need to play the role of a concerned and loving father, rushing to his daughter’s side. However, this posed a significant risk: Dorothy’s incantation was still incomplete. If the Duke abandoned the ritual now, all our efforts would be for nothing. Worse, the witch would likely tighten her grip, leaving no room for independent action,
“Oh! Carolyn!” the southern Duke exclaimed, leaping to his feet with the urgency of a father in distress. “Take me to her immediately!”
His voice was rich with concern, and his expression mirrored the part he was playing. Yet, his movements betrayed no haste, no sign of panic. He remained steady as if his resolve was
immovable.
“Don’t worry, Benard,” my father interjected smoothly, halting him in his tracks. “Why don’t we ask the doctor to examine her first? I’m sure Carolyn wouldn’t want her father to be overly
concerned.”
Kara, ever the composed attendant, added, “Her Highness the Queen has already summoned. Dr. Tracy to attend to Miss Carolyn. She assures everyone, especially the Duke, that there’s no need to hurry.”
The Duke took the cue flawlessly, exhaling in apparent relief. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for your consideration,” he said, bowing slightly. “Forgive my earlier outburst. Perhaps I could seek your permission to visit Carolyn in the Queen’s suite and ensure she is comfortable?”
“Of course, Benard,” my father replied, his tone measured. “Allow me to summon the head
servant to escort us there.”
Meanwhile, Dorothy worked with a renewed sense of urgency, her deft hands tracing the final intricate lines of the spell. The incantation glowed faintly, its light like a soft moonbeam, before vanishing into the air.
“It is done,” she whispered, stepping back as the Duke stretched his limbs experimentally. His nod of gratitude spoke volumes.
Thank you, child,” he said, his voice carrying genuine relief.
Dorothy handed him a small crystal vial. “The monitoring spell has been broken, but to maintain the illusion, I have placed a new enchantment upon you. This spell replicates the
Chupper The Shattering of the Curse
original’s structure and logic perfectly, ensuring that it appears seamless to any external scrutiny. Inside this vial is the essence of the moon. Drink it at midnight tonight to solidify the protection granted by the Moon Goddess.”
“What does the new spell do?” Benard asked, inspecting the vial,
“It serves only one purpose: to create a false reality,” Dorothy explained. “Anyone attempting to monitor you will see logical, yet incorrect, information. It will distort their perception without raising suspicion. Fortunately, the original spell was primarily designed for
observation, which made it easier for me to replace it.”
The Duke studied her with newfound respect. “Such mastery of advanced witchcraft is rare among young werewolves. You have an extraordinary gift, child.”
Dorothy offered a faint smile, her modesty unwavering. “Thank you, my Lord. It is my honor to assist you.”
As their exchange concluded, Dorothy’s eyes met mine, and a subtle smile passed between us. But there was no time to linger. The southern Duke, despite his relief, understood the necessity of maintaining appearances. Reluctantly, he made his way toward the Queen’s suite, his movements calculated yet rushed enough to embody the image of an anxious father.
The sight that greeted us upon arrival was as ostentatious as expected. Carolyn lay sprawled on an opulent bed, surrounded by silk and jewelry, her face contorted in feigned discomfort. Dr. Tracy hovered over her, her expression serious as she conducted a thorough examination. It was clear that Tracy was struggling. Despite her expertise, she could find no physical ailment to explain Carolyn’s condition. This was no surprise. The witch, cunning as ever, was merely pretending to be ill.
“Carolyn! How are you feeling, my child?” Benard asked, his voice laced with genuine concern. He knelt beside her bed, his posture perfect for the role of the devoted father.
The false Carolyn opened her eyes weakly, her voice barely a whisper. “Father… my stomach… it hurts.”
oh, my
dear girl!” Benard exclaimed, his tone thick with emotion.
Their exchange was so convincing that, had I not known better, I might have been moved by the tender scene. Yet, it only reinforced what we already suspected: Dorothy’s work had gone undetected. The witch was unaware of our plan and was continuing her charade.
My mother stepped forward, her expression apologetic. “Benard, I fear this may be my fault. I allowed Carolyn to drink too much iced tea earlier. It’s possible she caught a chill.”
She gestured toward the small round table, where a teapot sat beside a half–empty ice bucket.
‘Please don’t blame yourself,” Benard replied, his tone warm yet deferential. “We all know how much you care for Carolyn. This is nothing more than a moment of youthful indulgence.”
Chapter 7 The Shattering of the Curse
Dr. Tracy chose this moment to deliver her findings. “Your Majesty, my Lords, please rest assured. Miss Carolyn appears to be experiencing mild stomach spasms. A cup of hot tea should alleviate her discomfort.”
At my mother’s instruction, a servant quickly prepared the tea. The Queen’s suite bustled with activity, servants moving about to address Carolyn’s needs. The farce, for the moment, had reached its conclusion.
The southern Duke and Carolyn joined us for lunch that afternoon, accompanied by my parents, Aldrich, and Duke Frank. The meal was a test of endurance for me. The superficial pleasantries and forced smiles drained me, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of the witch and our next move.
As we dined, Carolyn’s behavior began to reveal the cracks in her façade. Her gaze lingered greedily on the luxurious decorations, and she wasted no opportunity to claim the finest clothes and jewelry. Her thinly veiled avarice mirrored the traits of the witches from legend, providing a glimpse of her true nature.
By the time they departed, Carolyn had amassed a small hoard of treasures, a stark contrast to her earlier act of frailty. Watching her retreating figure, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of relief and foreboding. We had won this battle, but the war was far from over.
