My Magistrate Husband Drew His Sword When the Priest Claimed Our Son Carried His Slain Enemy's Soul — But the Truth in the Safe Changed Everything
The truth from Elias Kidd felt like a scalding brand. Garth had not fought an enemy; he had murdered his brother for power and money. My son, Julian, was not carrying a demon’s soul, but the mark of his rightful lineage.
I hurried back to the manor, the locket clutched in my hand. Caleb still stood guard at the chapel, his silhouette stark against the morning sky, a loyal but unwitting pawn. I had to get inside, to Julian, but Caleb’s orders were absolute.
Then I remembered Julian’s calm words: “The old truths lie buried.” And I remembered his secret investigation. He wouldn’t be trapped for long.
I made my way to the town office, a small stone building adjacent to the manor where Garth conducted the town’s business. It was usually locked tight, but Garth would be busy spinning his new narrative about Julian’s “curse” to the elders.
The office was empty, hushed. Sunlight streamed through the single window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. I went directly to Garth’s heavy oak desk. I knew about the safe beneath the floorboards. Garth had installed it himself, years ago, when he first became magistrate. He often joked about its contents, “the real secrets of Oakhaven.”
I knelt, feeling for the cold iron ring hidden beneath a loose floorboard. I pulled it up. The heavy iron door of the safe was revealed. My own hands trembled, but I knew what I had to do.
Garth always kept a spare key, a small brass one, in the bottom of my old sewing box, hidden beneath a pile of lace. A sentimental place, he thought, one I rarely touched. He had no idea I had retrieved it years ago, just in case of an emergency, a mother’s instinct.
My fingers fumbled with the key. It slid into the lock, turning with a soft click. I pulled open the heavy door.
Inside, among stacks of land deeds and financial papers, lay a thick, leather-bound volume. Its cover was worn, the gold lettering faded but still legible: “Oakhaven Parish Ledger – 1782.” The year Thaddeus died.
I pulled it out, my heart pounding. This was it.
I opened to the first page. It was a formal record, meticulous handwriting documenting every family, every plot of land, every lineage. I turned the pages, my eyes scanning for the Fairfax name.
And there it was. Not just a mention, but a detailed family tree. Thaddeus Fairfax, listed as the firstborn son, legitimate heir. And beneath his name, a clear, separate entry for “Garth Sutton, second son,” acknowledging a different paternal line. It explicitly outlined how the annual $14,000 tax charter was tied to Thaddeus’s bloodline, inherited from *his* father, the previous magistrate, whose lineage stretched back to Oakhaven’s founding.
I flipped to later pages. And saw it. Systematic alterations. Names crossed out, re-written. Thaddeus’s legitimate claim slowly erased, replaced by Garth’s, subtly, over months, years. New deeds crafted, old ones made to disappear. The entire history rewritten, right here in this ledger.
Then I heard it. A faint scraping sound from beneath the building. It was Julian. He had found a way out. I heard the muffled thump of a cellar grate being carefully replaced. He was inside the manor.
Suddenly, the door to the office creaked. I froze, the ledger open in my hands. The shadow of a man fell across the floorboards.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours