Father Benedict’s words sent a wave of panic rippling through the entire Fordham family.
Harrison Fordham stepped forward, his voice edged with desperation. “Father, is there any way to break the curse?”
“There is a solution, of course. However…” Father Benedict rubbed his thumbs together meaningfully.
Harrison caught the hint and quickly promised, “Rest assured, as long as my father makes it through this, you’ll have whatever you ask.”
Father Benedict’s stern expression softened and he waved a hand. “Material things mean little to me. I’m only here for Alistair’s sake.”
Harrison nodded repeatedly, though he knew the priest always made a show of being above such things. Still, it wouldn’t do to skimp on the customary donation.
Father Benedict spoke slowly, “There are two ways to resolve this. The first: a direct descendant of the Fordham family, under the age of ten, must enter a secluded retreat with me for forty-nine days, praying and performing rites to drive away the malefic energy plaguing your father. Only after this, the child must travel with me for ten years of spiritual pilgrimage. Then, and only then, will the curse be lifted.”
As his words faded, Dahlia’s face drained of color.
Among the Fordham descendants, only Raymond fit those requirements.
“No! I absolutely will not allow Raymond to be sent away, much less for him to become a priest! Absolutely not!” Dahlia clutched Raymond tightly, refusing to let go.
Harrison knew that Raymond was her whole world. He hesitated, torn.
He tried to negotiate with Father Benedict. “Is there another way?”
Father Benedict considered for a moment. “There is, but the second method will cost someone dearly. You must find a woman born the same year as Mrs. Fordham, with a similar build. She must spend twenty-four hours in the master bedroom under specific conditions, in order to transfer good fortune to the deceased Mrs. Fordham and bring blessing to your father.”
“Who pays the price?” Dahlia asked anxiously.
Father Benedict gave them all a cryptic look. “The woman, of course.”
When his secretary reported back, Chester merely muttered an indifferent “Mm,” his hand gripping a pen while an empty bottle of red wine sat conspicuously beside the paperwork.
The secretary hesitated, clearly uneasy.
Ever since Celestine’s death, Chester’s unpredictable moods had made the secretary question whether he’d backed the wrong man. Still, the boss had managed to use Celestine’s death to quell the rumors about him and Miss Sinclair, so perhaps things weren’t yet completely beyond repair.
Stein composed himself, remembering what Joanna had asked him to say. He glanced at the door before speaking.
“Mr. Fordham, Miss Sinclair asked me to tell you—she’s willing to help. She’ll be the one to bring your father good fortune.”
Chester’s brows drew together in a deep frown. “What kind of nonsense is this?”
“Chester, I’m not joking!”
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