He took out the fragment of the talisman paper from his sleeve, drew a few strokes in his palm with two fingers, and several faint streams of air, like drifting clouds and mist, surged toward the talisman.

After a long while, a fine strand of hair floated over from afar, as light as a feather, landing gently in his palm, settling just above the talisman.

Chad Foster pinched the barely noticeable hair with his right hand, examining it carefully against the light. Sunlight shone on his lowered lashes, casting a faint shadow beneath his eyes.

The tip of the hair was slightly yellowed and curled upward.

He reached out his left hand. Olivia Sullivan's hair was black and shiny, with a neatly cut end.

Not hers?

A trace of surprise and doubt flashed across Chad Foster's face.

The talisman burned halfway in his palm, the remaining half still trying to draw in the airflow, bringing with it a sweet, cloying scent mingled with the talisman's aura.

Then, the remaining half of the talisman struggled for a moment before also burning to ash. He paused, then casually placed Olivia Sullivan's hair on top, slowly drawing in her aura.

He waited intently, even with a hint of nervousness.

The barely perceptible aura left by Olivia Sullivan gradually gathered around him, slowly being purified and amplified. The scents of mugwort and forget-me-not were filtered away, replaced by a strange, alluring fragrance, making it hard to tell if the underlying sweetness remained.

Suddenly, a familiar aura swept in—it was the strong scent of Henry Carter.

The slight brightness that had returned to Chad Foster's face was once again shrouded in gloom.

Chapter 10: The Substitute Bride (Ten)

Olivia Sullivan made her way unimpeded and hurried into the main hall.

The official sent from the palace to handle affairs had just left. The air was filled with the mixed aromas of hospitality tea and calming incense, a wisp of white smoke curling up from the censer, lingering and rising in the air. Behind it sat The Magistrate, slumped in his chair, having just finished his official duties, casually wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

“Father.”

“Oh, my child is here?” A lively expression instantly appeared on The Magistrate's chubby face, as if he had suddenly been energized. He cheerfully sprang up from his chair, dragged a seat to the other side of the table, and said, “Come here to your father, are you tired?”

Sweat beaded densely on his pale forehead and the sides of his nose. He kept wiping it with a handkerchief—truly a man who sweated easily.

Olivia Sullivan closed the door behind her, quickly shut the windows, and then sat down across from The Magistrate with a serious expression. She immediately asked, “Father, was that person just now sent from the palace for disaster relief?”

The Magistrate was taken aback. “Eh?” He chuckled, “Good girl, do you know him?”

“No.” Olivia Sullivan stared straight into his eyes. “You haven’t touched the money this time, have you, Father?”

The Magistrate's smile froze for a moment, and awkwardness spread across his face.

After a while, he broke the silence, his face showing a mix of panic and appeasement. “My child, since when did you start worrying about these things?”

Seeing that Olivia didn’t have the slightest hint of a smile, he patiently tried to reassure her. “You don’t need to worry about these things. Father will handle it. My good girl doesn’t need to concern herself with anything…”

“How can I not?” Olivia Sullivan interrupted. “Father, are you really confused or just pretending? Can you touch the disaster relief funds?”

“……” The Magistrate's expression darkened, then he forced a strange smile.

That smile was like a lion looking lovingly and indulgently at a cub baring its teeth and claws. “Yes, yes, my child is right to scold me. Father deserves a beating, deserves a beating.”

He laughed for a while, then continued, “I know exactly how much is needed for disaster relief—oh, by the way, I heard from the maids that there are lumps in this year’s gauze? I’ll have a new batch collected right away…”

Olivia Sullivan stared at his face in a daze, feeling a wave of helplessness.

Every bit of income had to be skimmed; officials were long used to it. Taicang was wealthy and especially valued by the palace, so there was more to be had. Of course, The Magistrate didn’t see anything wrong with it.

Ethan Sullivan's mother had died young. As a father, The Magistrate had done all he could—he would give his daughter the moon if she asked, let alone the stars. Yet, when faced with her questioning, there was a hint of amusement in his indulgence—what was he laughing at? At her, a young lady who had never managed a household and didn’t know the price of rice, naively trying to meddle in official affairs?

“No need.” She sighed, her expression growing even more downcast. “You never listen to anything I say anyway, so I won’t say any more.”

“Don’t be angry, okay?” He circled around to face her, making a funny face to cheer her up. “My good girl, give me a smile?”

“I can’t.” Olivia turned her head away, her voice deliberately trembling. “Father, do you know, I had a dream—” She bit her lip, her eyes brimming with tears. “I dreamed that, because of this, our family was raided by the palace!”

There were more than two hundred people in the The Magistrate’s household—some were captured alive, some perished in the fire with her father. Only she managed to escape, entrusted to Henry and Yvonne Foster, wandering the world ever after, which led to all the troubles that followed.

Of course, someone had to die in her place.

It was that fourteen-year-old maid, who wore her clothes and shoes, her face like a rotting apple, lying dead and disheveled in the cold, wet mud.

Ethan Sullivan's father was not her father. She could have ignored all of this. But she just couldn’t stand by.