The Unchaste

Dead Dahlias.

She wept in delirium that night, head on the pillow and fingers knotted in the blanket. There was not a speck of sleep in those eyes, Delilah was torn half.

She continued to gaze perplexedly at the clean black slate of the dark sky, hovering over the darker earth, speckled with a light dusting of twinkling stars. Shadows skirted the corners of her room, moon rose and disappeared on its tip-toe and the tiny square feet of garden outside her window drafted in the scent of nightly blooms.

Of lilacs studded in the foliages. Of First emotions of love.

Few hours before dawn, she dragged herself down the bed, dropping on the floor and prayed. And prayed as she did, she promised.

Live, George. Live, please.

Survive the night. I will save you. I will.

She knew, believed and knew that George would be all right. Lord Richard's words had hinted her that and quite understandably so. The man wouldn't let George die until he knew his secret and all Delilah had to do was that she had to barter his throat out of the dragon's grip.

Only, her bones felt cold. Something felt not right.

Hue of deep tangerine was surging along the horizon as Delilah sat on the cold floor of Windsor, mangled in sweat and tears. Thoughts of terror. Concern and agony and dread.

She scrambled off of the floor and attended to her morning chores followed by a cold bath, finishing just alongside the sun, as it shimmered out from the haze beyond the birches. She was earliest to be downstairs. Andrew was still snoring when she walked past his room.

Since the maid had just woken up, Delilah had no hopes for breakfast she had no appetite to take. She informed her mother that she would be leaving early and wrapped her shawl around herself.

The bullmastiff, Chester, was barking at a sparrow when she stepped out into the cool, bright morning. She petted the hound absentmindedly and it greedily engaged her affectionate scratches. Though a dog with immensity, Chester could be completely puppyish at times; especially when around her.

But Delilah had no time. She needed to reach Stormcastle. She had to drive a hard bargain.

So patting Chester thrice, Delilah undid the restraint that was holding it and set the dog free to chase all sparrows he wanted.

For herself, Delilah's wilted heart couldn't find glee in anything.

***

His face was a contorted mess of flesh and blood, beyond recognition but it was his face undeniably.

He lay displayed on a feeble stretcher, covered by a thin white, infirmary blanket, in the front yard of Stormcastle, early morning, surrounded by weeping maids and stunned footmen and that was what Delilah came upon when she arrived.

A bunch of uniformed policemen. All the servants.

And that centre of attention.

Uneven steps and dead pause, again moving, again stopping; Delilah came by the side of 'it'.

The officer who had been supporting Delilah's unfeeling, expressionless body informed her that after falling from the western tower of the Stormcastle, foxes had attacked his bleeding remains. The carnivores ripped his face off, tempted by the blood oozing from his forehead.

Upper half of his face was mutilated but lower half was still recognisable.

By the time the stable boy discovered his body, he was being savagely scavenged by nocturnal animals and birds.

'What a pity!' The officer had said and a thick-skinned man that he was, he didn't keep details away from Delilah. 'He seemed such a young chap. All in good health! No bone of his body now remains unbroken I shall badger. Look at his face...that white hint, you see Miss? That's his bone. Zygomaticus. They chewed his bones away, those rascal foxes, clearly had a very great feast.'

Delilah said nothing as she continued to stare at the lacerated body of George. Did she even hear?

Suicide.

She might not have agreed.

She was the closest to the corpse. No one else had been irrational enough to approach what now was a horror derived from a once charming, full of life man.

It was his black, silken hair, now pretty bunched up with dried blood. His work uniform, dirty from the fall.

She tried to step closer, but the officer wouldn't allow that. They discerned she was in a frenzy, glazed eyes and white lips. Blunt, unnerving gaze.

'The body will be taken for autopsy, Miss.' The Officer's far off voice echoed in Delilah's shuttered, dark mind. 'Touching alters the details.'

The unbreathing man who lay serene now wouldn't stir. He had first called her 'Dahlia', bungled her name with such pride, that fool!
And now, he wouldn't say her name at all.

She backed away softly, away from George. The anticipated bout of hysteria never came.
She sensed a gaze. Lifted her eyes.

Met his.

The picture of grandeur and magnificence was looking at her. All stateliness and all honor.

Lord Richard stood two feet away from the body on the other side. The second closest to it, with a solemn face.

The killer attending the corpse.

He stood so straight, so tall. So indifferent. But there was none of the smugness one might have thought due. What a fine conqueror he made! What a fine keeper of promises!

The Killer, the corpse and the bait stood aligned in the single line.

Richard. George. Delilah.

His face was set. Stern and unsympathetic with not the slightest hint of acknowledgement to what he had done. His intense blue eyes glistened though, and in fulfillment and peace. Like a challenge accomplished. Victory his own, the defeated the dead.

Oh, how he kept his word.

He didn't break his eyes away from her when the senior officer reached him and started discussing his next steps. Delilah didn't either, but she was tired.

Delilah vaguely wondered what would become of the situation if she were to tell the officers everything about the duke. About Philip's murder and George's fate. But she knew the ways of the world too well to know what would be sought and what not. She had no proof. Reproof was not enough.

She blamed herself.

Everything she touched, perished.

Everyone she loved, she lost.

Delilah broke the nonverbal communication of her and his eyes and looked down. She wiggled free from the officer's hold and excused herself to the inside of the castle; the unblest, accursed mansion spread its arm proudly and embraced Delilah in its dark depth.

She walked, jaggedly but ceaselessly to where George's room was situated in the servant's quarter. Past the dark hallway, under the staircase.

His room was cleanly made, though not quite as richly furnished.
Just yesterday, he was here. Just yesterday!

In his room, there was a table.

On his table, there was a vase.

In that vase, there was a flower.

Dahlia.

Flower of Sun and shade.

When she wailed at the top of her voice, everyone outside the Stormcastle heard that screamed out cacophony, that curse which it carried. Like a throat had been ripped open and the heart had been reached raw.

They all heard it, but one man more than anyone. He flinched, standing frozen in the front yard of Stormcastle, in the broad daylight; darkness crept down to his core.

It is not easy for a heart to forget beating, but his did.

Only for a moment.

But his did.