The Unchaste

Dark Phoenix

In her clean room, the following night, Delilah sat in the dark. On her bed, quietly. Hands on her laps. Straight spined. Having done her riding dress, the cape and gloves, she did not have the benefit of easy shift; perhaps that was what keeping her so still.

Or perhaps it was the crushing weight of the note she had received the other day, the premonition of the coming deceit, his casual way of telling her how he had perjured her once again_ that kept Delilah out of voice and words and action.

…Betrayal, you call it…

But betray he must? After all this time? So many times? Did he never, ever get tired? What possibly had he guiled about this time?

The worse possibility_ the loudest answer in her head_ was that perhaps he hadn’t even loved her afterall. Could it be that the confession was a lie? With him, yes. But he had said it so angrily. And angry things that he said were often truer than she anticipated.

And yet…

The ‘clink’ of pebble on the glass of her window brought Delilah out of her reverence. Soundlessly getting up, she walked to the window and lifted the glass, a blast of chilly night air raging at her. She would have rather told Charlotte about this outing had it not been for Charlotte’s delicate condition. Stressing to her the tenacity of this whole situation, now, would have been foolhardy.

It was not long she distinguished Alexis Grahams’ shadow across the street.

“Retreat.” She hissed to him, and he did as Delilah stepped out of the window and skipped over the hedge, easily from the years of practice.

The coach was parked on the next turn, Alexis informed her, and in the dark persuasion of midnight cascading around them_ Delilah obscured herself into the hood of her cape.

“Is it a dangerous venture?” She asked him under her breadth as e vigilantly walked back and forth to check if they were under surveillance.

“That is a vague inquiry, Miss.”

And this man, Delilah decided, had a penchant of giving vague answers. It certainly was to be attributed to his vocation, for being an officer; he must not be in the habit of answering questions but to ask them.

“Am I not walking into some peril right now?” She asked, with forged patience.

He made an interested sound. “The question is; do you suppose Lord Richard will send you where it may come down to your life? Will he jeopardize you so? He seems sentimental of you.”

Delilah scowled at the later comment.

And how bad she wanted to say ‘No! He won’t.’. Yet, for every time she could remember, the duke had been her companion to most twisted things around the world. He had given her such shocks that Delilah, at times, used to be sure next sunshine wasn’t in her share. Her recollections and its scar from Wolfbridge was still tender. She had details right behind her eyes.

“Yes.” She grumbled. “He can, much against your quixotic convictions, Mr. Graham. He is not fond of me. He finds amusement in vexing me.”

“Then, perhaps, you should be prepared to face your worst terrors.”

They approached a small, dimly lit coach and the officer helped her into it; joining her in. A subtle knock had them into motion.

“Is it wise?” Alexis mused, staring at Delilah’s hooded face in scarce light. “For you to traverse with me, a stranger, in dead of the night.”

“Is it also wise?” Delilah bit back. “To undervalue a woman who has managed to survive Stormcastle in the wake of all dark things that have happened there? And do happen, often, I should believe.”