Crystal Heart (ONC 2024)

2: Lonely Haven

Delilah woke with a start, sitting bolt upright as her nightmare faded until it was just the hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention. Her hands curled, clutching at the material beneath her before flinching away suddenly. It was soft. Downy. A real mattress. She looked down, almost expecting to see dirt or leaves and realise the nasty trick her senses were playing on her, but she was in a bed, a maroon blanket pooling in her lap.

At the same time, she noticed the cream nightgown that clung to the sweat on her skin.

Throwing the covers aside, she all but leapt from the bed, regretting the decision immediately as pain shot up through her legs. Her muscles were tight, begging her not to move them, but it had been many days since her body had any say in what she did with it. Gripping one of the towering bed posts, she shuffled towards the centre of the room, her eyes darting to and fro as she took in her surroundings.

It was a bedroom, and an elegant one at that. On her left was the bed, in a huge oak frame with translucent beige fabric draping gracefully between the beams. To her right an armoire and vanity sat side by side, the delicate mirror on top catching the edge of her reflection. She could just see the sleeve of the nightdress, ending at her upper arm, with a wisp of brown hair that coiled lifelessly against her shoulder.

In one motion, she snatched the blanket from the bed, pushed herself away from the frame. Her muscles protested as she stormed across the room, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the marble floors until she was close enough to fling the material over the mirror. It knocked a vase over, the rattle of its roll across the vanity echoing in the room, but she didn't dare raise her eyes until the blanket drifted into stillness. Cautiously, she looked at the mirror, relieved to find any reflection obscured. She never knew if he was watching, and it was risky enough to have the crystal with h-

The crystal.

Delilah's hand whipped to her pocket, clenching in the fabric of the pocketless nightgown.

Where was the crystal?

The vanity was still within reach, and she swept her hands across its surface, knocking the vase off the edge. She barely flinched as it hit the floor with a loud crack; it was not the shattered object she was searching for. Turning to the drawers, she tugged each out of the vanity completely, dropping them to the floor when they proved empty. 

Next, she moved to the armoire, throwing the doors wide. There were dresses of bright colours and fine silks hanging side by side, and she pulled each out, running a hand down their bodices and searching for any place the shard might have been hidden. As her fingers grazed the embroidered navy flowers of the last, she couldn't prevent a flash of memory; Delilah and her mother sitting on her bed with a pile of gowns around them, giggling and teasing as they prepared for a ball. They picked the midnight-blue dress because it flattered Delilah's tanned skin.

What a mistake that had been.

A noise behind her had Delilah spinning, her hand returning to her absent pocket. It wasn't until she was staring at the door that she realised it had been a knock.

The door pressed inwards, admitting the profile of a man as he looked towards the bed. His hair was a dark blonde, the colour of unpolished jewellery, though his beard, clipped close to his chin, had a light tinge of auburn to it. He was taller than her, he could easily overpower her – he had easily overpowered her, she remembered – and so she let the dress fall from the hanger she held, readying it as a weapon. She would fight if she had to.

Even if it was Frederick Ascott.

Whether it was the gentle rustle of the dress settling to the floor or the sudden realisation that there was no one in the bed, the man looked her way then. His gaze flicked quickly over the dresses and drawers at her feet, without a hint of emotion crossing his face, and then met her eyes.