The Unchaste

The sound of the Music.

In the library that week, apart from Delilah’s coming across Lord Richard for the first time, things went rather uneventfully all the rest days.

No wonder, all the exceptionality of those date had been stolen away by those couple of minutes the two had first met.

On the other note, Delilah was disappointed in herself for she was yet to learn the basement secret of His Grace, or at least what came down with the bodies of those two girls.

Was he selling bone ashes for bone-china or was he but a proletarian anatomist?

If former, well_ Delilah’s fingers were itching already. And if later_ then why was he so enigmatic? Why so reserved?

Why, for that matter, was he a person so feared then?

It was two weeks since her arrival now and she had been only able to squeeze out the knowledge from the housekeeper, Madame Janelle that Stormcastle afterall had a basement.

A wine cellar.

It was her next task to visit that mentioned ‘Wine Cellar’. She was patient and biding for her time. The Castle was much chaotic these days, after the duke’s arrival so the secrecy Delilah hoped for was rare and that was the cause of her intrusive delay.

Questions were still ringing out loud within her head as Del walked down the windy swamp, long, dry grass blades sweeping and brushing across her indigo gown, dry dusting it, that late evening.

Her hands tucked into her pockets, she lazily meandered up the mount, crunching gravels beneath her robust boots while exertion heated her face red and the icy, brash wind chilled it just as quickly.

She had just reached a ruined Kirk, her childhood fortress where she used to climb up atop the highest tower and pretend being the moors queen. This place was not far from her house_ the Windsor place and she decided that she could slow down a little, in order to feel the times past.

But just then, current of air changed_ like it often does in those arid arena, bringing down the gust of breeze from uphill.

There was harmony in the air.

Delilah lifted her head. To listen.

What was it?

A familiar tune from a familiar piano; the echo humming the whole marshland.

From her own house.

She knew that piece, this composition. This song. She knew that instrument, untuned, one key conked out. She knew those fingers that were playing through it right now.

It was a gesture to hurry. A beckon.  A calling her home.

It was him. It was…..

Before she knew, Delilah had picked up her pace, her ankle length overcoat fluttering as she staggered up the knoll, going as fast as she could.

He was here. It was him. It had to be_ only he knew how to call her right from a mile away.
The stone cottage stood darkly against the setting sun, the green of the day slipping away into slow indigo.

Mist was rolling in.

The mastiff, on seeing Delilah stood up and barked out as she ran past it, into the high house. Wild!

Mrs. Eves stood in the doorway, as if she knew the girl would come running. She knew it from habit. Past habits.

Delilah stopped short infront of her, breathing hard.

“You never told me he…”

“…is here.” Mrs. Eves completed coldly. “Get in.”

Delilah entered the house with the same former pace. The house was windier than the swamp, it was colder. She ran upstairs. To the last room of the dreary corridor.