The Unchaste

Stormkissed - *Edited*

That shivering winter night, Stormcastle was snow-kissed by a storm outside.
Odd, mad things happened.

Alone on the table, Delilah laughed sadly, nibbling at her bread and winced, when the nasty bruise on her forehead got compromised in the act. She closed her eyes and swallowed painfully.

Don't you remember me in the slightest?

So, there was this anomaly in the hindsight of her childhood days' memory. When she used to scamper the moors with her step-brother Andrew and her crush, Jake; there was often someone else too, always in the shadow of her vision, lurking along. He was Jake's best-friend_ a thin, tall boy of around her age, too quiet to be accentuated in that small company. Mostly, it was her infatuation for Jake that seldom allowed her to focus on anything, anyone against his charm.

She scarcely could recapture that boy's face, he had never been important enough to be committed to remembrance but she had a vague recollection of his eyes.

Because they used to joke how his eyes so resembled his name.

Winter.

Lord Richard Winter, Richie Winter back then. A poor doctor's son, from what she remembered_ not a duke's Heir.

No, I don't remember you. Should I? Who are you?

The blizzard had assailed the moors just late that same afternoon, in the evening it only intensified, making things not quite viable for Delilah or her hope to go home with her fractured, splinted toe. She sent a message though, informing her step-mother of the helplessness of her situation. She didn't mention the fractured Toe.

Miss Janelle had helped her into an unused room of the manor and allowed her to feel at home but there was nothing homely about being in Stormcastle.

The wide window at the end of the enormous dining room was hazy with vapour, having lodged the soft snow flakes and frost on the sill outside. The wall lamps dazzled. A tiny tongue of fire was flickering inside its miniature glass compartment, its golden glow oozing out all over the pale wallpaper beside the window, giving the sepia room a warm caprice, more of delusion than of actuality. Such lamps were on every wall. All kindled.

Warmth was welcome. Not light, though.

Light was invasive. Light was sundry.

Delilah flinched every time she lifted her head or accidently gazed into the candle lit across the dining table. Her pale face had attained black-purples on her cheeks and near her forehead. She looked so helpless, having been brutally berated by falling books.

His Grace had honored her invitation to dine along his circle of Elites tonight and it could have been just a pity-privilege for her inadvertent self. Could have been, though, wasn't.

He had recognized on her face the light of enlightenment. She remembered him. Her face gave it away although she had lied to him earlier. And in an impractically warped way_ he was allowing her to live their bygone memoirs together, once and the last time.

All through dinner, amidst the chaos of servant and political-professional chats_ Delilah just hadn't been able to tear her eyes off him and that had agitated her greatly. He didn't as much as look her way. It was fine though.

She wished to observe him unobserved.

She kept pushing her food this way and that, desirelessly, on her plate until everyone apart from her had finished. She was thankful they didn't linger in her regard; she would have hated such hollow attention. She stayed seated as the table went vacant and eventually, the dining room too.