A Bullet Or Two

Chapter 7.2

Strolling arm in arm with Baron down the corridors of Lance Manor, Delilah's leg throbbed. Her walking stick provided her with plenty of support, but Baron had urged that she accept his help as they walked to the entrance hall. A display of affection from him to her. And a display was all it was, a facade to impress their guests.

Six guards flanked them as they walked: two in front, four behind. Jonnie nowhere insight as he remained in the city for the day. "A necessary precaution," Baron said. "Baron Albert and his sons are notorious for chaos." 

Her freedom was no longer hers to command. A prerequisite to becoming Baroness. Upon arriving in the manor, groggy and smothered in sweat from the humid carriage, Delilah had not been alone once. Her two guards were always there. Even bathing had become a public affair. Maids helped her stagger into the tub and stayed in the room as she scrubbed at her skin until it was red. She scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Never able to rid herself of the burning reminder of the Nightwigs claws on her leg or the clammy hands of Mitsby's gunsmith as she looked down at her pale and scarred body. The maids put a stop to it after Delilah pulled a stitch-free. They cleaned her body whenever she bathed now.

"You are to greet them with pleasantries and be a hospitable host," Baron spoke, gripping his hand on her looped arm. His steps synchronized with her hobbling ones. "Sir Terence is the named heir. You will need to be on good terms with him." Delilah merely nodded. "Speak when needed, but not too much. Laugh at his jokes, but not too loud. Walk when he walks..." Baron looked down through his spectacles at the stick in her hand, "as best as you can." 

She had cleaned and polished it upon clambering out of bed, wiping off any mud or dried grass coiled around its end. The stick was the only hint of her injury as her leg was concealed beneath the layers of blue cotton falling from her waist. Simple black pumps were gifted to her that morning. To prevent any stumbles were written on their tag.

The corridor was long, but not long enough. All paintings had been removed in advance of the dinner. A choice decided by Charlotte who was adamant that no one would ogle her family's faces – her insistence was admirable. However, Delilah knew in fact that Charlotte's little display of dominance, wagging her finger in her uncle's face, was not to protect her family's identities, but rather their dignity. It was because the paintings were horrific. The northern painter was one the Forsesnow's Baron was fond of and had some...interesting ideas towards art.

On the wall before the staircase, moments away from her as she and Baron walked, used to be a family portrait. One to which the painter had horrifically played with the family's appearances. Their skin was no longer brown, instead a dark midnight blue, their eyes bulged from their sockets, and their clothes were splodges of algae green, purple on the verge of brown, and oranges that were mouldy. At ten-years-old, Delilah had found it hilarious, crouched over laughing at the image of her 9-year-old cousin and relatives. She did not notice that it was supposed to be a family portrait, only that Charlotte looked like a frog in oversized clothes. 

Delilah turned to look at her father figure, the man that kept her even after her true father had gone. His dark skin folded around his eyes. Lines embed into his forehead, and his shoulders hunched only slightly. His posture remained as straight as it could. This was the man that had raised her. Gave her a home. Food. Love – though finite. 

She should feel thankful, indebted, and glowing with pride and love for her adoptive father. But, as she continued to stare at the side of his face, weighting her body on her left hand into the stick, all she felt was churning in her stomach and a deep desire to shove him down the stairs. 

Her father. 

Her savior. 

Her leader. 

The man that forgot Delilah existed after her father ran away with her governess. Blamed her and discarded her until she was useful again to the barren baron. His tool. His legacy.

What was a hundred Nightwigs compared to the loveless monster she stood beside.

"Good day, Baron Albert." Darragh's chin tilted higher as he nudged Delilah to join him in his descent. "I hope the journey was not too taxing? How long has it been since the last we stood in a room together? I believe it was your sister's wedding. Shame how long it has been."

"Indeed." A bulbous man responded from the bottom of the stairs. 

Baron Talfryn Albert was a very short man. Reaching the last step down onto the entrance hall, Delilah was eye-to-eye with the man, unsure whether to stare him down or consider the marble floor a major interest. His sons on either side of him were twice his size, both in height and width. But thankfully also did not share the same bald heads. 

Stories of Talfryn were spoken in taverns as much as those about Baroness Bertha and Baron Vilheim. Delilah had been told much about him and the Albert line after her naming. Books, articles, papers, anything that mentioned his name had been strewn across her desk at fifteen years old by her tutor. The naming ceremony had announced her as the official named heir to the Franklyn Barony, and with such a title she needed to know her allies – and with that, her enemies. 

Talfryn was not a drunken buffoon like the many men she was acquainted with. He was supposedly a strategist with endless resources in academia and trade. Baron had emphasized the necessity of maintaining a relationship with him and his family. Yet the grinning buffoon before her seemed far from a genius of their time.

"Splendid Manor. A Pleasure to be here. This must be your infamous Delilah. A pleasure, my Lady." Talfryn took her free hand in his, pecking his lips against her knuckles. Stilling her hand, Delilah resisted yanking it free. "My sons, Tarquin and Tate." He pointed left then right. "Terence will be along shortly, giddy to meet his future fellow baroness and her cousins. Where would our host be? I've heard Lady Charlotte is..."

"Charlotte is in a piano lesson." Charlotte was not in a piano lesson, instead occupied with her pillows and quilt as she had been since they arrived. 

Baron shot a stern glare at Delilah. Clenching her hand around the handle of her stick, she resolved not to speak again. "My niece will arrive shortly. Let us move to the drawing-room. The others can join us there." With that, Baron nudged Delilah again so that they could begin their next long stroll down another long corridor.