A Bullet Or Two

Chapter 8.1: The Gathering at Lance Manor

A lady was not a lady unless she had a complete breakdown the morning of her dinner party.

Delilah stood exhausted, watching the maids attempt to pull Charlotte from beneath her covers. Undressed. Unready. Unhinged. Charlotte screamed obscenities at her maids, demanded they not touch her unless they wanted to sleep with the pigs. A pillow flew past Delilah's head. The maids stopped, fearful that the next pillow would knock the unsteady future Baroness. "Throwing things will not get you any further from having to go downstairs." Delilah waved her hand for the maids to leave.

"Does he even speak? He didn't open his mouth once. Just sat there! Like a mouse! No noise, just nose twitching. I can't take another minute next to him!" Black curls appeared, chaotic and unkempt like a lion's mane. Bronze eyes glared at Delilah. Charlotte huffed and crossed her arms. "Perhaps your beauty silenced him." They giggled.

"As if."

Delilah joined her cousin on the bed. Flopped herself onto it as if she were to sink into the mattress, the sheets folding over her like waves in the river. But they were not waves in the river, more like the stumps of rock poking out through the earth. Although, Delilah did not mind that. The bed was a welcome comfort before the constant walking she would be doing across the day. Bowing. Shaking hands. Talking. 

At least she was not Charlotte, having to host the entire damn dinner. One that was not even for her. Delilah's legs remained bent over the edge of the bed, enough so as not to scrap her freshly-bandaged calf. Beside her, Charlotte rolled over. "If this is the rest of my life. Shoot me."

"Rifle or pistol. My aim varies." Again, they laughed. Carefree into the room. It had been a while since Delilah felt relaxed like this. Able to lie down and stare freely at the ceiling without clutching a weapon in her hand. She had left her sturdy knife at the townhouse, the one Baron gifted Delilah on her fourteenth birthday. 

A girl needs protection. He reassured her, closing Delilah's hand around the knife. Thrust with the elbow. Then run. Darragh never provided normal advice a parent should. None about first bleeds, first loves, nor finding a husband. Plenty of ways to kill a man, however, and to raise in station. Delilah kept the knife in her drawer for years. Humouring herself with that silly advice. What would a knife do to help in finding a husband? She would get it out every so often and twizzle it in her fingers. She should have listened.

That knife soon stashed itself beneath her pillow every night as she slept. At eighteen, she was already ruined. Three – almost four - years on from then, she wished she had heeded Baron's advice.

"The two little pigs enjoyed your company." Charlotte interrupted.

"So you did read the book?" Twisting her head, Delilah found Charlotte with a devious grin and terrible glint in her eye. At ten or twelve years old, Delilah shared her prized collection of fairy tales with her cousin, only for Charlotte to keep avoiding it. Opting for running in the crop fields over reading. "I would rather have had your quiet mouse."

"Too bad Uncle won't marry you off."

"I'm too valuable to marry off yet."

Charlotte chuckled. Then rolled to her back. A moment passed where they laid in silence. Both observing the cracks scattering the ceiling, like they had as children sharing the bed together, refusing to go to sleep. Delilah remembered how often they would count them, urging the other to state the next number, all until they drifted into their dreams. Two small girls, sprawled out under the covers and snoring like pigs. 

Together, they were the same as the Albert brothers. Two proud girls that could talk forever. Separate. Delilah did not want to recall how everything changed once they were separate. She wanted to stay lying next to her cousin for as long as she could.

---

There was something about the kitchen that always soothed Delilah's unease and she found herself hiding amongst the pots and dishes for a moment of silence. Or, considering the magnitude of clambering servants prepping the guests' evening meal, a moment of escape from her duties.

It was midday. Outside, the blue sky was spotted grey in areas, dimming the natural light that crept through the windows across from her. Delilah shuffled as far in between the sink and cupboards as she could. Anxious not to get in the way of the workers. She stayed there at least an hour, watching the cooks fret over portions and seasoning; the maids sweep the debris-ridden floors; and the servers fold napkins. 

A mixture of sage, rosemary, and paprika wafted through the room, followed by the aroma of baking bread. Delilah could almost taste the hard crust giving way to the fluffy texture of the buns and so too could her stomach, which added a growl to the ruckus of the kitchen.

"Ma'am," a hand reached out before her; a hot bread bun rested on top. 

Familiar heat rushed up to her neck and along her cheeks. Embarrassed by her stomach's betrayal, Delilah gratefully accepted the offering and hurried away from the kind maid, out of the kitchen, and into the maze of halls that formed Lance Manor.

As she maneuvered through the halls, Delilah faced numerous greetings from arriving guests. Rushing through the small talks and questions, all she thought of was the warm bake in her palm. Compliments of her beauty, intelligence, bravery, and any other attribute that constituted a fine woman were thrown her way to which Delilah faked smiles and thanks. Her responses were short and rehearsed. Her lips moved with memory. 

It is lovely to see you. 

Enjoy the dinner. 

May Saol favour you.

Weightless words out of etiquette. 

Delilah finally neared the end of the hall that led to the grand staircase, desperate to clasp her lips around the cooling bread in her hand. Her stomach ached in anguish. Turned as if it was starved and tortured for days. Pressing her stick further and further away with each stride, Delilah glistened with anticipation.

Against all her waiting and all her excitement, Delilah never received even one satisfying bite of the bread. For, as she finally turned the corner at the end of the hall, oblivious and distracted, she slammed into a solid form. And the bun collided with the ground.