Villainous [Wattys 2021 Shortlist]

30: War Talk

When Delilah next woke, she felt like she was floating on a cloud. She was sinking into the bed - the mattress was luxurious, coddling her battered, aching body. The healer had given her a sedative, she remembered vaguely, to help calm her after the memory flash. It had been the deepest sleep she'd ever had.

Delilah slowly sat up, revelling in the rustle of the smooth sheets around her. She was back in her cave-suite, a fire crackling cheerily in the roughly-hewn fireplace on the opposite side of the room. For a while she was content to pull the sheets up to her chin, snuggle down, and think of nothing.

It was delightfully quiet - all noise muffled by the thick walls. She hadn't been able to sleep alone, in a proper room, at all on their journey.

I'm never leaving again.

A servant arrived and set a covered tray on the table before bustling out. Delilah forced herself out of bed only because the smells wafting from it were too tantalizing to resist. She whipped off the lid and sank into a chair: there was a bowl of hot stew, a full loaf of freshly-baked bread cut into thick slices and slathered with butter, and a huge mug of strong, sweet tea.

It took her mere moments to demolish the lot. She was hungry enough to ignore the way it scalded her throat.

When she was full, Delilah realised she hadn't had a proper bath in what felt like years. So she padded to the en suite, where pails of hot and cold water already awaited her, and drew herself a bath. She spent a good hour scrubbing every scrap of dirt away, until her skin was soft and fragranced, her hair sleek and shiny, her nails clean and even.

Now she felt a little more like an aristocrat, rather than a commoner. It took a huge effort of will to get out of the bath, but she quickly towelled herself dry and sat in front of the wardrobe as she pondered what to wear.

She'd forgotten the joy of having so many options. The sight of the war-dress she'd worn the night Dante revealed his plans brought a smile to her face. She'd just finished dressing simply when there was a knock at her door.

"Yes?"

"It's Spindle, ma'am Delilah!" a woman called.

Delilah opened the door. The squat woman had a wrinkled but kind, soft face, and she was one of the head seamstresses in Irkalla. "What is it?"

"You've slept a night and a day, mistress," Spindle said, curtseying. "There is to be a gathering in the Great Hall to celebrate your return."

"Oh." Delilah noticed three underling tailors clustered behind Spindle, their arms heaped with fabric. "What's that?"

"His Highness requested for us to make this - for you to wear." Spindle bustled past, practically shoving Delilah aside so they could scurry in. She hated to admit it, but she rather liked the woman's matter-of-fact attitude, despite her utter lack of respect.

Delilah eyed the fabric suspiciously. What kind of sick, twisted game was Dante playing now? What monstrosity was he going to force her into? "Will I... like it?"

Spindle clucked with laughter and herded her closer to where the tailors had draped the material over a chair. "Oh, daughter of Pelenu, just you wait."

That didn't sound promising.

Delilah had looked in the mirror for about ten minutes, ignoring the tailors as they quietly left, before she could even think about making her way to the hall.

She studied her face, first, as she'd had little opportunity to look at it while travelling. She didn't consider herself a particular beauty, but... pretty enough. She had an oval-shaped face, which, along with her nose, seemed a little too long and thin for society's standards. Dark lashes framed her amber eyes, her hair rippled in gentle waves down her back, and her lips had been painted blood-red. Darker than blood, actually.