A Bullet Or Two

Chapter 3.1: Papers in a study

Hours felt like weeks passing by as Delilah sat in the secluded study of the townhouse. She has ruined so much in the span of two jobs that Baron had already restricted her. Confined her inside the boundaries of his townhouse.

Her punishment, as her step-father put it, was to remain inside until he said she could leave. While he was out squandering about, she was to stay, locked in his study, and complete as much paperwork as she could. "Practise for the future, my dear." More like completing his work for him.

All distractions had been removed from the study. All wines, all books, and any other item that was not suitable for a future Baroness to spend her time with.

Her fingers had started to twitch the first night of her punishment. Her stash of bottles beneath her bed were taken, and the only book left was the one she had returned with, completed long before walking back through the doorway. There was nothing for her to distract herself. Her blood rushed in waves around her body, and her stomach lurched in aggressive twists. Her eyes remained wide awake deep into the hours past midnight.

Sleep slipped past her too swift, too agile for Delilah to delve into its tender embrace. When she finally did drift off, she woke up in frightful fits, images of the man crushing her arm, tearing her skirts, and pinning her down performed like a play in her dreams.

Delilah did not sleep the next day or the one after that.

She did not eat until the fourth.

And by then, she passed out amongst her papers. The twitching was gone. Her desire to drink an entire bottle of ale - as she had after every tormenting night without sleep - had subsided, giving way solely for exhaustion to take over.

Soft cushions eased the ache in her back as she turned another page of her book. It was day seven and heavy bags slumped under her eyes. The desk was littered with the paperwork she was yet to complete, but each time she reached for the ink pen, she found her eyes trailed back to her book and her hands encompassed it. 

Paperwork after paperwork. That was all she had done for days. Writing letters to the local lords. Signing new contracts with blacksmiths, farmers, cooks, servants – anyone that Darragh Franklyn had drawn into his business. Her mind was spinning the same way over and over and over again. Like each day was the ticking of a hand on a clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Another letter. Another signature. Delilah craved to go on a job. To go to a party. To go outside. Anything but stay in the damned townhouse another day.

Most of all, Delilah craved company.

She was on her third round of reading the novel, the stack of papers was reduced, yet she could not bring herself to look at the leftovers. Delilah added cushions to her chair the day prior, not being able to stand the solid wood much longer. She read another couple of pages and justified that she would return to the work after two or three more. The same reasoning she thought as she read the last one hundred, shuffling in her seat, unable to get comfortable.

The creature was stalking the heroine, watching as the girl fell to the ground and quivered in fear. Yellow liquid soaked the girl's skirts. Delilah was engrossed. Would the girl survive? How could she kill it? Delilah already knew. She knew about the rock to the girl's left, how she would grab it, grip it, and slam it into its rotting flesh. Its bones would convulse, flesh peel off in layers, and its hollow eyes would turn empty. The Fear Gorta was not real, only a legend used in fictitious tales like the novel she read. But the thought of one dragging itself to her and screaming at the top of its lungs in hunger caused her to tremble.

She prayed to Saol, prayed that the goddess never truly create the monster, and prayed that she would never meet it.

Three knocks vibrated the door.

Delilah tossed her book to the floor beneath the desk and pulled a paper towards her. "Enter."

---

Gregory was Baron Franklyn's most devoted servant, the single servant Delilah had known prior to taking residency in the townhouse. He was the first she met upon leaving Lance Manor at the age of five. And he was last to leave Delilah alone in the townhouse on nights when the Baron had not returned.

A glass of water and a plate of biscuits were placed on the coffee table across the room, along with another bundle of papers for her to review. "Today's inquiries, my Lady" was all Gregory spoke as he entered.

The refreshments were a secret gift between meals he had brought her during her punishment. "Fuel for the mind", he called them. As much as she hated her captivity within the townhouse, she could never bring herself to show any spite to Gregory. He was the one kind thing in the townhouse, and she desired to keep him that way. To never taint him with her pain or treat him as cruelly as she had heard other households did their servants. Gregory was too kind for that. Too loyal to be treated like the dirt beneath a cane.

"I must warn you that many of these inquiries regard the riots in the northern territories, my lady." Delilah's brows furrowed. "The riots?"

The new bundle of papers soon joined the old, doubling the pile in size. Few words crossed the top paper, brief and dismissive. Usually she would dismiss such a small note, however, the three words heading it were too haunting to dismiss. The Mitsby Report.

"It is just a small gathering of people causing trouble, my lady. Baron Franklyn has asked you set those papers aside for him to review."

Delilah merely nodded. Her mind too engrossed on Mitsby to truly acknowledge Gregory's words.

With a practised bow, her butler left. Leaving her behind with the tray of sweets and a anxious curiosity. Why Mitsby of all places? Why must that town follow her wherever she went?

Delilah found herself engorging on the soft bakes. Their sweetness was almost more addictive than the bitterness of the ale she so often resolved to during her year away from work. Delilah could not resist the lure of the biscuits. A comfort for the growing unease that wrapped her limbs like ivy creeping up the bricks of the house.

A plate of ten soon diminished to two. Gregory's freshly-baked creations were a delicacy in themselves. If only she could enjoy them carefree.