A Bullet Or Two

Chapter 5.2

By the time the rehearsal was completed and after changing into a less flamboyant sage dress, Delilah had forgotten the priestess' name along with every word that passed her mouth. Instead, she wrapped her hand close to her stick, trained her eyes to the floor, and was consumed by a plague of thoughts of the dreadful future awaiting her.

"Chin up, dear, you are in public" Her stepfather waited in the entrance hall, away from the grand chapel, where chiselled pillars ascended beyond Delilah's sight and intricate blossoms painted every wall. The echoing chambers  followed her from the chapel. Darragh's dark voice dominated the room over whispered conversations between worshippers scurrying by.

"You had only an hour of practise, it would be a shame if you stopped now." 

His fingers pressed into her chin as he made her meet his eyes. His hollow bark eyes stared right at her, critiquing her every move. Delilah resisted a gulp. The heavy cloak on her shoulders was enough weight for her to carry without his disdain creeping over her.

She stood there no more than a second before drifting her eyes to anywhere but the floor; to the right wall, where dutifully, Jonnie waited – clad kitted in the tight black uniform of the Franklyn Guard, struggling to stay still. Gold thread weaved neatly through the trims of his shirt and down the seams of the pants – glowing against the dark fabric that fit an inch too small against his torso and legs. And the outline of a bird, golden and small was embroidered on his left breast as was the same for the other three guards lining the wall. 

The Goldfinch. The insignia of the Franklyn family for decades. 

However, the hat drew all attention away from that. Quite possibly the worst hat in all existence and made of some sort of fur and velvet, it sat bulky atop his head. Precarious in its balance and close to tipping.

Three clicks and Delilah's attention was brought back to her step-father, who stood with his hand extended clicking at Jonnie.

United, the four guards marched forward four steps, halted, and swivelled on the heel of their right feet. Then, they continued their march until two stood ahead of the rulers, and Jonnie with another behind.

The walk out of the temple was silent.

Delilah looped her free arm in Baron's, while he ignored the gesture completely and pursued a pace that left her unsteady, stumbling to keep up. Clinging to her stick, Delilah winced as the stitches seemed to nudge with each step.

Columns dominated the entrance to the Temple of Saol, chiselled down to create lines of curves. Marble had been used to create the entire structure. Smooth grey for the floor they walked on. White for the walls and columns that were left unpainted. Pristine white and carved marble to create the endless hallways.

Finally, a statue so tall it almost reached the ceiling rested behind the altar in the main hall. Painted, chiselled, and marked to worship the Goddess. Saol etched into stone. A woman bared to the world: hips wide, breasts plump, and layers of stone carved to be her hair.

The Temple shone in the afternoon light – glistened beneath the sun that glimmered through the clouds directly above it.

"Your excellency! You excellency!" A nasal voice called over the many other citizens'. 

A spindly man rushed towards them, out from the temple entrance that Delilah and Baron had not long exited. Note pad and pen enclosed in his hands. "May I spoke with you both?" Jonnie and the other guard tightened around them, blocking the man from getting closer. An impenetrable fort. "About the coronation?" She saw wisps of his hat, bobbling over shoulders. Eastern Times was printed along its band.

"You can have three questions. We are in a hurry." With Baron's answer, the guards relaxed. The man did not know whether to bow or stand. Delilah knew not where to look as he fluttered between the two.

"I thank you, Baron Franklyn. Thank you." His notepad flew before him and glasses Delilah did not know he had slipped onto the bridge of his nose. "Now, news has passed about the Baroness Heir's injury and the unfortunate death of your employ. Will these have any impact on the coronation?" Of course, the press wanted to address that. A fine piece of drama for their mundane readers. People free of callouses and fear. 

"Both the injury to my daughter and the passing of Mr. Knightly are unfortunate. I have given and continue to give my condolences to the Knightly family. However, I can assure you that the coronation will go ahead as planned."

"Ah yes, yes. Thank you." The man scribbled notes so violently, as if the lines were slicing into flesh. Claws ripping through skin.

Delilah peered to Jonnie who remained stern and unflinching. He was calm. Collected. As she needed to be. Ridding herself of memories of Alder Creek, she caught the second half of the writer's question. "...stating your daughter's claim to the Barony is a farce? There are concerns about her capabili..."

"Delilah is more capable of running this Quarter then any one of my advisors." It was the first time Baron ever praised her. Delilah eyes widened and she desired to speak. But, the words would not form. Nor did her thoughts comprehend what was happening enough to think of a response. "She does not need to possess my flesh or my blood to lead our people. Delilah is a Franklyn, should anyone believe otherwise my advisors are happy to speak to them." All she could do was gape.

Baron turned away, dismissing the reporter without another word. Something that seemed not to register with the man as he bellowed after them. "Your excellency! I - I still have one more question!" Delilah and Darragh made for the carriage – the obsidian cage waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. 

"What of the protests? The riots against - " Darragh clicked his fingers and the man was gone. A guard dragged him back towards the temple. 

Mentions of protests and riots were becoming regular occurrences and Delilah itched to know more. As if knowing her thoughts, Baron turned to her with a glare. A silent command not to ask anything.

Before them, the stone-set street was empty, cleared for the exit of the Baron and his unfortunate heir. 

Those passing by did not fear the guards that stood watch. Oblivious to the removed reporter, they congregated either side of the Oilliphéists. Stone replicas of Saol's beloved companions – two serpent monsters: feathered and scaled, winged but only possessing two legs; and long beaks replaced sharp fangs. Both were surrounded by herds of curious onlookers, obsessed supporters of the Franklyn Barony.

Women covered themselves head to toe in black and gold fabric; dresses draping down to their toes. Men wore the same only their suits were immaculate, not a crease in sight, and their bowler hats finished with birds embroidered in gold right into the black felt.

They cooed. They awed. They called out in celebration.

Gentlemen and women of the highest classes celebrated the sight of their ruler emerging from their beloved Temple. Pristinely dressed, their every word was pronounced with every vowel evident, and every word was filled with gratitude for the ruler that kept them safe in magnificent townhouses and showered in coins those lesser than them worked the entire day to make.

Baron soaked up all of the praise, inflated at the glory and worship he received as if he were a god himself. He waved. He laughed. He smiled. He greeted each of his subjects with love and care that Delilah had very rarely witnessed.

To be the ruling class, upper class, was to be divine.

But to be the underclass was to be treated like rodents.