"Mama," Anne whispered, her face ashen, her eyes wide with horror as Delia’s shouted words echoed in the tense silence of the room. It was the last sound she made before her eyes rolled back into her head and she crumpled to the floor.
"Anne!" Augusta shrieked, her own drama forgotten in a sudden surge of terror. She rushed to her daughter’s side, falling to her knees on the rug. "Anne, my darling, wake up!" She frantically chafed Anne’s cold hands, her face a mask of pure panic.
"Sobody, call the doctor! Now!" she scread at the petrified maids who had appeared in the doorway.
Delia stood there, a silent observer of the chaos she had unleashed. As Augusta’s frantic cries filled the room, a small, chillingly satisfied smile appeared on her face. The sight of Anne unconscious and her stepmother in a state of sheer panic was a deeply gratifying reward. This was just a taste of the suffering she intended to inflict. This is only the beginning, she thought to herself, the promise a cold, hard stone in her heart.
Her gaze drifted over to George. He stood frozen in the middle of the room, his eyes wide with worry as he stared at Anne’s still form. He looked like a man trapped between two warring armies, utterly paralyzed and useless. Delia took a step closer to him, her movents silent.
"You can go to her now," she whispered, her voice a low, mocking taunt ant only for him. "I’m sure she’ll need all the support she can get."
George finally tore his eyes away from Anne and looked at Delia. His face was a canvas of confusion and pain. "Why?" he asked, his voice low. "Why are you doing this to ?"
Delia almost laughed. To him. He still thought this was all about him.
Before she could answer, Augusta, having montarily assured herself that Anne was still breathing, turned her anger back on Delia. "Guard!" she bellowed. "Seize her! Lock her in her room and do not let her out!"
A burly household guard, who had been standing nervously by the door, bowed and moved towards Delia. She saw him coming and was about to make a run for it, but he was too quick. His large hand clamped down on her arm like a vise.
"Let go!" she struggled, trying to wrench her arm from his powerful grip. But it was no use. He began to drag her from the room, his steps heavy.
She looked back at George, who just stood there, watching, his face a pathetic picture of indecision. He made no move to help her, no move to intervene. His mind indecisive about what to do. He was just a coward, caught in the middle of a storm he had helped create.
"Coward!" Delia shouted at him, her voice filled with all the contempt she felt. It was the last thing he heard before the guard dragged her up the grand staircase.
Getting to her bedroom door, the guard didn’t bother with courtesy. He unlocked it, shoved her roughly inside, and then slamd it shut. Delia stumbled forward, catching herself on her bedpost just before she could fall. The sharp, heavy click of the lock turning from the outside echoed in the sudden silence of the room.
She was a prisoner once again.
For a mont, she stood motionless. Then, a surge of helpless rage overtook her. She rushed to the door and started banging on it with both fists. "Let out!" she scread, her voice raw. "Let out of here!"
She banged and banged, her palms stinging, her throat growing hoarse, until her strength was completely spent. Her arms fell limply to her sides. With a feeling of utter exhaustion, she leaned her back against the solid wood of the door and slid slowly down to the floor. She sat there, her head bowed, her breath coming in ragged gasps. And in the quiet darkness of her own mind, a mory ca flooding back.
~FLASHBACK. ~
Cries echoed in the hallway. A much younger Augusta was staring down at a seven-year-old Delia, her face stern and unforgiving.
"Why did you collect it from her?" Augusta asked, her voice sharp.
The small, dark-haired Delia clutched a simple rag doll to her chest. "It’s mine, Baroness," she had replied, her own voice trembling. "Anne has hers already."
Little Anne, her face already a mask of sorrow, clutched her mother’s skirt and sobbed dramatically. Baron Henry had just returned from a trip and had brought back two identical rag dolls, one for each girl. But Anne, as always, had wanted both for herself.
Augusta swiftly snatched the doll from Delia’s grasp and handed it to the crying Anne, who imdiately fell silent. "Don’t you know she is your younger sister?" Augusta scolded Delia. "So you love seeing your sister cry?"
Delia shook her head, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. "No, Baroness. I never wanted to make Anne cry."
"But you did make her cry," Augusta replied, her voice cold. "When did you beco so wicked? So selfish?" She grabbed Delia’s small arm and dragged her, protesting, down the hall to her room. She pushed her inside and locked the door.
Delia had banged on the door then, too, her tiny fists making hardly any sound against the heavy oak. "I’m sorry, Baroness!" she had cried, her voice choked with tears. "I’ll give Anne my toys! I’ll give her anything she wants! I won’t make her cry again! Please, I’m sorry!"
Augusta’s voice had co from the other side, muffled and distant. "Reflect on your mistakes," was all she had said before her footsteps faded away, leaving Delia alone in the dark.
~ END OF FLASHBACK ~
Delia ca back to the present with a jolt, the mory leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She was still on the floor, her back pressed against the door that had been her prison then, and was her prison now. Her hair had co completely loose in her struggle, the dark curls falling around her shoulders in a tangled ss.
Her eyes caught a glimpse of sothing blue on the floor where she had been thrown. It was the ribbon. The Duke’s ribbon. She picked it up, the thin strip of fabric feeling like a lifeline in her hand.
Slowly, carefully, she gathered her hair and bound it with the ribbon, her movents calm and deliberate. The simple act felt like a promise to herself. She was not that helpless seven-year-old girl anymore.
She had played her most powerful card. Now, all she could do was wait.
"I hope he cos sooner," she whispered to the silent, empty room, her voice a mixture of prayer and anticipation. Her fate was no longer in the hands of this cruel family. It was in the hands of the Duke.
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