4
"...And Lord Garmond was very insistent that he meet his 'dear old friend'," Damian scoffed, "Friend indeed, I know for a fact that he has been in the same room as you only thrice." The man he was having the conversation with was silent as he had been for two weeks.
"Prince Damian, y-your Highness, your father," a nervous man coughed from behind them, "the King, cannot hear anything you say. Talking to him is rather futile."
"As your clever little eyes can already see that mine aren't bright blue buttons and I don't exhibit any signs of being struck by amnesia so I know the facts you speak of but what I do with my comatose father is my business," Damian replied harshly though he kept his voice low like one did instinctively when they were in a patient's room.
The healer muttered a feeble apology and tripped out. Damian sighed as he realized he needed to start looking for another healer soon. This one was proving to be as useless as all the others. Every new healer would try a different dosage of medicines and give the Royal family new hope but nothing would come out of their efforts.
His father wasn't always inert. He occasionally gained consciousness but he was never really very lucid. Sometimes he would display bouts of uncharacteristic temper; swearing and crashing into things, while at other times he would complain about feeling hot and feverish when he was clearly clammy to the touch. The illness was never fully away from his being and it was slowly corroding him away. He was half the man he used to be; literally.
The King had always kept a very healthy regime and even at his age contained more muscle in his body than some of his young soldiers. He was always an impressive man to behold and none could deny his strength of both mind and body but nowadays he looked fragile and old. His altered appearance worried Damian's mother so much that she seemed to already be contemplating widowhood. Damian had once found her perusing her collection of mourning gowns after a particularly bad day for his father.
Damian's mother too was starting to look waiflike; as dead as his father. She would sit by his father's bed day and night and this was taking a toll on her. Damian had taken to bringing all his Ball related problems to her to divert her mind but she had been unable to focus. She had also completely refused to be publically participate in the Ball hosting duties. That, Damian was sure, had much to do with her previous experience of the Ball. His mother had forgiven him after the debacle of the last Ball; eventually. It had taken time and patience for him to completely regain her trust and he had succeeded but talk of this year's Ball dug up old wounds.
Damian let out another sigh, thinking about his parents. He looked down at his father and decided that continuing his conversation with his father was the only way to improve his dwindling spirits.
"And did you know this year's crop of Debutants consists of mere children barely out of their nurse's laps. It makes me feel so old. I might as well dye my hair white and grab hold of a cane," Damian smirked at thought of trying to get a dance if he looked like that. He knew the spate of eye fluttering he received were purely because of the way he looked. If he was an unsightly creature even being the crown prince wouldn't have helped his popularity.
"I only danced with mother's friends' tonight. It seems impolite to force oneself upon an unsuspecting debutant. I think I would have made a few of them cry," Damian paused and resumed the one sided conversation, "I think I did make a few of them cry although it could have been the chilli in the soup. I must tell that foreign cook to stop trying to kill us with his damnable spices."
Damian smiled as another thought flitted in his head.
"And, father, I seem to have stumbled upon some women who don't seem to like me at all. I believe you've just won your bet father although you are unconscious and don't know any better so I shall keep this information and the winnings all to myself."
Damian wished for the fraction of a moment that his father would wake up and demand his winnings but there was only silence.
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Delilah walked back from her early morning walk unaccompanied and unnoticed. Cecilia was still in bed and with due reason. The sun hadn't even begun to rise so it still dark out. Delilah liked to have a good solitary walk and early mornings were the best time for them especially if she wanted to crawl about in the mud and still have a respectable name afterwards.
Plants fascinated her to the point where she would forget whatever she was doing and dig in straight to the mud. She could often be found sprawled in her garden trying to understand a plant's anatomy without killing it. Her mother would often be vexed by the muddied clothes Delilah would bring back but over time Delilah found herself caring less and less about what her mother wanted.
The Palace was a veritable delight for any plant lover. The gardens were plentiful with extraordinary flora only written about in books. Delilah could already see the personal benefits in accompanying Cecilia to the Palace although she had already met the disadvantage of it. Only one meeting with the Prince had left her emotions in tatters. She had never been gladder to have ventured out in the dark. A first meeting in full daylight was just unthinkable!
Her ego was hurt though that she actually fled from the Prince when she found out who he was. Such cowardly behaviour would not do. She had legions of judgemental and cruel people waiting to recognize her. How could she face them when just one man managed to scare her off? Delilah would often wonder if he would ever recognize her but she would discard those thoughts as soon as they entered her head.
Delilah vowed to herself the umpteenth time that she would ensure her façade was solid as granite as she took a vicious swipe at her hair with a hand brush. Even if the Crown Prince decided to walk in dancing with a frog, wearing only his breeches, she would not let her face show any distress although she doubted she would feel any anger with an image like that in front of her. Just imagining it made her giggle.
The inadequately stifled laugh was poorly timed because Cecilia woke up from it.
"Oh, it's you; I thought I was dreaming about the Gifford sisters again. I swear another sound from their mouths will make me do something unspeakable to them," Cecilia mumbled with her arm shielding her eyes from the light of the dawning sun.
"Then I shall make sure you avoid them at all costs," Delilah replied as she finished brushing her hair.
"Impossible, I must meet them and their wonderful array of friends in the front garden today. They're arranging an early luncheon," Cecilia mumbled, now half asleep.
"Good luck, then. I think you shall need it. Luncheons and Soirées are the perfect opportunity for women to practice the 'sounds' that come from their mouth," Delilah smirked as she tied her hair into the usual knot.
"Fear not, brave cousin. You have been invited as well. They never really understood the cousin/chaperon bit and lumped you into the invitation," Cecilia smiled vaguely as she punched into the pillow to make it more comfortable.
Delilah arched an eyebrow, "And I'm sure you had nothing to do with that."
"Nothing at all." Cecilia's smile answered the question far more accurately than her actual words.
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Delilah sat patiently as she was asked to have another one of the nibbles. Delilah awkwardly showed off the uneaten one already in her plate and begged off from any more food. The circle of ladies soon went back to their chatting and Delilah leaned back in her chair feeling woefully out of place. This whole event aped exactly what would happen in her previous stay at the Palace. Women would talk about everything and nothing at all and Delilah couldn't make head or tails of what was being said.
Delilah was not the worst talker by all means but she needed to have a friendlier setting to induce any conversation from her. Right now every sentence she spoke felt to her like it was being analyzed and misconstrued.
"And did you hear that she's back," One of the Gifford sisters urgently spoke with a lowered voice. Even Delilah was intrigued.
"Who, who?" A petite brunette urged the narrator.
"The rejected one," The Gifford whispered dramatically and Delilah paled in reaction. To her dismay Cecilia leaned forward and spoke up, also curious.
"Who are you conversing about?"
"The girl the Prince rejected three years ago." Delilah closed her eyes as her worst nightmare was confirmed. "They say the Queen found a girl that she wanted her son to marry but on the last day of the ball he came back and rejected her or so my mother says," Gifford added.
"But why?" Cecilia asked, sounding sad.
The Gifford sister shrugged uncaring, "They say she was ugly and had none of the qualities the Prince wanted in his wife. I do not think I care because of his rejection the Prince is still the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom."
The end of the sentence was punctuated by a unanimous sigh. Cecilia tried to share an amused look with her cousin but Delilah was looking at her shoes in a vacant fashion.
