Author's Note: Originally written for the Sean Circle Challenge #8 – Fluffy Villains – but thanks to the dratted hurricane, I didn't quite get it up when I'd wanted it to be…Anyway, a brief look at Delia during The Woman Who Rides Like a Man, before Thom goes nuts and resurrects Duke Slashy – I mean Duke Roger.
Disclaimer: The world of Tortall is copyright Tamora Pierce, except for Magali and Delia's dressing gown. Magali is mine, and Delia's dressing gown is…I don't remember, come to think of it. Anyway, I don't mean any infringement on copyright, and since I'm rather broke, I'm not sure you'd get much out of suing me…Except possibly a lot of slash and even more books.
Lackluster
by Seereth
The girl in the mirror looked very, very tired. Her green eyes were bloodshot; the skin around them was puffy and dark. Lackluster curls fell around her face and on her shoulders, their chestnut shine gone. Her skin had an unhealthy pallor, bereft of the creamy color that made her the court beauty. There was always another court beauty, though. Waiting in the wings, or in the prince's rooms, maybe with a knife, maybe in lace…
Delia of Eldorne conjured a bright smile from someplace not long ago – possibly only last night. But the smile was bitter around the edges, and there was little color in her lips. There never seemed to be, no matter how much color she applied or how fiercely she bit them to bring the blood to the surface. Her lips were pale, ghostly things, lackluster like the rest of her, though she was no less beautiful now than she'd been…was it the night before? Or last month?
Her gaze dropped, she reached up to dash brackish tears that sprang too readily to her eyes now. There were always more tears. And more court beauties, she thought ruefully, remembering Cythera and Josiane…but she couldn't feel bitter about Josiane.
Roger, damn you, Delia clenched her slender, elegant hands into fists, glowering at the mirror. You weren't supposed to die! She couldn't hold onto the rage, though, and her hands loosened from their hag's grip, the imprints of her nails fading almost immediately from the silky, pampered skin of her palms.
"Magali?" she called quietly, watching her maid emerge from the veil of shadows that seemed to gather around any good servant; her lovely, soft spoken maid. She'd never said one word about Delia, in gossip or complaint. (And why should she, a part of Delia wondered, I am not a cruel mistress. Especially not to someone who is as crucial as a ladies maid.) "Cancel my appointment with the seamstress." She paused for a moment and then continued. "And please tell her Highne – please tell Josiane that I will not be able to see her today."
"My lady," Magali murmured and began to leave. Delia stood, gathering the emerald green dressing gown snug around her. The silk seemed cool, though she'd been wearing it for long enough that it shouldn't be. She shivered a little.
"And…Magali? Should anyone call…I am not at home to visitors." Delia turned her head towards the maid, who'd bowed, almost at the door. "Unless," she added, "Lord Trebond calls."
The door was a soft sort of punctuation to the girl's second – or was it third? – bow. Delia looked at the solid wood barrier for a moment. And then she went back to bed.
The Lord of Trebond did not call that day.