Author's Note: I recently learned that waffles have been around since at least the Medieval Times. I think that's neat. Just wanted to share.
******
On this morning, another ceremony had just finished in the Lotus Shell. The highest ranking Child of Hope, the Golden Lotus, was an older priest. He, along with two younger priests, and Delma, had performed a formal dance for an audience, and when it was finished, everyone listened to the Golden Lotus as he gave a lecture.
The audience politely left soon after all that was done. Delma, the younger priests, and a few apprentices stayed behind to tidy up, sweeping, rearranging, dusting, and anything else that needed to be done. It was a nice time, a quiet time.
As this went on, a few people who weren't part of the audience arrived. They all wanted to pray. It was quite normal, really. The temple was open almost all hours for prayer. Soon, though, Delma wanted a turn. She chose one of the empty prayer rooms, left the door a bit open, and knelt down to pray.
Delma barely considered the words she said, but they did feel rather fruitless. They came out of her mouth automatically, mechanically, because she had them memorized. They had been drilled into her brain ever since she was two years old.
"Let all the infants be born healthy. Let all the mothers survive their births. Let all the harvests be plentiful. Let all the weather be gentle."
Papa would've been so proud, she mused.
As for Mother, she wasn't certain. Her mother had died soon after she was born.
"Let all the deaths be painless. Let all the illnesses be cured. Let all the lovers find their pleasures."
Something clicked ... the door?
Mr. Roiters, perhaps?
She turned her head.
A figure cloaked in black ...
He was inside the small prayer room, whoever he was, and he had closed the door. Similar to the previous situation with Mr. Roiters, he made the room seem even tinier. One of his hands moved through the opening of his cloak. It was rather large, and a black leather glove was covering it. Then, Delma saw a white shirt's sleeve tucked into the glove, and a gray coat's cuff. The hand rose to a sliding lock near the door, and with little effort it flicked the lock in place.
He wanted the door to be locked?
Did he want a private conversation? Did he have a sin to discuss?
Delma stood up and adjusted her skirt a bit. Then she curtsied. "Good morning, Sir. How may I help you?"
Under the hood of the cloak, gray fabric was wrapped around a head. There were tiny holes for the nostrils and eyes.
A muffled, but firm voice hissed out of the fabric. "I need comfort, and I think you can give it to me."
"Comfort?" Delma locked her fingers together and tilted her head to one side. "Would you like a certain prayer?"
He made a short nod and lowered his body, kneeling on the cold stone floor. Delma gestured to the spare cushions on the shelves. "Don't grind your knees to nothing. Use a pillow."
As she made room for him, the man stood back up, claimed one of the cushions, and took a kneeling position beside her.
Even though several people had done this in her work as a priestess, Delma felt a tingle of danger in her nose. Why in the world did this man hide his identity? Was he horribly disfigured? She was reminded of the great Duke Adurant, who had once been known for covering himself in public, although he hadn't done that in years.
Her eyebrows lowered as she wondered if this was this indeed Duke Adurant. Delma had seen the man before. He sometimes visited the temple with his family. She didn't know him well enough, though, to judge whether or not this masked man beside her was that particular aristocrat.
Delma put the backs of her hands together, and she asked the man about what sort of prayer he desired.
"An innocent one," he said, his leather encased fingers stretching and folding over his knees. "A pure one. Something you'd say to a child."
First, she nodded. Then, she recited a prayer with temperate words.
"Beloved God of Hope, please give us good days, peaceful days. Please let our nights be calm, and let our dreams be sweet. Please let kindness fill our hearts so that we may spread the kindness to anyone who needs it."
"Ahhh ... a sweet little prayer," the masked man said through the fabric, breathing out a scent that reminded Delma of freshly cleaned clothing. Behind that smell, there were also hints of leather, metal, and fresh country air.
"Have you been comforted, Sir?" she asked, adjusting the loose knot in the scarf around her neck.
"I believe so, thank you." He pulled his cloak much tighter around his body as if there was a chill in the room. There wasn't. The room was getting rather hot, especially since his body heat was seeping past his cloak as if the garment didn't exist. "Why didn't you ask me to remove my mask?"
Delma's fingers crumpled up some of her scarf. "I ... I can't say. Is it something I need to be concerned about?"
The man's clothing rustled as he nodded. "Obviously. You don't know who I am, and I've locked us in this room."
"The lock is for privacy," Delma argued, peering at his cold mask. He looked like a peculiar specter accustomed to creeping in the shadows, but he was completely out of his element, resting in a public building and chatting with a priestess of hope on a spring morning. "And as for your identity," she continued, "I don't remember most of the people who ask for a prayer with me. There are far too many. Your identity isn't important to me."
A soft ball of laughter rolled out of him. His form quivered as if someone had strings attached to him. "You don't know much of anything about me, but you'd give me your time all the same." The pillow beneath him shifted forward as he got up. "Will you be here tomorrow morning?"
"Yes, Sir. I'm often here. My name is Delma Abnelon."
She watched the heels of his black shoes scrape and tap against the floor as he walked towards the exit. "I hope you won't mind that I plan on visiting you again. Goodbye, Miss Abnelon."
He moved the lock aside and quit the room, leaving the door partially open.
***
There were still moments when they cried, or at least they tried to cry. All the attempts at weeping were difficult, because a very concerned spouse would do everything possible to soothe the tears away. The Adurants were very devoted to each other.
However, as far as the public knew, they never cried at all.
Despite all that, they were still a fairly happy couple.
Late one night, after they had danced and feasted at an elaborate ball, they returned to their cushy townhouse. They noted that their children were obediently sleeping in their bedrooms. Then they chose to retreat to the Mistress' bedroom. Wealthier families often had separate rooms for the Master and Mistress, no matter how intimate the couple was.
As Duchess Danetta Adurant removed the heavy, glittering jewelry from her flesh, her brain scanned older memories of when she first married the good Duke Erdgar Adurant. He had been so thoughtful, so generous, and she had been extremely grateful. Even before the marriage, when she had been a guest for a short time in his castle, he had been very concerned about her welfare.
And ... well ... there had been a cloud of mystery about him. He hid his flesh from her for the longest time. It didn't matter that he insisted he was a scarred, ugly creature underneath the disguise. Danetta had been bewitched.
She had loved the way his strong legs moved when he stalked towards a subject of hatred, or when he confidently strutted towards a subject of adoration.
She had loved the way his long fingers often cracked, especially when enhanced by the scrunching of leather gloves, sometimes when gripping the handle of a cane or the edge of a doorway ... or when claiming sections of her hair ... guiding her head back ... putting his warm breath to her tender throat.
"I'm curious about your thoughts," Erdgar said, yanking her out of her reminiscing mood. She felt his fingers encircle her wrist, right where a bracelet of gold metal and foreign snail shells had just been.
Meanwhile, all of his children had the sturdiest toys, the most supportive beds, the finest clothing, and the best hired help possible for when their mother was too preoccupied with being a Duchess. Andreo and Amalric were both breeched and under the careful tutelage of a clever governess. While Andreo would soon move on to expert private tutors, Amalric would be sent off to a school in a few more years. As for tiny Roland, he had a nanny to answer to.
Danetta's free hand went to cover the one that held her wrist. She caressed the mottled dorsum with loving fingertips. Her voice was like a falling feather. "I was thinking of you."
His voice prickled in her ear. "Is that so?"
She removed her hand and plucked the little pins keeping her stomacher attached to her jacket. "I was thinking of what a fine man you are, the best, even." Her tongue moistened her lower lip. She tasted her favorite rouge.
"You're very useful for my ego, Wife." From behind, a kiss was placed on her cheek.
"Our marriage had such an odd beginning. You were rather mystifying, and often impolite, but your true nature was pronounced to me with more beauty than any of the exquisite pieces of jewelry you've given me."
Not that she didn't enjoy receiving such luxurious little presents, of course.
Strong, hard arms put their warmth around her, against the disarranged front of her ball gown. His bright, silken coat made expensive whispers against her. "Are you wishing for a reinterpretation tonight?"
A reinterpretation?! How thrilling!!
Understanding his meaning very well, Danetta leaned against him. Her over-skirt was pressed and slightly bunched with the movement. Many silver brooches pinned to her clothing clinked against each other. Her voice was low. "Should I be more frightened, or childish, or perhaps even indignant?"
