Delphine Inland

I close the book, holding back a curse.

I look at the ears of wheat on the cover—the blue sky. Gloomy and high-voltage towers rule the plain, with steel cables limply bent to form negative rainbows. In the background, an industrial city, clouds emerge from the chimneys and obscure part of the sky fading into black in the top corner of the cover. On the other side, in the shadow of distant mountains, a country palace flanked by a small station with a departing locomotive.

In the foreground sits her: the heroine, Clea—a happy peasant girl—who holds the scythe alongside the wheat harvest.

A very respectable rural scene. There is the advent of modernity in the background with the factories and the train. There is the oppressive nobility and the rhetoric of farm work. Finally, in the foreground, there is a reference to the happiness of the humble and their possible redemption. Cheat. A cheater, that is nothing else. Clea is just a fraud.

I run the fingers of my free hand over the cover. The embossed title is pleasant to touch. The Corn Witch and the utopia of Ampra.

I hold back a tear, reopen the book, and leaf through the ivory pages up to page 746. I reread the last paragraph: Delphine died that evening, isolated and suffering from illness. Her anger, the anger at having been deceived, at having failed in her intention to get revenge. After all, was not she the one who had conspired? Did not everyone have to die to atone? Why had Fate chosen Clea? If only they had not deceived her, if only—there was no more time now. Her breathing stopped as one last tear rolled down her cheek. Without any more friends, servants, and faithful, the Witch of Infection died from the virulence of her uncontrolled power. Lonely, sad, and mad.

How? How is it possible? Where are the servants and family? Have they abandoned their lady? Even Nereo, the Praetor-Marquis of the city? Was not he in love with her? Has not he sworn eternal loyalty to her?

The light from a street lamp turns on, interrupting the flow of my thoughts.

I shake my head and get up from the bench. I will bookmark it. But I change my mind and take it off.

I have no intention of continuing the other 200-odd pages of a poorly-written book. Okay, I started it with no expectations. But, really, how can the author make the best character die like this? The only one who does not look like cardboard useful only to show how cool, strong, and perfect that opportunistic peasant girl Clea is?

Did not that opportunist wonder why her ex-enemy had gone mad? No, of course not. She did not care. Witches are evil, after all. The others. Certainly not Clea.

I put the heavy book back in my bag, looking around. The park street is empty. The plants are already black, and in the sky, the orange fades into the red of the twilight. There are few clouds, and I see the stars in the darkest areas of the sky.

The cell phone rings. I take it out of my bag pocket, and a message notification flashes on the screen. From the preview, I understand that my partner is furious. Right, he must have known I lost my job. I spent the last two days in this park reading a stupid novel about a utopian world of witches, nobles, and other nonsense.

I put my phone back in my bag without viewing the rest of the message. I honestly do not want to receive any more. I do not want to argue. Not until I get home, just enough time to walk in the light of the street lamps. Home is not far anyway.

I set off along the tree-lined street. I try to put my thoughts in order. At home, a child is waiting for me, a teenager who hates me, a partner who loves me, but he cannot make do and is easily angered.

Yes, anger. Fatigue. Carry on. It is like Delphine's last period. At least, I am lucky enough not to be sick, I think. It is so difficult to establish who is insane and who is not. My reaction to the dismissal could disguised as a symptom. I do not know. I am a big liar, just like Delphine.

But she is rich, whose beauty cannot fade, and at the top of her society. From the start, she had an army of servants and contacts. If she died like a fool, I can only blame her. It is her fault that she was not careful.

It is her fault that she did not know how to manage the riches and power she had at her disposal to find, destroy, and counteract her enemies and the effects of the poison that made her ill.

It makes me angry. The author, this incompetent idiot, made the Third Witch an idiot for the sole purpose of having her die—when it was most convenient for the plot, why not? Ho, sure, so Clea has an easy way. The chosen peasant girl, with a natural radiance, with her powers, but loved by all. Perfect, optimistic, and unwavering.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that what bothers me is the tone of narration. The tone of a novel that would like me to identify with a perfect character. The MC: Clea. A character with commitment and determination overcomes every obstacle and sweeps away every evil, and I already know how she will end up: she will lead the country to utopia.

I giggle nervously. A lone passerby gives me a puzzled look.

What a stupid book. Life is not like that. There are gray areas, dark wells from which it is impossible to escape but easy to fall. I was stupid, too. I made a mistake. I let myself be tricked. I have ruined the company, so I have ruined the lives of many employees and my life.

I take the flask and a fan out of my bag.

It is not hot despite the darkness, and the mosquitoes annoy me. I drink. I mumble because the flask is empty. I fan myself and tie up my long blonde hair.

I grab a lock of hair. If nothing else, between blonde hair, green eyes, and slightly amber skin, at least physically, the Witch of Infection and I look alike. Too bad I cannot count on wealth and servants.

Yes, life sucks. No, it sucks to be born on the wrong side of life.

Especially when I come across a work like this and say: “I could do better.” Too bad I do not have the means, the right connections—especially the connections. After all, with my stubbornness, I burned them, the connections.

An unknown aroma, which I associate with lavender, interrupts my walk. It is intense and comes from a secondary street. It enters the park.

Weird. There are no lavender plants in this park. I have been frequenting it for years now. It is where I hide away to read on my days off—that is, every day since a couple of days ago. I have never smelled this before. I look at the sky, whose redness has given way to the last shades of blue, tending towards black. It is late. I can come back tomorrow to see what new plants the park administration brought.

Tomorrow.

I think back to my partner, to my children. Tomorrow. We will probably argue tonight, and tomorrow, we will have to confront each other's parents, and friends… even if I do not have any friends. I have not heard from them in months. I could say since the end of university. No, I will not be able to hide here tomorrow. Someone must have seen me reading on the bench, maybe that retired gossip who lives in the neighborhood.

It may not be rumors and palace intrigues, but gossip and nosy people can cause trouble even in reality. Maybe I am exaggerating. Maybe my partner understood it from clues that only he could grasp.

With a fan blow, I squash a mosquito on my arm.

I sigh and go back to smelling the air. There is an intermittent breeze, enough to increase the intensity of the aroma. Very enjoyable.

At the pale light of the street lamps, the side street waits.

The phone rings again, dispelling all my doubts. I must hurry. I take the path and leave aside my family duties. It is just a moment, a last moment of freedom. From tomorrow, I will return to being the efficient and controlled person I always was. Loving at home and devoting myself to the new job I will find, and, maybe, useful to the society in which I live.

Yes, right. I allow myself this last moment of freedom. I am not a heroine nor a chosen one. Although I have the ability, I am not even an important person, nor an eminence in the shadows. It is just me: a reader who lost her job and is sad about the empty flask.

I am worried about having to argue at home and work. I am tired of having to continue living a life of circumstance, which I and society have contributed to pushing me into. I…

The appearance of an unexpected structure interrupts the flow of my thoughts.

A tall, homogeneous, and well-kept hedge is illuminated by the street lamp. It opens onto an entrance, where the scent comes from.

As much as I think about it, I do not remember this kind of structure in the park. It must be new, but I have no idea when they build it.

There's no one around. I am left alone. I decide to walk through the entrance to see the lavender. A series of spotlights on the ground trace the way, and I find myself in a labyrinth of hedges, roses, and ivy. Roots occasionally emerge from the ground, making it dangerous if hurry crossed.

They should fix it. Perhaps it is still a work in progress.

Although the aroma lingers, there is something different in the air. I try to turn back, disappointed at not having found the scented plant. How strange, is not this the way I came? I feel dizzy. Yawn.

It takes me a while to orient myself. The spotlights must have gone out. Luckily, the sky is clear, and the sunset still be relatively high. It is pitch black, but I can make out the outlines of the roots. First, I must have misjudged the time, or the plants in the park made me think of twilight. I do not know, but I want to go out.

Dizzy and staggering, I manage to find the exit. There is no streetlight. I do not recognize where I am. Must I have come out the wrong way?

I reach into my bag and take out my phone. Everything is fine. I managed to get out. But I thought it would only take a moment. I have to call home and say I will be late. This will not please anyone, but it is better than saying nothing. Strange, no signal at all.

I try to call home, but nothing happens. I hang up and call again, useless. I try to attack the mobile data without success. How annoying. I will have to find my way in the dark. At least up to the main street, where there are streetlights.

I do not feel so good. I am as groggy as if I had a hangover.

I turn on the flashlight on my phone and look around. I do not recognize the place. It looks like a garden to me. The short grass and the flowerbeds rows with different flowers, and each row I can illuminate is unfamiliar. It's not Parco Ducale. No trees, elms, or other trunk plants I see here. This area must be new, and I am lost.

In the still light darkness, I glimpse the outline of a large building. Warm lights spill from tall windows. Maybe I found a point of reference: the local law enforcement headquarters.

I follow the dirt path. As I get closer, voices and yells come from the structure. They seem to be shouting a name. I see two lanterns hovering near a fountain in front of the palace staircase. Another detail that does not coincide with my knowledge of the place. It must be the darkness and cannot be another building in the park.

“Holiness! Your Holiness, Delphine.”

The lanterns begin to move closer in my direction.

“Holiness Delphine, here you are!”

I point my phone's flashlight up, and a handsome young man, elegantly dressed in a vest, tie, and suit, emerges from the darkness. He has a triangular goatee, two long-curled mustaches, and a rebellious curl falling to the side of his blue eyes.

From his expression, he seems calm, but the arrival of the second lantern makes him whirl around. A girl joins us, dressed as a colonial maid with a lace headband.

“Holiness Viola-Eleonora, sorry if we have lost sight of you.”

The candid girl bends into a deep bow. Her long black braids fall to the ground. She is short and pale-skinned.

I am not sure what to say. If it were not for the novel I just read—Did I end up in a historical reenactment? A secret Comicon in the park? Maybe they organized something witch-themed. There's something familiar about them, even though I have never seen them before.

The novel I just read…

In any case, maybe they can help me get out.

“Camelia! How long have you been told to call Your Holiness by her surname? Respect for genealogy, come on.”

The ‘butler’ turns to me. Camelia gets up, raising her hands to her face.

“Your Holiness, sorry it took us so long. Your husband and children helped us and the guests—”

“But you are cosplaying as Camelia and Massimiliano!” how funny life is sometimes. One stops reading a book and, by chance, comes across cosplays of secondary characters.

Camelia and Massimiliano, maid and butler of the Delphine House. Amazing. I feel a bit happy.

“Your Holiness, I don't think I understand. Also, if you allow me, your clothes and that light?” Massimiliano points to my cell phone.

“You two are well suited to cosplay. But I imagined you as different. I don't know in what way but somehow is different. What an honor to be considered the Third Witch of the Empire, Witch of Infection, etcetera. I can stop and act a bit, but I have to go home. My kids are waiting for me and—”

The butler's frown silences me. He exchanges a look with Camelia, who is decidedly scared. Excellent acting. Camelia is a fearful character, while Massimiliano, although dutiful and loyal, is pragmatically imperturbable.

They almost look real.

“Your Holiness, I fear you are confused. You felt unwell... it's true. Your children and your husband are waiting for you. It doesn't matter about clothes; you can tell us as much as you think is appropriate. Will you allow us to lead the way?”

I nod, perplexed.

The two servants set off. I follow them in the dark. Various elements do not add up. There is no one else around. There can be no celebration ongoing.

Furthermore, the places do not coincide, and, starting from the hedges with the smell of lavender, it is clear that the place is also wrong. There's no point in beating around the bush. I understand what happened, but it is so absurd that it cannot be true.

I am not sure what to think. Scared? Confused? Happy? Sad? In any case, I cannot believe it. Not only is this irrational, but it also happened without realizing it. There is a question, a question that will clarify the situation.

“Excuse me, could you tell me what happened this evening?”

Without turning around, Camelia begins to speak. Her voice trembles with insecurity.

“Um, I would not want to disrespect you, Holiness Delphine. You felt bad and went out, then we lost you, and so… so…”

“We tried to keep the guests quiet. However, your daughter, the Noble Princess, insisted on dismissing them and allowing us to come and look for you. She looked angry, as if she had something in mind, ruined by your sudden disappearance.”

Sure, Massimiliano speaks of the day Delphine hosted the Presidential Prince, son of the First Witch. The day when… the Third Witch Viola-Eleonora Delphine was poisoned. A poisoning attempt without traces. The Princess must have been angry because I felt bad when I should not feel anything.

A nervous laugh shakes me. I bite my lip, trying to control myself. What will I say to my husband? How the hell am I going to justify being so late?

The two servants reach the staircase and turn and stop. I also stop and turn off the flashlight on my cell phone. The large doors and open windows allow enough light to illuminate the area.

“Look, you are so good. There is the building, the costumes. You both have studied the book better than me. Now, be you kind enough to accompany me out of the park? You seem practical. I have to go home.”

The two servants exchange another silent look. Massimiliano comes forward, bending down and speaking.

“Your Holiness, this is your home.”