Delphine Inland

The rhythm of the cutting shears accompanies Massimiliano's walk.

The two elderly gardeners of the palace are pruning the labyrinth where the butler has decided to spend his break. Although he is wandering around randomly, sometimes the sound gets closer, and sometimes it moves away, and hearing this, Massimiliano understands his position. Not that he needed it. He could walk through the entire palace and its gardens with his eyes closed.

He tries. Thinking about it, Massimiliano closes his eyes and continues in this way.

The clicking of shears and falling branches is distant, and some birds singing, and occasionally, someone croaks or takes flight noisily. There are also cicadas, whose incessant singing helps Massimiliano to relax.

He did not sleep at night. In the morning, his and Camelia's tasks began again. Now that he is on break and Holiness Delphine is out, he might go to bed. But a restlessness keeps him standing.

Something is wrong in this labyrinth.

Gardeners confirmed the presence of a lavender-like odor, at least until mid-morning. The palace herbalist, that low-ranking Witch, refused to help him. ‘I only take orders from Your Holiness,’ she said.

Massimiliano sighs, continuing to wander with his eyes closed. The smell is gone. There is no point dwelling on it anymore.

Suddenly, an obstacle and the butler opens his eyes wide. He protects his face with his arms, bending to fall to the side.

Did I make a mistake?

In pain, the butler turns over onto his back. The sky is clear, and the sun shines high, flanked by the small evil star.

Maybe I need to get some sleep. All this thinking is having a negative influence on my mood.

Pulling himself up, the butler notices something strange.

A wooden stick.

It is in the middle of the grassy path of the labyrinth from the lump of earth raised. It stuck in the ground.

Massimiliano picks it up and weighs it.

It is a light wooden rod with fine craftsmanship. It is painted and covered in a mesh of rainbow-colored braids.

Smelling it, Massimiliano immediately recognizes the aroma. It is a faint lavender-like trace.

Is it an enchanted rod?

But how could it have entered the property? There are magical protections, like for poison.

Looking around, Massimiliano sees an opening in the hedges. The sanctuary gate is in the center of the labyrinth. It is open.

Eerie, so damn eerie.

Returning to the gardeners with the staff, Massimiliano asks them if they know anything about it.

“Sir, sorry, I have never seen this staff. But I can agree with you. It smells like lavender, although it has a petroleum aftertaste. It is like it stays on your palate.”

Massimiliano nods.

“Do you know anything about the open gate?”

It is the other gardener who intervenes.

“Has the sanctuary been opened?”

“I found it open a little while ago. It's closed now.”

The two servants pass their hands over their knees. It is a superstitious gesture to ‘scroll the impurity’ attributed to witch sanctuaries.

“Sir, we would not know. We have been here all morning. We should fix that part of the labyrinth in the evening.”

There is no reason to doubt. The gardeners live in the palace like the servants. Their suspicious movement would be known to the gendarmerie.

“Thank you. I think I will go and consult with the gendarmerie.”

The two gardeners greet him and resume pruning the hedge.

Massimiliano walks across the lawn towards the palace.

“Butler, butler!”

No, not now.

“Butler, are you deaf? Do I have to call you by name? Mas-si-milia-no! Massimiliano, can you hurry!?”

Crisante's capricious voice irritates the butler. Everyone but him. That nasty, spoiled, arrogant brat and—

Give it a rest. Crisante is a Noble Prince. He was born on the right side. I owe him every respect. My feelings and my opinions don't matter.

“Oh, Massimiliano. You're so slow. Show me what you have in your hand.”

The Prince's voice is close. Turning around, Massimiliano finds him on top of him, with his little arm snatching the stick from his hand.

He wears a small lace corset and a flounced skirt with striped stockings. Looking at the curls, he must have just fixed them.

Making a hasty bow, Massimiliano notices Camelia's presence. She sighs disconsolately, probably exasperated at being the Prince's wet nurse.

“What a stupid stick. So, it's useless for fighting. It seems like something for the weak.”

The Prince throws him to the ground, kicking him.

Massimiliano takes a deep breath to choose his words carefully.

“Noble Prince, even your robes are of no use in fighting. Yet you are a Prince. I imagine you understand what I humbly want to say.”

“That I'm weak?”

“I would never dare, Noble Prince.”

“I could have you skinned alive if I wanted. Did you understand?”

Massimiliano doubts. He has been the best servant in the house for at least five years. Crisante is just a spoiled child. Among other things, he is a boy, not a girl. Therefore, Delphine has zero interest in him.

With a smirk under his curled mustache, Massimiliano bows again.

“Of course. You are the Noble Prince. Humbly, I just wanted to point out that you should not judge by appearance. You dress according to custom, but you are strong and brave. So how could—”

“I hate these clothes.”

Camelia sighs and shakes her head. Massimiliano stares at her, and she mimes with her lips. Like she is saying: ‘Here we go again.’

“Noble Prince, you—”

“I HATE THESE CLOTHES!” The Prince begins to sob. “Dad and the gendarmes and even you—you who are a squalid half-man—dress in a passable way, but what about me?”

As he says this, the Prince lifts the hems of his skirt, bowing his head to look at them. Suddenly, he pulls to tear them, quickly tears off the lace collar, and screams.

“I hate them, I hate them! The true warriors of the past fought bare-chested! They only wore studded leggings and jockstraps! Great wizards don't need to cover themselves like weak humans!”

Massimiliano does not want children. He never wanted them, and seeing Crisante reminds him how good it was not to make them. He was not like that when he was little. No, things were not going so well for him; no butler to console when the shift supervisor beat him in the factory or—

The sound of a slap.

Massimiliano looks in disbelief, the Prince putting a hand to his red cheek. He bursts into tears.

“Camelia, but…” he does not know how to finish the sentence. The maid fulfilled a secret wish of him, probably shared.

But it's a tragedy.

“Listen here, Noble Prince. You kick and throw other people's objects, but these clothes are the property of Your Holiness, your mother. Also, I'll pretend I didn't hear. Magicians? Magicians do not exist, nor have they ever existed. If you want, I'll show you a magic trick. Instead of one, I'll give you TWO red cheeks, you understand.”

The little boy whimpers, looking at the maid.

Massimiliano is quick to intervene, grabbing the girl by her shoulders.

“Camelia, stop now.”

“Huh?” Camelia struggles. “Massimiliano, did you hear it? But then it was only today! Do you know what he did yesterday? You know it? He put tacks in my shoes, he...”

Camelia also has tears in her eyes. Massimiliano turns and gets on his knees. He places his hands on the Prince's shoulders.

“Noble Prince, it is true that—”

Crisante pushes the butler.

“Yes, it's true. It's true! I hate witches, and I hate you worms! Magicians exist, they exist, and I will kill you all. I will kill you all with magic!”

The child picks up the stick and runs away, crying.

A hand reaches out to help Massimiliano get up.

“Camelia, do you realize what you did?”

His voice trembles with fear. It is one thing to put up with abuse and respond with hidden sarcasm, but to respond with force...

The maid shrugs. At that moment, Massimiliano understands how young and inexperienced she is. She may be six or seven years older than the Prince, but—after all, she's a young girl too.

“If you hope that Princess Viola-Maria will defend you…”

“We're friends, plus she knows her brother's pranks.”

“I don't know your relationship as well as I should, but you'll soon discover a harsh truth.”

“Would be?” Camelia's tone falters.

“Witches have no human friends. At most, pets. Remember, between the life of the Prince and that of a pet—”

Camelia raises her hands and steps back. She holds back tears and purses her lips in a grimace.

“Please, don't say that. Do not say that. I was wrong, I was wrong, and I will bow down. But Viola will defend me. You'll see. Yes, yes, Viola will defend me.”

The butler would like to believe her. It would be nice. But he has seen too many servants fail in recent years. He does not want to think about the consequences. It is not for Crisante per se but for the disgrace to the family name. Hitting a Delphine means flouting the Third Witch's rules. It means mocking the Third Seat of Parliament. It means mocking the rules of the Empire.

Massimiliano nods weakly.

“I hope you can still feel sorry for the Prince. I hope there is no punishment. Hope costs nothing.”

Camelia nods and, blushing, begins to cry in silence.

Retrieving the stick is easy. Crisante broke it and threw the two parts into the garden.

Massimiliano hears the Prince speaking a little further on. He is sitting in front of the courtyard pond. He had trampled on several poppies and tulips.

“I'm tired of being patient, tired!”, “How much more will I have to do? How much?”

He babbles in a tone that is sometimes whiny, sometimes angry as if he were arguing with someone. Massimiliano sees only water, plants, and the Prince with tattered clothes.

He talks to himself. This wizard fantasy must have gone to his head.

Massimiliano passes by without disturbing him. He is too tired and wants to close this never-ending day.

“I thought I told you I do not take assignments from a servant?”

The elderly Herbalist Witch, bent over the counter to fill out the register of seasonal botanical expenses, does not look at Massimiliano.

The servant places the two pieces of wood on the table, accustomed to the Witch's ways.

“I found this object near the sanctuary. It has that vague lavender smell. It has now dissipated. But surely you know.”

The Witch raises her head, observes the two decorated sticks, and smells the air.

“Weak, but a little remained. An artificial paradise.”

“Indeed, I imagined.” Massimiliano adjusts the curl of his mustache with his fingers. He does not know what the Witch means. But it makes her nervous. “It is not human work, right.”

“A low-ranking Witch, even lower than me. Maybe eighty thousand, or worse, she might succeed.”

“Artificial paradises, usually—”

The Witch raises a bony finger, keeping her gaze on the object.

“They used lavender and some substances that I cannot identify. I take back what I said. Did you find it near the sanctuary?”

“I confirm what was said.”

“Just last night. Your Holiness returned from the labyrinth in different clothes.”

“However, Your Holiness claims it was poisoning.”

The Herbalist Witch nods.

“I have to analyze it, but I have a fear.”

“If you would be so kind as to share it, I may take steps to take countermeasures.”

“I can tell you, but it would not do any good if it turned out to be true.”

Massimiliano frowns. What danger could exist for the Third Witch? The eighty for twenty and twenty for eighty laws passed by Parliament mean that her power, wealth, everything about her is immensely greater than—Massimiliano feels his back freeze.

“I see you understand, butler. Artificial paradises, combined with a threat to the Delphine, can only mean one thing. The Second Witch of the Empire wants something from us.”

Leaving to rest, sure that he will not be able to sleep a wink anyway, Massimiliano meets two palace gendarmes. Middle age, well beyond butler age.

“Massimiliano.”

“Yes?”

“You have to come with us. The Praetor-Duke wishes to speak to you.”

“Is this about the Noble Prince?”

“We do not know, but it is urgent.”

Massimiliano nods and is escorted. In the palace, there are one hundred gendarmes, plus the Archdevil Scudo and the Wall Witch. In terms of quantity, quality, costs, and performance, it is the fourth largest personal armed group of the Empire. Although, without the Shield, the palace is without its fundamental defense.

Massimiliano feels anguish at these thoughts. Someone has snuck onto the property, placing some magical artifact. The Wall Witch will need to be consulted while Archdevil is out.

What if the Second Witch had hostile intentions? What if she attacks us now that everyone's out?

“We have arrived, please.”

One of the two gendarmes opens the door to the tea room. Massimiliano nods in thanks and enters. Judas, with a dark expression and heavy circles under his eyes, watches him from the head of the table. In the room, there are four other gendarmes. Crisante sits with his clothes still torn and Camelia with her wrists tied.

Crisante flashes an evil smile at the butler.

Ho, I understand. Sure.

But it is not sure at all. Massimiliano notices the anomalies on the Prince: additional wounds, bruises on his arms, and torn locks of hair. No, it is not clear at all.