What he told her was her own story, a fable the doctors back at the asylum had been trying to diminish from her head since her admission. A fabrication, they had told her, perscribing more pills. A falsehood.
          It had been something Delilah had been clinging to futilely since her arrival. The memories were too vivid to have been made-up, she had argued fiercely, but later found herself conforming to her psychocologists' ideas as they upped her dosage. Soon, the fine line between reality and her memories meshed together, and she succumbed to it, starting and ending her days in a prophylactic narcosis.
          Vranphile narrated stories to her that the wardens had been slowly forcing her to forget. When he had finished, the purity of his words had left her trembling and sweaty from a tsunami of emotions she thought the medication had eradicated from her system completely. It was like learning to live all over again, and Delilah had to take deep breathes to keep herself from losing control.
          She realized Vranphile was cradling her against his chest, and that she was crying, dry sobs that had no tears to give. She shuddered, eyes shut and mouth slightly open, her throat tasting bitter and tangy like lemonade.
          "Now," he whispered, into the matted tangles of her hair. "Do you understand now?"
          "Yes," Delilah responded, and her voice was a feeble whisper. She pulled away from Vranphile's comforting embrace, leaning back to gaze upon her savior more fully. She laughed, her voice tinged with bitterness. "And all this time they had been telling me that it was because of the--"
          "Seizures?" Vranphile helped, and Delilah was so surprised that the words left her. Vranphile turned his head to the side a little, breaking their eye contact. "Sometimes," he murmured, "Remembering can be a terrible thing."
          Delilah nodded and Vranphile returning his gaze, smiling wanly. "Delilah," he said, and this time it was she who reached for the solace of his hand. "If you're feeling up to it, there's a few people I'd like for you to meet."

---

          If Delilah thought she might have been under-dressed for a formal introduction, she soon discovered that her state of dissaray was the least of her worries. The four Daughters of Darkness, as Vranphile had called them, seemed even more unprepared for the meeting then she was. The only one who was appropriately dressed for the occasion was Jordan, the woman Delilah had originally mistaken for a man from earlier. She had nodded politely as Vranphile spoke her name, taking Delilah's hands in her own to kiss it.
          Delilah blushed fiercely as Vranphile rounded on the next woman. "This is Stephanie." The onyx-haired smiled forcefully, but did not move to take Delilah's hand. Instead she jerked her head in some semblence of the nod Jordan had given her just moments before.
          Vranphile ignored her. "Markie." The brunette came forward, her face lighting up in a brilliant smile. The hem of her long, flowing nightgown rustled as she pulled herself into a curtsey, beaming up at the other woman pleasantly.
          Markie's radiance was infectious, and Delilah found herself grinning along earnestly. Vranphile turned to the final Daughter and paused, seeming to hesitate. "And this... is Michelle," he said finally.
          The raven-haired woman simply stared straight ahead, eyes fixated on something far-away and nonexistant. She looked pale and sickly beneath the firelight of the room, ribs noticeably jutting out from beneath her cream-colored night gown half-skirt. For a moment Delilah thought the other girl was intent on just ignoring her completely until her head suddenly tilted to the side, acknowledging her. "Hello," she said, and her voice was distant and tuneless.
          Vranphile frowned thoughtfully. Delilah's mouth worked for the appropriate words, evidently taken aback by the last Daughter. He clapped his hand on the petite woman's shoulder, abruptly steering her away. "Dismissed," he threw authoritively over his shoulder as they walked away. Delilah could hear the soft, padded footsteps as the others made a beeline toward the door.
          "So, you've met my elite," Vranphile said, his hand pressing lightly against her back as they made their way out into the hallway. "What do you think?"
          "They're all so gorgeous," Delilah immediately said, and it was the truth. Each one of them was a heart-stopping beauty in their own unique fashion. "And Jordan's so... handsome." She blushed at her words, covering her face behind one of her hands.
          Vranphile laughed. "Yes, she's something else, isn't she? Not the standard definition of what we consider a stunning young lady, but Jordan prides herself in defying description." He smiled warmly down at her.
          "And Markie seems so.. cheerful," Delilah continued, smiling at the thought. "And I'm sure Stephanie is wonderful once you get to know her." She grinned hopelessly and shrugged, walking briskly alongside of him to keep up with his leisurely but long strides. "And Michelle... well..." she looked up at him again, studying his face. "She looks a lot like you."
          "We're related," he said after a moment. "She's my youngest half-sister. We have different fathers, and while it's not exactly a secret, my old man never knew." He chuckled but it died away abruptly.
          "I think that's cute," Delilah said shyly, poking his side. "I mean, you keeping such close contact with your sister and all." She paused, eyes absorbing the details of the monsterous foyer they were passing through. "You have to tell me more about yourself," she said at last, gesturing to the open space around them. "What are you, anyway, to live on this huge estate? Are you the president or something?"
          Vranphile threw back his head and laughed richly. "Well, not exactly..."