Delphine Mercier-Descent into the Disturbed

[Little Lotte]

The salty air brushed against Delphine’s wind-pinkened cheeks, drying the fresh streaks of tears that had stained her skin just moments ago. The sea had always been her refuge, a constant in a world that shifted like sand beneath her feet. She had grown up on these shores, had spent childhood summers chasing the tide, collecting seashells with Anastacia, laughing as they wove fragile crowns of seaweed and declared themselves queens of the waves. The rhythm of the ocean had always soothed her—the hiss of foam retreating over smooth stones, the gentle lap of waves whispering against the shore.
But today, it wasn’t working. Nothing was working.
Her fingers curled into the cool, damp sand as if she could anchor herself against the ache hollowing out her chest. Today, her dearest friend in all the world had been married.
The wedding had been beautiful, of course. A celebration fit for a noblewoman, even if Thomas was only a lesser lord with a modest estate in the north. Not wealthy, not particularly remarkable, but respectable. Safe. A fine match, as everyone had said, one that would see Anastacia comfortable for the rest of her days.
That should have made Delphine happy. She had smiled and played her part, clapping with the others as Anastacia twirled in her silken wedding gown, as Thomas placed a chaste kiss upon his bride’s lips beneath the vaulted ceiling of the chapel. She had even let Anastacia take her hands afterward, the bride’s joy so bright it was almost blinding, as she gushed about Delphine’s own future, her own prospects.
"It will be your turn soon, Delphine. Imagine it—a grand wedding, perhaps even grander than mine! A husband of your own, a home of your own. Doesn’t it excite you?"
Delphine had forced a smile, nodding as if she could will herself to believe it. But the truth sat heavy in her chest, colder than the wind curling off the waves.
She knew better.
She would never marry—not without her mother’s approval. And her mother, Alana Mercier, wife of Faris Mercier, did not give her approval lightly. Not unless it benefited her.
Delphine could hear her mother’s voice as clearly as if she stood beside her now, whispering like the wind that ruffled her gown. "It isn’t as if anyone actually wants you, Delphine, you likely won’t even fetch that much. So until we find someone beneficial to us…you remain unwed."
So she had nodded along to Anastacia’s excitement, had swallowed the words she truly wanted to say. That she envied her friend—not for the marriage, but for the freedom it granted.
Because while Anastacia stepped into a new life, Delphine remained trapped in the old one.
The tide crept closer, swirling over her bare toes, but she didn’t move. Instead, she stared out at the horizon, where the sky bled into the sea in endless shades of blue. She had always loved the water, the way it stretched into forever. But now, it only reminded her of how small she was.
She closed her eyes and let the wind tug at her hair, as if it could steal her away with it.
For the first time in her life, she wondered what it would be like to run. To leave it all behind—the expectations, the obligations, the weight of her mother’s will pressing down on her like a stone.
To be free.
But that was only a dream. And Delphine had never been allowed to dream for long.

[Little Lotte]

The drawing room was bathed in golden afternoon light, the tall windows left open to invite in the spring breeze. It fluttered through the gauzy curtains like a timid guest, rustling the papers on Alana Mercier’s writing desk. She paid them no mind. Her attention, as always, was entirely consumed by the parchment in her hand—a letter, sealed in crimson wax, bearing the crest of House DuPont.

“Marian will make a fine steward of this estate,” she murmured to herself, not noticing—or not caring—that Delphine stood just beyond the threshold.

Delphine clenched her fists at her sides. She had been standing there for almost a full minute, waiting to be acknowledged, throat tight with everything unsaid. She had rehearsed this moment a dozen times in her head, each version braver than the last. But now that she was here, her mother’s cool indifference made her feel once again like a child trying to speak in a room where her voice was not welcome.

She stepped forward anyway. “Mother.”

Alana didn’t look up. “Is there something you need, Delphine?”

“I need you to listen to me.” Her voice shook despite herself. “Please.”

At that, Alana finally glanced up, arching one perfectly penciled brow. “Make it quick. I’m reviewing Marian’s correspondence—he’s due to meet with Lord DuPont’s envoy by week’s end, and I won’t have him go in unprepared.”

Delphine's mouth twisted. “Of course. Marian. Always Marian.”

Her mother blinked, not unkindly, but with that same distant poise she wore like armor. “He is the heir, Delphine. You know this.”

“And I am nothing, is that it?” Delphine snapped. The words tumbled out before she could stop them, hot with all the years she’d spent swallowing her disappointment like bitter tea. “I walk through this house like a ghost. You never ask where I go, what I think, what I want. You don’t see me. You never have.”

Alana frowned, the expression less like concern and more like someone mildly irritated by a buzzing fly. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic, I’m being honest. For once, I’m trying to speak plainly, and you still look at me like I’m an inconvenience. I stayed silent through the whole wedding while Anastacia walked away into a life I’ll never have—not because I don’t deserve it, but because you won’t let me want anything unless it benefits you.”

“You will have a life,” Alana said sharply, rising from her seat. Her voice, always cool and clipped, took on a cutting edge. “A far better one than I did. You think I don’t remember what it is to be overlooked? I clawed my way into this position. I married a man whose eyes have always roamed and bore him children because it was the only way to keep from drowning. Everything I do, I do to ensure you and Marian have more than I ever did.”

Delphine laughed—a raw, mirthless sound. “No, he has more. He has your attention. Your trust. Your pride. I’m just the extra piece. The spare. The daughter you barter like silverware to flatter your ambitions.”

Alana’s expression froze, and for a moment Delphine thought maybe—just maybe—her mother would relent. That she’d say something kind, something true, something human. But when Alana finally spoke, her voice was cold as the marble beneath her feet.

“You are not important, Delphine. You’re not meant to be.”

Silence fell like a shroud.

“You are a piece in the game,” Alana continued, her words as precise as a dagger thrust. “A valuable one, yes—but only if you are placed wisely. A good marriage will give you purpose. It will give us standing. And the sooner you find one, the happier I’ll be to have you gone.”

Delphine’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her breath caught in her chest like a stone sinking deep into water.

She stood there for a long moment, her throat burning, the tears threatening again—but this time she would not let them fall. Not here. Not where her mother could see.

Without another word, Delphine turned and walked away. Her footsteps were silent on the polished floor, her shadow stretching long behind her as she vanished down the hallway.

And in the drawing room, Alana returned to her letters.

As if nothing had happened at all.

[Little Lotte]

The scent of hay and horse sweat clung to the air, mingling with the metallic tang of something else—something sharper.

Delphine had come out to the stables to be alone. After the conversation with her mother, her skin felt too tight, her breath too shallow. The stone halls of the manor had begun to close in on her, so she followed the footpath out past the garden, hoping the horses might offer some comfort. They had always seemed more honest than the people in this house.

But when she stepped past the half-open stable door, she froze.

There, crouched in the corner of the far stall, was her brother.

Marian.

The golden boy. The heir. The pride of House Mercier.

He didn’t see her at first—he was too focused, too absorbed in what he was doing. One hand gripped a struggling rabbit by the scruff of its neck, the other held a small, curved blade—one of Father's old hunting knives. The rabbit's fur was stained red, its cries muffled and sickly. Marian watched it die with the calm focus of someone dissecting a puzzle rather than taking a life.

Delphine gasped.

Marian’s head snapped toward her. For a heartbeat, his eyes were empty. Cold.

Then, like a mask slipping back into place, he stood. “Delphine.”

She stumbled back a step. “What... what are you doing?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t be foolish. It’s just a rabbit.”

“You tortured it.” Her voice trembled. “You enjoyed it.”

Marian stepped out of the stall, blade still in his hand, now lowered but glinting with wet crimson. He didn’t rush her, didn’t raise his voice. That made it worse.

“I need you to listen carefully, sister,” he said, his tone as smooth as silk and twice as strangling. “You didn’t see anything. If you tell Mother... I’ll do worse. To you.”
Delphine stared at him, mouth dry. Her limbs were frozen—not just in fear, but in confusion. This wasn’t some tantrum. He meant it. There was no hesitation in his voice.

She nodded. Slowly. A single shake of her head might have cost her more than she wanted to risk. “I won’t tell,” she whispered.

Marian studied her for a moment, then gave her an approving nod, as though she were a child who had finally learned her lesson. “Good.”

He turned and left her there, walking out into the descending dusk like nothing had happened.

Delphine waited until he was gone before falling to her knees in the straw, bile rising in her throat. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

She thought.

Her family was not well. That much was clear now, in a way she had never allowed herself to believe before. Marian was the perfect son only when people were watching. Behind the doors and silk and polished manners, something darker lived beneath his skin. And her mother—Alana—had always been blind to it. Or perhaps she saw and simply chose not to care.

But what terrified Delphine most was the question that took root in her mind like a splinter:

Is it just him? Or is there something in me, too?

That night, she sat by candlelight in her room, combing through the few medical texts her father had brought home from one of his sojourns in Mordent. They spoke of melancholia, of hysteria, of humors. They were primitive, vague, but it was a start.

She would learn more.

She would uncover the secrets of the mind.

And maybe—just maybe—she would learn how to excise the rot that festered beneath the skin of noble houses like her own.

[Little Lotte]

Case Study in Alienism: Subject No. 1 – “P”
By Delphine Mercier, Alienist in Training
"The human mind is a fragile machine, prone to fits of violence and poetry, and always at risk of turning inward on itself. In the case of Subject P, I have encountered both the violence and the poetry—and I do not know which frightens me more."

Patient: Male, approximate age 26
Occupation: Laborer
Status: Ongoing outpatient observation
Location: Personal referral; subject approached voluntarily

Initial Presentation
Subject "P" arrived of his own accord. This fact alone sets him apart from many patients I have observed in recent years, who are usually referred by clergy, constables, or kin. There was no coercion. No outburst. He claimed he "wished to understand himself better," and believed I might offer clarity. He is a man of few academic experiences, lacking formal schooling, but he speaks clearly, even eloquently at times, and with more self-awareness than most of his station.
He presents as physically healthy, hardened by manual labor, though there is a tension in his posture, a coiled readiness that never seems to abate. Even seated, he watches the door. I would describe him as a man who looks like he might run—but in truth, I believe he is always preparing to strike.

Session Observations

Session 1:
 P spoke openly of his childhood: parents now deceased, siblings distant, former lovers estranged. He spoke of loneliness without sentimentality. When I inquired about early sources of joy, he recalled drawing as a child—animals, figures, faces. I suggested we resume this activity as part of his therapy, to redirect his outbursts into a medium of expression. He agreed without resistance, and even seemed eager.
He treated me with respect throughout—never deferential, but earnest. He does not extend this courtesy to others, as I later learned.

Session 2:
 He returned with several drawings. Each was filled with kinetic energy, some beautifully rendered, others more frantic. One showed a hand around a throat—not the moment of murder, but the tension just before. Another depicted a man holding his own head in his hands, weeping.
He confessed that the acts he commits—fights, injuries, destruction—come without warning. He claimed to feel remorse afterward, even grief. But he also said, plainly, "It never stops me the next time."
I attempted light physical redirection (a comforting touch to the shoulder). He neither recoiled nor responded. It was as though my presence was real to him, but my body was not.

Session 3:
 I asked directly: "Do you regret hurting others?"
He smiled, but there was no pleasure in it. “I hurt them,” he said, “so I won’t hurt you.”
I did not know how to respond. I still don’t.

Session 4:
 I encountered P outside the city walls, purely by chance. He greeted me with the same calm composure, asked if I was "sleeping well." The question felt misplaced, too intimate, though not overtly inappropriate.
What followed was less ambiguous: he warned me not to share what he had told me, not with the constabulary, not with clergy. “If you do,” he said, “I’ll bring the world down on you. But I won’t enjoy it.”
He looked genuinely sorry to say it. That, somehow, was worse.

Session 5: (Ongoing)
 Incomplete. Notes deferred.

Provisional Assessment
Subject P displays traits consistent with a choleric imbalance, accompanied by impulse disinhibition and latent sadistic impulses. His affect does not match clinical definitions of psychosis—he does not hallucinate, nor does he express delusional beliefs. He is not insane, at least not in the legal or spiritual sense. He simply cannot—or will not—cease his destructive behavior.
He exhibits a kind of internal coherence. He understands the nature of his actions and even articulates his guilt, yet he remains untethered to the consequences. There may be a trauma buried in early life, but he denies any direct abuse. He speaks with a curious blend of fatalism and restraint, as if violence is both his curse and his ward.

Clinical Note
I attempt to maintain distance. I write down everything he says. I review the patterns. I build a profile. This is what I am training to do.
But there is something about him that resists reduction.
He does not haunt me like a ghost. He clings to the edges of my waking mind. When I sleep, I find myself searching for him in crowds, wondering if he is behind me when I pass windows. I fear he is becoming a permanent resident in my thoughts.
I do not believe he will harm me. I believe he is trying not to. That may be the most frightening detail of all.

“There is nothing unnatural about him. That is the horror.”