Chapter N.VII

Delia felt how the wind, which until then slightly stirred her hair, gradually intensified and now began to blow under her clothes. She shivered from the cold and raised her hand, which had been stiff from lying for a long time, to straighten her chemise. At that moment, it was out of the question to get up from the windowsill and put on something warmer - the girl was so captivated by the sight of the moon, which in the meantime had already begun to run into dark and vague clouds. Delia was in a state where thoughts dominated the desire of her body, and although by nature she was disposed to melancholic reflections, but in a state of prostration like this, she had bothered to fall for the first time in all her ten years.

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Delia remembered one of her many Sunday trips to the local church, which located not too far from her home, if think about it. The church itself was very beautiful - a brick-lined building with additional stonework, the rounded windows of which indicated that the architect was fond of the Romanesque style. The corner tower with battlements, which towered above the roof of the rest of the church, evoked in Delia pleasant associations with movies about medieval life, and, one might say, gave the girl additional motivation to go to this place (not counting her Lutheran confession, of course).

On that Sunday, the daughter and mother, according to the tradition established in their family, dressed in lace shawls - Delia in lilac, her mom in black - and leaving the house, they soon reached the front doors of the church. That day, Delia was not in a good mood, because before leaving the house she managed to quarrel with her father because he found fault with her drawing of a man with red hair. The main reason was not in the picture itself - who was rough just like others kids her age, but in the fact that the girl signed it with those eight cherished letters that caused unjustified panic and paranoia in her parents and a burst of admiration in Delia herself.

So when father left home for his job, the girl without much interest went to church, without even talking to your mother on the way. True, she, being a witness to the quarrel between her daughter and her husband, in turn, was also not disposed to conduct sincere conversations with the child. When both women finally made it to the church, a sullen feeling of dissatisfaction gradually gave way to inexplicable excitement, and after a few minutes Delia forgot about her family quarrel.

The chain-hung lamps, adorned with beautiful hexagonal shades, glowed with a warm yellow light that reflected off the polished wood of the furniture. The lighting was subdued, as if the church leaders did not want to disturb the solemnity of the moment with the bright light of electric lamps, but this did not prevent the girl from enthusiastically examining the vintage interior of the church, which she had never been particularly interested in before, since church was as much a chore to her as school or the grocery store.

It was immediately evident to her that the interior bore the features of the Gothic style, evidence of which was the ceiling support, carved from oak and spruce planks. They contrasted with the white walls, decorated modestly but tastefully. Paying no attention to the parishioners crowding among the semicircular rows of benches, Delia had set their eyes on the altar, making her face take on a dreamy expression, and strands of thick hair lying on the shoulders were a little disheveled, but from the side it was not noticeable due to the shawl thrown over it.

Worship in the Portland church differed little from a similar procedure, which she observed while living in New York, except that among the parishioners, the number of old people prevailed over middle-aged people, and of the children at the moment there was only one Delia - as if the locals were of the opinion that you should not take your children to church. The girl did not remember how the divine service went, because in her thoughts she was completely absorbed in Jo - it seemed that the solemn atmosphere of this holy place with renewed vigour resurrected the image of this man in her thoughts.

As the congregation began to disperse, the girl's mother gave her a light nudge on the shoulder.

- Dearie, we need to go, - there was weariness in the woman's voice.

Delia, continuing to stand still, only turned her head towards her.

- Mommy, I want to stay here, - she said humbly.

Her mother put her arms around her awkwardly.

- What are you lost here? - woman asked in bewilderment.

- I will stay, - insistently repeated her daughter, turning away from her.

- As you wish, beautiful, - surrendered mother.

With that, she walked out of the church as Delia continued to stare at the carved oak altar.

- I will be waiting for you outside, - her mother's voice reached baby ears.

Convinced that she had left the church, the girl, straightening her shawl, stepped out from behind the rows of wooden benches onto the red-carpeted space in front of the altar, at which at that moment the vicar stood alone, who by appearance could have been forty years old. He was dressed in an impeccable black cassock, and his hair was hidden by a hood of the same colour. The clergyman watched the bustling people who left the church, not even trying to hide the boredom on his face. It seemed that he did not attach any importance to the child, who at that time was approaching him.

Delia, on the contrary, with every step that brought her closer to the altar, felt more and more excited. Her arms were trembling slightly with excitement, so she had to keep them crossed over her chest. She felt the bewildered glances of other parishioners glide over her body, wrapped in a lilac shawl. Coming closer to the vicar, Delia adjusted her veil slightly so that the clergyman could better see her face, and stopped at the foot of the four steps, covered with red velvet carpet