Of Heirs and Havoc ✔️ | Of Crimes and Crowns Book 2

twenty-four : of daughters and dungeons

Dominica clutched her heavy skirts as she fidgeted in her chair, unable to sit still. The scratchy wool was unfamiliar against her palms—she was accustomed to linen, to silk, to light airy fabrics that did not seem to burden and suffocate her as this Arlean dress did now. Or perhaps that was her own guilt and remorse weighing upon her chest, making it difficult to breathe as she watched her youngest sister and her husband confer with one another in hushed tones.

Grace was not with them. Dominica's dislike of children had not been her only reason to avoid the infant—it was also that her niece was a reminder, a reminder of her own daughter, and her failure to protect her child that had brought her here, back home. That had brought the wrath of the Seralian king thundering down upon them—though Natasha had handled that situation more gracefully than Dominica had thought possible.

No sunlight managed to creep through the heavy drapes, and the rugs were deepest violet, nearly as dark as the charcoal damask wallpaper and black wainscoting. The vaulted ceiling loomed high above, dust and cobwebs clinging to the unlit chandeliers. It made her feel as though she were being buried alive and sealed in a tomb. Dominica could recall the last time she had been in this room: the three of them united one last time before Dominica and Sasha's weddings, grieving the losses of their parents and brothers. This was the mourning room. Only, who had died this time?

"What do you plan to do with the king?" Dominica asked, her feet tapping against the thick carpets. "You certainly cannot lock him in the dungeon forever, can you? Nor can you execute him."

From across the long wooden conference table, she saw Connor mouth something to his wife, who gave a sardonic chuckle and shoved him lightly on the shoulder. She could guess what it was: are you certain we cannot execute the man?

Dominica cleared her throat—not really having anything to say, but wishing to interrupt the two, who were still behaving like newlyweds despite having already had a child. Although, she supposed that when they were newlyweds, their dynamic had been far more antagonistic from the stories she had heard.

"Did you have something to share, sister?" Natasha steepled her fingers beneath her chin, and Dominica felt as though she were being transported ten years ago, being scolded by their governess for hiding lizards in the folds of her gown and then releasing them during etiquette lessons. Which was ridiculous, because Dominica was the older one—but she had never been the more responsible one, the more mature one.

"I—" She wanted to hide, to bury her secrets and conceal them. Dominica had always been selfish, had always been ashamed and unwilling to admit to that shame. Yet what kind of a person would she be now, if she lied to her sister? "I colluded with the king. I am the one who informed him of Connor's treason, not Harold. It is I who... who should be thrown into the dungeon." She felt tears slip down her cheeks against her will. "I'm sorry, Tasha."

"You come to my home, insult my husband and king, and now you confess to a crime such as this? You may be my sister, but this I cannot abide. Arlea may no longer be your home, but you have betrayed me."

Natasha stood up, and Dominica saw her lunge, saw the ghost of all their old fights where they had knocked one another to the floor over a dirtied gown or stolen necklace. She braced herself for the swipe of nails across her cheek, or a slap across her face, and readied herself to fight back, but—there was nothing. She thought for a moment that it was because becoming mothers had matured them both, but then she saw that it was instead because Natasha had sat down again. Her sister had suddenly gone terribly still, as though her soul had vacated her body and she was a marionette being held by stiff strings.

She was a great and horrible sight, the colour gone from her face, the tension visible in every line of her body. The only spot of colour on her form, which was garbed in black and had gone white with shock, was her crown: gold as the moonlight struck it from a skylight far above, its rubies a red as bright as blood.

"Why would you do this?" Natasha asked finally, shedding her fossilized mask of horror and betrayal. "How could you betray me?"

"I had a reason," Dominica whispered, feeling as though her heart were slowly turning to ice in her chest, pumping frozen water throughout her veins. "I had a reason!"

Her voice echoed through the vast and empty hall. As vast and empty as the space between them, which now seemed utterly impossible to breach.

"I care nothing for your reasons!" Natasha shrieked. "My husband could have been killed!"

"What if it were your daughter?" Dominica snapped, not even caring that Natasha knew nothing of the context of that question. "What if it were your daughter who had been sold to Seralia for the sake of peace and trade, whose childhood and happiness you had sacrificed for the sake of your nation, your crown, your realm? If it had been Grace, who had been betrothed to the young prince of Seralia, to Robert Saunders' son? Who was now being held hostage and was being threatened? Because that is what Robert Saunders did to me, Natasha! What he did to her! My daughter, Margaret, could be killed. Not only your husband.

"That bloody tyrant king would only release her if I promised to obey him," she murmured. "I would sacrifice Margaret's happiness for the sake of the Filipias. But I would not sacrifice her life."

"And what did he tell you to do?" Connor posed the question this time, his face not judgmental, but not kind either. He was only detached—not really her brother, this man, not really her family. He would neither condemn nor love her. "What were his commands?"

"He told me—" her lip trembled. The dreaded, hated tears sprang to her eyes. She swallowed them, forcing them down. "I received a note, sent to me from an anonymous messenger. It was written, as far as I could tell, in a feminine hand, that informed me of your husband's treason. Robert had told me to inform him of any interesting news from my sister—from Tasha."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her sister flinch at the nickname. Dominica went on anyways.

"So I told him that you had been involved in the rebel sect. I told him you had been part of a plot to bring down the queen. And when I heard that you had, I really did hate you! I told myself, as I came here, as I coordinated my visit with the king's, that I was protecting you. That if Connor died, it was better that a traitor would die rather than my daughter, better that you would lose a husband than I lose a daughter—"

A sob escaped her. She crumpled over, falling on her knees. "I hate him. But I hate myself most of all, for doing this."

"I can forgive you," Natasha said, and she could not possibly speaking the truth. "I would... I would have done the same, if it were Grace. Even if queens need to view their children as pawns, I would not sacrifice her either. But, I knew of Connor's treason. I knew that already before the murder trial, and I wish you had come to me. I wish you could have trusted me enough, thought me capable enough, to assist you in your bargain with the king."

Natasha's voice, which had been warm as she began, turned cold.

"Therefore, I regret to inform you that  I can no longer relinquish the Sleeping Island. The Filipias will not have it. Arlea will."