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

thirty : of tears and terror

"I—I'm sorry," Celeste murmured, her hands still on his shoulders, tears still streaking her face.

For a moment, Matthew thought—absurdly, he knew—that the tears looked rather like diamonds; that Celeste herself resembled a statue carved from onyx and amber and marble. All fluttering white dress and tan skin, cascading brown hair and shining dark eyes. There was something stiff and cold and almost inhumanly poised about her, even while she was in the midst of showing weakness—in the midst of showing rare sorrow. He had never seen her cry before in all the five, nearing six, years that he had known her.

"It's fine," he replied automatically, reflexively. Sunlight shone through the circular skylight ahead, but his form cloaked Celeste's in shadow. "I simply hadn't realized that you as well were capable of human emotion."

"The fire—" she sucked in a breath, starting over. "I hadn't realized how close we were all coming to death. Truly, it terrified me."

Her eyes were wide, her body tense, the very picture of fright. Perhaps Matthew had misread her stiffness as simple shock and fear. In the moment, there was something very fragile about her that was unusual. It was like seeing a crack in a wall he had always thought impenetrable.

"I was scared, too," he admitted for once, surprised at himself at well for showing vulnerability.

But if Celeste—untouchable, perfect Celeste—could cry, surely he could express how he had felt in the moment during the fire. That horrid fire, when flames had engulfed the parlour, thick clouds of black smoke seeping beneath the door, and Celeste had begun screaming before she had had the chance to tell him her plans. Surely, he could allow their friendship's range of conversation to expand beyond gentle teasing and into more intimate territory.

"I didn't realize how much trouble the rebels were truly causing," she confessed. "I though they were simply a nuisance, not—" He saw her bite down on her full lip, sealing away the words he could read in her expression: not something to be feared. Not something to be taken seriously.

"You thought they were like a single, irritating wasp," he interjected. "Instead you discovered they were an entire infestation of hornets."

"Exactly." She uncoiled slightly, her hands at her sides, close enough that they brushed against his thigh. "Although I would have used less... entomological terms."

The mild joke made them both laugh, tension released between them. She stepped closer, or maybe it was him who did so, and he could see the freckles dusting her cheeks, the uncoiled strand of hair by her ear. She wasn't perfect, he realized. Only human, like the rest of them. In all his years here, he had never thought of Celeste as someone he could love. She had always too much of herself locked away, like a beautiful treasure box with no key in sight. But now... now he thought that something was thawing around her, some ice cracking.

He lifted a hand, tucking the stray hair behind her ear. She let out a gasp, still looking up at him, her secrets exposed in her eyes. Bare, exposed before him though her garments were conservative. For once, utterly at his mercy.

"I will see you tonight at supper, Celeste." They were nearly flush against each other, the position improper enough that any maiden aunt chaperoning them would have fainted. He stepped back after a second of simply breathing in her scent of lavender and orchids.

Matthew turned to walk away, but she drew him back by placing a hand on his sleeve. "I look forward to it, Prince."

The coy smile on her face was a stark contrast to her visage only moments ago, but it was one that he kept tucked into his mind for the rest of the day. Whistling with his hands tucked into his pockets, he headed towards the kitchens to see if he could get a bite to eat before the evening meal. On his way down a corridor filled with arched windows and billowing curtains and the scents of lemongrass and pandan, he bumped into a servant.

"I'm so sorry, milord!" The boy held up sooty, stained hands in defence. "Please forgive me. I was not watching where I was going..."

"Marcus," he interrupted the boy's sputtering apologies. "Everything is quite alright. I only wanted something to sustain myself before supper."

"Oh, I shall retrieve it for you, milord!" The boy scurried back towards the kitchen before Matthew could tell him what he wanted, wiping his blackened hands on the white apron tied about his waist.

He found it suspicious that the boy's hands were sooty. The weather had been exceedingly warm, so there was no need to be lighting fires unless he was in the kitchen. But Marcus was a valet, not a kitchen boy. He occasionally fetched the rare tray from the kitchen when Matthew wanted breakfast in bed or was ill, but rarely in all this time had he seen his servant's hands so dark with ashes. And there had just been a fire...

Was Marcus one of the rebels? One of the anti-colonialists who wanted Arlea to return the Sleeping Island to the Filipias?

Now that Matthew thought about it, when he had questioned him about the Blackmore medallion in his room, he had been evasive, barely glancing at the bauble before answering his questions. He would need to keep an eye on Marcus. Though, Celeste was the one to approve all the staff hired in the governor's manor, as it fell under the household domain and therefore was regarded as a female's duty. Therefore, she would know if Marcus was a rebel.

Yet, Celeste had the most to lose if rebels were living under her own roof, sharing the same air with her. If the colony fell to the hands of rebels or was returned to the Filipias, Celeste would have nothing. She would lose her title of governor's daughter, one of the highest titles on the island, and Francisco would inherit the title of duke, so Celeste would only be a duke's sister. She would still be able to win a lord's hand in marriage, but her circle of influence would grow infinitely smaller. There was every need for Celeste to thoroughly investigate the backgrounds of every prospective servant who came to the manor seeking employment.

What if she had known that Marcus was a rebel and asked him to set the fire?

No. That made no sense. None at all.

So Matthew supposed that he had been correct, in the end. There was ice cracking—right beneath his feet, ready to give way and let him drown.