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

forty-one : of children and councils

Natasha winced as she sat in the armchair, wishing she could curl up in it and tuck her feet beneath her. But the hindrances that came with being seven—no, nearly eight—months pregnant prevented that. It prevented far too many things for her liking.

"Tsk," came her mother's voice, the disapproving tone all too familiar as she came into the conference room, holding Grace on one hip. Her hair, greying but dyed black and curled gently to frame her face, was being tugged on by her grandchild. "You should go lie down, my daughter."

"I will do so when I have sat through this meeting." She held out her arms for Grace, though there was barely room left to place her on her lap. "It's too important to send someone else in my place."

Her mother withheld her grandchild. Lillian Blackmore sighed but said nothing. Natasha had hated these silences from her when she was younger and was displeased to find that her dislike had not changed now that she was an adult. The wordless tension settled uneasily on her shoulders, bearing down on her until she felt pressured to speak.

"Some of the men still don't trust Connor fully..." she tried to explain. "It is simply easier for me to be in this meeting, Mother."

"If you want the men to trust him, then perhaps you should allow them to spend more time together." Natasha knew her mother was right. She simply did not want to admit it.

"I--" Before she could formulate a response and perhaps engage in some witty repartee, the council filed into the room. "Mother, I will see you tonight at supper."

Her mother shot her a disapproving look as she left the room; it weighed on Natasha. Chairs scraped against the marble floors and sank into the plush carpets as the council took their seats.

"Good day," Natasha spoke. "I now call this meeting to order and desire to bring an urgent matter to your attention."

"Is this regarding the retrieval of the prince from the Sleeping Island?" Archibald Percy asked, stroking his grey beard. "Because I believe we can all conclude that that mission has been rather unsuccessful so far."

Natasha sighed. As much as the men knew her, they did not quite respect her fully. They had seen her when she was a child after all, running into the meeting rooms and escaping her nannies. So they felt free to interrupt her.

"That is related to the matter I wish to discuss," she ventured slowly. "However—"

"Your Majesty!" A messenger ran into the room, not even bothering to knock, a sheet of paper fluttering between his fingers.

A headache began to throb at her temples. "What is it?"

"We... have received news... from the Sleeping Island," the young boy replied, panting heavily with exertion. "It's... about the Marquis of Delmore."

"Yes?" She stood, taking the paper from him and scanning its brief contents. Natasha's heart sank in her chest and she wished desperately that it was false.

"He's... missing."

Her ears were ringing. She sat back down, her legs unsteady, her movements unsure. How could this have happened?

"Your Majesty!" Echoes of that phrase rang throughout her head. "Your Majesty!"

Her fingers curled into fists and then relaxed, splayed out then gripping her kneecaps. She repeated the motion several times, looking down at the pattern on her dress. Was that a stain?

"Tasha." Connor. "Tasha, look at me. Everyone else, please leave."

Her hands began shaking to the point that she could no longer shape them into fists. Then they were covered, held tightly in Connor's.

"Blake is... He's missing." The words were trembling too; her whole body was now, and Connor just as readily embraced her. She tucked her face into his chest and reminded herself that no one would see her cry, so she did. "How? Why?"

"I don't know." He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, gripping her waist. "I don't. I just know... If we fall apart now, we may never find him. Alright?"

"I'm not falling apart." She sniffed.

He chuckled, his form vibrating with the sound. "Then what do you call this?"

"You, holding me together." They broke apart and she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Come on. Let's go... see if Victoria has any mail for us.

• • •

There was no more mail. Only a tense meal awaited them, not even interrupted by Grace's cries because she had been put to bed an hour earlier. When they went to bed themselves later that night, Natasha sat at the vanity, willing her hands to move and take off her clothes, her jewelry, her cosmetics, but... Everything felt heavy. The simplest actions felt too difficult. Even breathing was like pushing a boulder uphill.

She was about to call a maid back in to help her undress when Connor rapped at the door. "Tasha, darling?"

"I am in here," she replied. "Could you provide some assistance?"

He did so silently, unlacing her gown and corset and not letting them simply fall to heaps of fabric on the ground but folding them neatly and putting them on the chair. Connor took out her ebony earrings, wiped off her lipstick with a cloth and gentle hands. "Would you like to talk about it?"

She lay back in the four poster bed, staring up at the canopy. "Did Blake go missing because I got my parents back, because Matthew is alive? Is this... is this how the world works, with give and take?"

The bed dipped as Connor joined her in it, throwing one arm over her torso. "Blake is not worth three royals, I assure you. The world would not give back three members of your family and then take one member of your court. That makes little sense."

She pushed him away as he moved to tuck his face into her neck. "Do not jest with me, Connor."

"Then do not feel guilty for having your family. You did not send Blake to his death." Connor did not move to pull her back, knowing she wanted her space.

She flinched at the word death. "There was a time when many would suspect it of me."

"And that time is past, Tasha. Blake is not dead. He could simply... perhaps there was a storm or a shipwreck." He loosed a sigh.

"So many shipwrecks, Connor," she murmured, moving back toward him. "So much tragedy."

A bitter laugh fell from his lips. "Tell me, Natasha... When have we not faced hardship and conquered it?"