Natasha paced the throne room, each step sounding louder than the next. They sounded to her like the tolling of a bell, signaling death and destruction--more than had already happened. She sucked in a ragged breath, fisting the fabric of her skirt in her hands. The silk would wrinkle, she realized and forced herself to stop. The cause of her anxiety was not only that she had summoned the Baron of Abbotsford to court--it was also domestic struggles. Ones she had thought long past, but apparently not because her husband was missing. Once again.

This was the fourth time in as many days that he had left her side during a royal function or any event, really, where his presence had not been mandated. Connor had claimed headaches or bouts of illness, but she found in her heart suspicion and jealousy where concern for his health should have been. It didn't make sense, however, for him to have found another woman--every waking moment that he parted from her side, she found him at Grace's. Unless he had decided to have an affair with the nursemaid? But no, that was unlike him... Or was it?

Her heel snagged on the hem of her dress, and she felt her ankle wrench in pain. Natasha cried out. One of her ladies-in-waiting turned away from her quiet embroidery in the corner of the room and dashed over to help her onto the throne. She must have spoken, but Natasha could not hear it, could see only the woman's mouth moving and feel her own heart pounding as though seeking to escape. But she could not leave, could not be rid of any of it--not the pain, not the humiliation, and certainly not the baron standing at the entrance to the throne room, waiting to be let in.

She arranged her voluminous gown to cover the now-swelling ankle, dismissed her ladies' suggestion of calling in a physician, and sat with the hurt leg crossed over the other to minimize the ache that had faded slightly to a dull throb. Then Natasha called the guards to let him in.

But it was not Lord Huntington that appeared framed in that violet-tiled archway--it was Connor. And the relief that she felt at the sight of him was something she pushed away, as he had pushed her away this past week.

"The Prince Consort, Your Majesty," a guard spoke unnecessarily.

Her husband crossed the room in swift steps and sat on the throne next to hers, reaching for her hand. She jerked it away and flashed him a glare that was more smugness than any real indicator of her feelings. Connor was not the only one who could be distant, though the pained look he shot her gave her pause. But there was no time to dwell on anyone's emotions as Abel Huntington strode into the room.

"Baron," she greeted him.

He bowed stiffly, as though forced by a marionette's invisible strings. "Your Majesty."

"Guards, leave us," Connor ordered, waving a hand at them. He had read her mind, and she despised—though unfairly, she knew—that she could not see the contents of his, and had been unable to do so for over a week now since Grace had been attacked.

The guards exited noisily, armour clattering and weapons clanking. Their thudding footsteps echoed the anger beating steadily in her heart.

"Please, Huntington, there is no need for formality." She caught Connor's surprised glance in her peripheral vision, but ignored it, continuing. "In fact, why don't we hold a more casual conversation? We could have a lovely chat about the weather, your plans for spring. Are you staying at court, or returning to Town?"

He looked surprised at her words, as well as at the smile that she summoned through teeth gritted in agony. "Your Majesty, I—the weather seems rather dismal, if I may say so myself, with little hope of spring."

"How fitting." She continued smiling, though the expression was more genuine this time. "For that is how your life shall be, due to your betrayal of crown and country."

"I have done nothing of the sort!" Abel Huntington looked furious, his face white and shocked, his mouth open to reveal his yellowing teeth. "I am an honourable man—"

"But not a patriotic one." Connor broke in, placing his hand over hers. "Nor a wise one."

"Else you would have made the choice not to betray me, and certainly you would not have been found with Seralian gold sewn into the pockets of your cloak," Natasha decreed icily, turning over her palm to slide her fingers between Connor's. Despite his distance this past week, they needed to present a united front. "Speak only when I ask it of you, please, unless you care to be beheaded before you can get your estates into order. Why were you found with the currency of Arlea's bitterest enemy in your belongings?"

"It isn't mine," he answered rigidly.

"No? Then allow me to make a guess. A little wager, shall we call it? If I am correct, I keep my crown, and you lose your head to a pike outside the palace. If you are correct, then I lose my crown, and you keep your head."

Connor gave her a warning look, wide-eyed at the bet she was making. Natasha ignored him.

"I accept." The colour was returning slowly to the Baron's face—blood that would soon spill across these floors. He bowed deeply, though there was no need to. "Your Majesty."

"Very well." She released Connor's hand, and leaned forward slightly, putting pressure on her weakened ankle. Natasha grimaced minutely, having nearly forgotten about the pain, and forced the expression from her face. "I wager that you struck a bargain with the King of Seralia, who despises me for the incarceration and death of his brothers, respectively Harold and Lochlan Saunders. I wager that you promised him that you would allow him to kidnap my daughter in exchange for a ransom that included his brother's release, and proper reparations for Lochlan's death."

"You are correct in every detail but one, Your Majesty." His smile was arrogant. Too arrogant. "You have left out one key player. And therefore, you have forfeited your crown and I am allowed to keep my life."

"Dead men will say all manner of things to prolong the time before their deaths. You, Baron, are a dead man. I promised you nothing. Nothing you can prove. There are no guards present, and only my husband and I heard myself promise such a bet." She raised her voice. "Guards! Take him to the dungeon."

"What was the use of such a deal, then?" Lord Huntington called out as the guards marched into the room. The pitch of his voice turned shrill—like a whinging child's, she thought.

"To affirm my sources, of course." She smiled. "And to see what lengths I need to take to bring down my enemies."

"Then let me assure you, Natasha Blackmore!" His voice rose. "The lengths will be immeasurable, and you may weed out as many enemies as you like, but there will still be an infinite amount waiting for you!"

She stood in anger, wanting to shout something that proved him wrong—but she had stood in haste as well, and crumpled to the hard stone floor at the bottom of the staircase that led to the dais. "Tasha!"

Connor ran to her, one arm snaking around her shoulders, his other carefully sliding beneath the backs of her knees. He lifted her easily. Without thinking, her fingers laced together behind his neck, and she rested her head on the hollow of his chest. She had missed him, and hated herself for it, a hate that was old and dark, a hate she thought she had left behind.

"What's wrong?" He set her down on a nearby divan, hands probing her carefully, his touch clinical. Distant, as he had been this past week. Cold. "Are you hurt?"

"My ankle," she said, feeling tears spring to her eyes involuntarily when he lifted her skirt to examine it.

"I told her--begging your pardon, Your Majesty--to get the physician to examine her, but--" Natasha's lady in waiting butted in, fussing over her.

"But, I knew this meeting was more important," Natasha interrupted, jerking away from the prying hands of both husband and attendant.

Connor shot her a surprised look, partly indignant.

She gave him one back, as though trying to say, you're my husband. You ought to know why I act the way I do. Which was unfair. She was being unfair, but--she hadn't even known if he would be present today, at the most important meeting they'd had all year. He was being erratic, unreliable.

And you ought to tell him that, whispered her conscience. You ought to be open and honest with him.

The more stubborn, childish part of her insisted on wanting Connor to read her mind. She put aside all emotions instead and spoke again, not looking at her husband. "Summon the physician, Lacie."

Then the queen of Arlea faced her consort. "We need to speak."