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They tell her not to pursue this relationship. It is shameful, they say. A union which will not bring her a heir is useless to a Queen, and she should think of someone who would support her: a man they have chosen especially to make her a puppet sitting on the throne. They get angry when she refuses, and the backlash hurts them both, Tarya and her, but they do not hide. There are too many pairs of eyes at the court to even attempt that. They stay in the light, and weed out the protests at the source. Still, more come, and they make them exhausted, fighting day after day.
Behind the closed doors, they feel secure, the guard at the door someone they can trust, a friend, someone they can ask for help. After all, without the issue of the heir, the Council will have nothing against them, and Cornelia wants to have a child, even if it means ripping her city or country apart. When Tarya touches her stomach, fingers splayed, awe in her face, Cornelia knows there will be no regret, and they will not give it up, not for the entire word.
The fingers she lost still hurt, long into the night, her dreams abruptly cut short a long time ago.