See - I haven't forgotten about Natasha. She's still about.
'The child is sick,' Jasmin Van Dien announced with an amount of distaste as she stalked into Pierre Merkalov's so called Control Room. She pulled a chair back viciously, and threw herself into it, plucking at the dark fabric of her skirt as if examining it for stains.
Pierre Merkalov, huge hulking and bear like, was leaning over several plans, staring at them intently. At Jasmin's words he looked up, his small gold rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.
'What do you mean 'sick'?' he asked in a low voice.
Either Jasmin didn't notice the slightly dangerous tone in Merkalov's voice, or she stupidly chose to ignore it.
'Sick,' she snapped, barely throwing a glance in his direction. 'Throwing up, heaving, vomiting, puking, however you wish to describe it.'
Merkalov removed his glasses, folded them and carefully placed them inside his shirt pocket. He pinched the bridge of his nose where the glasses had rubbed between, his thumb and forefinger and sighed softly. 'Spare me the graphic descriptions. What I am asking, and I require an answer quickly, is what is the general medical condition of the girl? What is her malaise?'
Jasmin gestured off-handedly showing off perfectly manicured nails. 'She's whining of a stomach ache, headache, and that she's hot and then she's cold. And she's vomiting. Copiously.' Jasmin ticked off the symptoms on her fingers.
'And do you think that this is serious?' Merkalov asked.
'She's a child,' Jasmin snapped. 'Children get ill. Constantly, frequently, and disgustingly.'
'I take it you have no maternal instincts then?' Merkalov smiled darkly.
Jasmin indicated her flat stomach and slim frame. 'This figure takes a lot of work, and I'm not about to spoil it spawning some brat.'
'Ashleigh Trevelyan seems to have kept her figure,' he said pointedly. 'Remarkably well.'
Jasmin said nothing, merely throwing her hair back over her shoulder; however Merkalov caught the petulant expression on her face before it was hidden by her hair.
'Did it cross your mind,' Merkalov continued in a sweetly reasonable tone, 'that we are supposed to be moving our young charge to a more secure location within the next twenty four hours, and that this sudden bout of illness could ruin everything!'
The last words were released in a roar, Merkalov slamming his fist down hard upon the desk. Jasmin jumped, her face blanching beneath her neatly applied make up.
'Of course it did,' she spat furiously, trying to hide her nervousness beneath hostility. 'But children get ill.'
'And you're a paediatrician now, are you?'
'No,' Jasmin flushed hotly. 'But its hardly going to be serious is it? It's just a bug!'
'Is it?' Merkalov said coolly, and turning, he left the room.
Jasmin threw herself back into the chair, and resumed examining her skirt. If the little brat had soiled it in any way... She groaned, and slouched further into the seat, crossing her arms stubbornly across her chest. The situation was getting more and more ridiculous with every passing hour. So what if the girl was sick? Children got ill and they got better just as quickly.
It was all a fuss about nothing.
Natasha Trevelyan ran her hand over her small face and felt how wet it was. She didn't know if it was from sweat or tears, but she was hot and she was frightened, and then she would be cold, and she would shiver horribly, and she wanted her mummy, and she wanted her daddy and she was so scared.
The sick feeling was rising once more, and she lifted her head up feebly, scrabbling for the bowl that the tall lady had left for her. 'If you're going to be sick, be sick into this,' she had said meanly, before thrusting the bowl at Natasha. Natasha had wanted to stick her tongue out at the woman but she had thrown up instead.
She thought she had managed to get most of it in the bowl, but the tall lady had looked disgusted, so maybe she had accidentally splashed her.
She threw up again, mostly froth with bile now. Her throat felt raw from the continued onslaught of her stomach acid, and she coughed horribly. Her head throbbed too, and she wanted to go to sleep, but every time she tried, the room would spin, even with her eyes closed and she hated the feeling.
Natasha didn't know how long she had been in the room for. She had been thrown back in there after her last escape attempt, and she had once more lost track of night and day. She still missed her parents, but the memories she had of them were becoming vaguer, and she wondered if they still thought of her. She had thought they would have come and found her by now, but they hadn't. She wondered if they were looking for her, and that was why they couldn't find her, because she was so well hidden.
She didn't know. She didn't know what to believe anymore.
She huddled under the sweat soaked blanket, her hair sticking to her face. It had worked free from the braid she usually wore it in, and she had pulled it as she had slept fitfully, so that it stuck up wildly in places. Curling herself up into a ball, she cried.
She didn't hear him enter the room. She mewed pitifully as another spasm of pain wracked through her. She felt the bed sink below her, as someone sat next to her and then a large hand cupped her head, brushing away the damp strands of hair from her forehead.
'Hush,' a low voice crooned, 'hush, my darling.'
She knew it wasn't her father. She cried harder.
Strong arms lifted her up slightly, and she found herself pulled into a half embrace, tucked against a broad, strong chest. Her damp face stuck against a thick wool jumper which smelt of a rich, warm, slightly musky aftershave.
'Are you not well, Natasha?' the gruff voice asked.
Natasha shook her head. 'Feel sick,' she gulped between sobs.
'In your tummy?'
A nod.
'And your head?'
Another nod.
'Well that's not very good, is it?'
'No,' she sniffed. 'And I've got spots,' she announced tearfully.
Merkalov felt his blood freeze. 'Spots?' he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
'Lots of them. On my tummy.'
'Can I see them?' he asked.
Natasha obliged, pulling up the pink top of her pyjamas. To Merkalov's horror, her skin was indeed faintly decorated with a rash. It was faint, but definitely there.
Meningitis. The fear struck Merkalov deep in the centre of his chest. He carefully released Natasha, tucking her back into bed. He crossed the room, hitting a small button by the door.
'Sir?' a voice asked immediately.
'Get a doctor here. Now.' The seriousness of the order impressed itself upon the guard, and less than three minutes had passed when the sound of running feet was heard in the corridor.
The doctor glanced up, tucking his stethoscope back into his white coat. He was a middle aged man more used to dealing with gunshot wounds and other injuries the men who worked for Merkalov managed to inflict upon each other rather than childhood diseases. He looked curiously at the small girl but knew it was worth more than his life's worth to question why she was there.
'Is it?' Merkalov asked tersely.
'Meningitis?' the doctor asked, straightening up and buttoning up his coat. 'It's unlikely. However, I think what we have here is a rapidly presenting case of chickenpox.'
'Chickenpox?' Merkalov relaxed visibly, and the doctor caught the movement. He took another sneaky look at the child who was now looking at the bottle of medicine he had produced with some suspicion, and noted how sweet she looked. Feeling his eyes upon her, Natasha looked up, and the doctor once more thought how adult her pale green eyes looked in her childish face.
'Chickenpox,' he confirmed briskly. 'Perfectly safe, well, as long as anyone who comes into contact with her has had the virus. Especially if they come into close contact with her. Chickenpox in children is perfectly manageable, it can be far more serious in adults.'
'How soon will she get better?'
'Oh, once the sickness passes she'll be much better. I'll give her ibuprofen, which should bring the fever down quickly. The rash is going to be the problem; she'll go half mad with the itching. Try to stop her scratching; it'll be a shame to for her to scar herself.'
'Scars,' Merkalov murmured quietly.
Natasha looked up sharply. 'My daddy has scars,' she said matter of factly. 'He was in a fire. He has them on his face and on his body. He doesn't like them.'
She fell silent again, picking up the small plastic spoon with which the doctor would give her the medicine with and examining it curiously.
'Does he?' the doctor asked, avoiding Merkalov's eye.
'Yes. My daddy is going to come and get me soon,' Natasha said, staring up at Merkalov. 'He promised he would.'
The doctor decided that the situation was one that he would do well not to get involved in. He opened the bottle, and poured out a carefully measured spoonful. Natasha swallowed obediently, a slight grimace on her face.
'I'll bring you some magic cream,' the doctor said to her, 'that will help you with the itching. Camomile lotion,' he explained to Merkalov.
'You do that,' Merkalov said, his attention completely focused on the girl.
The doctor sensed that his presence was no longer welcome. He shrugged and made to leave.
'Wait,' Merkalov called him back. 'How would she have picked up the virus?' he asked.
The doctor shrugged. 'Ask if any of the guards have children, and if they have the virus. They may have carried it in with them.' The doctor inclined his head respectfully, almost a bow to Merkalov. 'If that's all, sir?'
'Yes, of course,' Merkalov dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
The fear that had struck him deep in the belly was receding slowly. Merkalov forced a deep breath inside him. Meningitis. It was the illness that most parents feared, striking quickly, indiscriminately and sometimes fatally. For a horrible moment, seeing those faint spots on Natasha's stomach, Merkalov had thought he was going to lose her. Alec Trevelyan's wrath was terrible enough for just the kidnap of his child, if she died; Merkalov knew it would push Alec beyond all reason and restraint. The child lived because Merkalov wanted her to live. Because if she lived, he had Alec under his control. To think that fate could have dealt a lethal hand, snatching the child away quickly and irreversibly made Merkalov break out in a cold sweat.
Chickenpox, he thought, letting out an almost manic bark of a laugh. Natasha looked up startled, she was still pale and covered in sweat, but already he thought he could see an improvement in her. She had kept the medicine down so far and he hoped it would be quick acting.
'Am I properly sick?' she asked quietly.
'Yes, you are,' Merkalov eased himself back down onto the bed once more, his back leaning against the wall. Natasha shifted out of the way to make room for him.
'With chickenpox?'
'Yes. Chickenpox. You're going to have a rash for a little while and you're going to be itchy, but you'll get better.'
'Ok,' she agreed, tugging at her plait.
'Natasha?'
'Yes?' she looked up at him with those green eyes that were undeniably Alec's and Merkalov felt coldness spread through him.
'When did your father tell you he was going to come for you?'
'I don't know when,' she yawned sleepily.
'Was it since you've been here?'
She gave him a scornful look. 'No.'
'When, then?'
'I don't know. But Daddy always said that if anyone took me away, he'd find them, and he'd find me. So I know he's coming for me.'
'Natasha?' he asked softly.
'Yes?'
'Are you sure about that?' he said, looking deep into her eyes.
For a moment she frowned, and he knew she was struggling to understand what he meant, her childish mind working hard to keep up with the adult. Slowly, he saw understanding dawn. 'But he said he would,' she said quietly. 'He promised.'
'Sometimes grown ups break their promises.' He was slowly planting a seed of doubt inside her mind.
'But Daddy said he would come and get me!' her high voice became shriller still, and he saw her small hands clench into fists.
'But Natasha,' Merkalov continued in his low, cajoling tone. 'He hasn't come. Has he?'
The fists seemed to clench even tighter, he heard her swallow hard, and he pressed forward his advantage.
'You've been here a long time, and your daddy hasn't come for you. Maybe he doesn't want you any more, Natasha. Maybe that's why he hasn't come for you.'
The first tear slipped down her illness flushed cheek, followed by a second and then a third. He put his arm around her, dwarfing her completely, and as the first sobs broke free, she buried her face into his side.
'Its ok, my darling,' he crooned to her, rocking gently back and forth. 'It's ok. Your Granpére is here. Granpére will look after you.'
