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

one: of graves and generations

A wintry wind swept over the graveyard, chilling its inhabitants as well as those who had come to pay their respects. Namely, the three gathered there on the anniversary of Elizabeth and Trystan White's deaths—the prince consort, Connor White, Natasha Blackmore, the queen of Arlea, and their daughter and heir, Grace Carys White.

Grace slept peacefully, bundled up in miniature wool petticoats and swaddled in blankets, held close to her mother's chest and away from reach of the harsh elements. At Natasha's side, Connor murmured quietly to the snow-cloaked, white-stone tombs of his mother and his brother. She could barely make out his words—only a few here and there, like 'child' and 'grace' and 'uncle'—but the sentiment was clear, his voice soft and loving, his face holding evidence of bittersweet emotions. Nostalgia, grief. Happiness at the new memories formed with their child, sorrowful that the rest of his family had not been there to see them. Sad, like she was with hers, that his parents had never gotten to meet their grandchild.

She saw Connor bow his head, lips mouthing a silent prayer, before he looked up at her and Grace. Natasha could still see the tear tracks glittering on his face in frozen droplets, and with his pale hair and grey serge coat, he looked as though he were some statue sculpted from ice. Then he unfolded, turning towards her and Grace, smoothing back their daughter's dark hair and dropping a kiss on her forehead. Her grey eyes—the mirror image of her father's—opened, wide in delight, and she made a soft mewling noise.

"She'll never meet them," Connor spoke aloud, voicing her thoughts.

"No." Natasha shifted Grace, passing her over to Connor with the utmost care, then reached out with a gloved hand to brush the snow off of her parents' and brothers' graves—a formality, as their bodies had never been found. They were made from black granite, trimmed in glittering obsidian. The words QUEEN LILLIAN, KING ANDREW, PRINCE DONALD, AND PRINCE MATTHEW BLACKMORE OF ARLEA, were carved into the cold stone. "But we can tell her about them. They'll never really be gone—not as long as we remember them."

"An unusually hopeful and optimistic statement," Connor mused, his voice more jovial now. "Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?"

She sighed, and directed her next words to her daughter. "Gracie, do you hear the audacity of this man? Questioning the ruler of the nation? You don't want to be in his arms, do you?"

As if on cue, their daughter squirmed, flailing her arms and legs to escape Connor's firm grasp, and stretched out towards her mother.

"See," she said smugly. "I'm still the same Natasha Blackmore. Even our daughter recognizes it."

Connor relented. "How can I possibly argue against such impeccable logic?"

"You simply cannot." Just as she picked up the bouquet of roses at their feet and separated them, placing half of the flowers in the vase at either side of the tombstone, she heard the sound of a horse's hooves clipping on cobblestones. "Connor, I thought we specifically commanded that no one disturb us on this day—"

He was just as knowledgeable about the intrusion as she was, shrugging and jostling Grace slightly. "I know as much as about this you do, darling."

A bay mare whinnied, its rider pulling the bridle to make him come to a stop on the slick ground of the courtyard. "Forgive me, your majesty," the messenger said as he dismounted and gave a deep bow, tipping his hat. "But crucial news has reached the palace."

"So crucial as to interrupt a day we especially set aside to remain uninterrupted?" Natasha raised her eyebrows, hands on her hips. The courier cowered. "Is there a fire, a death, a flood, or a storm?"

"The opposite, Your Majesty." The messenger moved past being scared and became indignant, in the way that men often did when faced with what they considered a paradox: a powerful woman. "Now, if you would be so gracious to follow me, I would show you."

Natasha did not fume—there was no time for or value in fuming. Instead, she looped her arm through Connor's, and they followed the man back to the palace.