Page 105 of The Queen's Box

“Brody. She’s a woman—and a leader. A real leader. She would help Eryth heal.”

“Heal from what?” Willow asked.

Maeve’s eyes narrowed, and Willow shook her head, holding out her hands in an attempt to appease her. “Never mind. Not the time.” She glanced at the empty hall outside the servants’ quarters, which wouldn’t stay empty for long. “Grab whatever you need, and let’s go.”

Maeve cocked her head, and moonlight from the open window caught the waxy sheen of it, the puckered flesh that looked as if it had been burned from within. “Willow. That’s your name?”

Willow felt as if Maeve had taken a bucket of muck and thrown it straight into Willow’s face—her tone was that contemptuous.

“Yes,” Willow said.

“I’m the washing girl. That’s my job.”

“Okay.”

“And the serving girl. And the linens girl. And if anyone’s having a bad day or needs to feel superior to someone else, I’m the whipping girl. I’m all of those things here in Eryth’s fine court.”

Willow nodded. She understood that it was bad, yes. She should have done more to help Maeve—and earlier.

She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. More? Earlier?

She hadn’t helped Maeve, ever.

She should have, full stop.

“I’m sorry,” Willow said. “It’s messed up, and I should have done something. Spoken to the prince, fought for changes, made everyone see—”

“Stop,” Maeve interrupted. “I don’t need your ‘should have’s. I don’t need your pretty words. What I’m saying is, I work here. And the wages I earn? The two talons the mistress takes from her pouch and reluctantly passes over at the end of every month?”

She snorted, which told Willow all she needed to know about wages and fair labor laws here in the court, at least as applied to the Blighted.

“Those talons go to my family, Willow. They put food on my family’s table.” She glared at Willow. “So thank you for your offer to let me run away with you. It’s ever so kind.” She shook her head, and her disdain was all the more potent for the restraint Maeve showed. “I’ll pass.”

Maeve’s words knocked Willow off-balance. Running away? Was that what Willow was doing? Since the day she got here, she’d been treated like royalty—or mortal royalty, at any rate. She’d been given free rein, or close enough, to go wherever she wanted, to do as she pleased. She’d breathed in all the lovely things—Poppy’s ridiculous gowns, jugglers juggling flaming pears, moonstone basins and seashell cottages and—oh, God—Jace’s magical hot chocolate.

But she’d seen ugliness, too. A marching band forced to march till their feet blistered and their lungs trembled. The forced smiles of certain court folk. The cruelty of handsome fae boys who jeered at Maeve and tripped her and knocked their food to the floor for her to clean up.

Willow deserved Maeve’s scorn, every last jagged shard of it. She should have fought to make Eryth a better and more just land. She’d told herself she would, one day, with Serrin... but why hadn’t she on her own, as herself?

Now Jace was dead. Serrin was betrothed to the mirage of a girl who looked dangerously like Willow’s sister, Ash. And Willow?

Willow—yes—was running away. It was what she was best at.

A lump formed in her throat, salty and painful and too much to bear, except that she would bear it, even though it hurt.

“But Brody,” she croaked. “If you leave with me, you can tell Brody about the queen. Brody can make things better. Jace said so. Isn’t that worth two talons a month?”

Maeve laughed, a bitter, hopeless sound. “I can tell Brody, yes. I can tell Brody what she already knows, with a few extra details for flavor.” She looked at Willow as if she were an imbecile. “What Jace had was proof.That’swhat Brody needs.”

Willow frowned. The last thing she wanted to do was argue with Maeve, to say,Well, hon, I know this might be complicated for someone like you to understand...But what Jace had had was a testimonial, nothing more and nothing less. She’d witnessed the queen’s depravity, but did that really count as proof? Those who were already on Brody’s side—the rebels, Willow supposed—they’d have believed Jace, no question. But would Jace’s story have meant anything to those who were on the fence?

“You be Jace, then,” Willow said helplessly. “Tell Brody and the others that you saw what Jace saw.”

Maeve scoffed. “And everyone will just believe me?”

No, and that was the problem. But Jace had thought it was worth a shot, and last night, in the corridor, Maeve had sure seemed to think so, too.

“I get it,” Willow said. “A firsthand account is problematic no matter who it comes from. But is the information only worth sharing if it comes from Jace?”

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