Page 28 of The Queen's Box

Willow blinked. “Then Serrin . . . he’s a prince.”

“Theprince,” Severine corrected, her fingers withdrawing from Willow’s hair. Immediately, Willow felt bereft.

“The prince,” Willow echoed. “Of course. Please forgive me, your...”—she gulped—“your highness.”

The stroking resumed. “There now. How dear you are, Willow. How special. Do you know that?”

A flicker crossed Willow’s mind—someone else had said that once. Mr. Chapman, murmuring praise like promises. But—no. Willow refused to let him taint everything.

Severine’s fingers brushed Willow’s temple, and Willow nodded. “Yes. Like Serrin.” She drew her eyebrows together. “Usually it’s him I see. Where is he?”

“He’s ill.”

“No!” cried Willow.

“Twelve years he’s been waiting for you. And twelve years is a long time... especially for a fae prince.”

“He’s sick because of me?”

“We don’t tolerate delay well, dear one. My Serrin is... languishing.”

Severine stepped around the box and moved to the other side of the dais. Her smile was soft enough to break hearts.

“Will you come to him soon?” she asked.

“Yes! Of course!” Willow tried to stand, but her hands were still stuck to the box, and the box refused to relinquish her. “Please—can’t I please come with you now?”

“But how?” Severine asked. “You haven’t found the Box.”

“The Box?” Willow looked down. Oh. This box.

“You cannot come to Serrin until you find the Box. I thought you understood.”

Willow’s face crumpled. “I do. I—I will. I’m sorry.”

Severine’s eyes held hers. She reached out and touched Willow’s heart. “Remember here.” Then she touched Willow’s forehead. “Forget here.”

Then Severine lifted both arms and began to stretch. Her spine arched. Her limbs grew long and skeletal. The trees fell away beneath her. Her voice echoed from above:

“Find the Box, dear girl.”

The wood beneath Willow’s palms grew hot, the carvings biting at her flesh. She cried out and wrenched herself away. The vision burst. The clearing returned.

She hit the ground hard. Pine needles jabbed her palms, and a dull ache radiated upward from her tailbone. The memory of what she’d experienced broke apart and fragmented, but small pieces remained.

“Serrin,” she whispered. She shifted, rocking forward onto her knees and plunging both hands into the ground. “Find the Queen’s Box. Find Serrin.” She pushed the words in like seeds, turning the missive into a vow.

CHAPTER EIGHT

WILLOW MADE HER way back toward town, the edges of reality still blurred.Serrin.Hewaswaiting for her. He yearned for her, just as she yearned for him. And... something else? Something urgent. She needed to find the Box. She needed to do it for Serrin.

She barely noticed the shift from forest to town until the cracked pavement of Main Street slapped against the soles of her sandals. The storefronts remained quiet and indifferent, dim windows staring blankly. But there—on the right—a squat little shop with a faded wooden sign: “Cutler’s Antiquities.”

Willow halted, heedful of the rustling in her veins. Within that nondescript store, she would find clues that would lead her to the Box. She knew it.

Inside, the air smelled of old paper and mothballs. Willow moved between the shelves, fingers trailing over tarnished silver and cracked porcelain. A taxidermy moose head stared at her from its wall mount, its glass eyes hauntingly vacant.

“Can I help you?” someone asked.

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