Page 51 of The Queen's Box

Cole crossed his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits and out of sight. “I used to think the only thing that mattered was truth. Dig out the rot. Force people to see it.”

Willow glanced at him. “But?”

“But sometimes a person doesn’t need to be shown the rot. They’re already living in it. Sometimes all they need is a little blue sugar stick that tells them they matter, just for a second.”

The lump was back in Willow’s throat, lodged so tightly it hurt.

Cole exhaled. “Shall we?” he asked, jerking his head at the last of the falling-down structures. It was a sagging house at the end of the trail, its porch half-swallowed by honeysuckle.

They picked their way down the path and up the rickety porch steps. There were bones nailed above the door—small ones, maybe bird or maybe rabbit—stripped clean and tied with red thread in a crisscross pattern. A rusted coffee can hung from the eaves, filled with what looked like dried beans and ash. Beside the doorframe, someone had smeared a handprint in dark clay, then pressed in a handful of animal teeth. Willow hoped they were animal teeth.

Cole knocked on the door. Then he stepped back and waited, his mouth a grim line.

The door swung open, and Cole took Willow’s hand and led her inside. The squalor of the settlement fell away, and Willow drew in an astonished breath. The interior of Amira’s house was far larger than the exterior had suggested, and the walls and the ceiling extended wider and higher than they had any right to.

She released Cole’s hand and stepped forward. Outside, the sun had been merciless, beating down with sweltering intensity. But inside Amira’s house, the light was golden and diffused. Stained glass lanterns hung from the ceiling, and Willow held out her arms and moved through the pools of color that puddled on the floor. Her pale hands turned amber, then cobalt, then emerald.

All the while, the loveliest music whispered at the edges of her awareness. The song came from no visible source but seemed instead to emanate from the very walls.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she said to Cole.

“Isn’t what lovely?”

“The music!”

“What music?”

He didn’t hear it, she realized. Perhaps the music was meant only for her, another sign that she was different, special—chosen.

She turned her attention to the objects displayed throughout the room. On a polished wooden table was a collection of stones arranged in a circle. Next to the stones was a jar of clear liquid. Suspended within was something that resembled a human hand. Its swollen fingers pressed against the glass, and Willow turned away.

Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, handwritten labels identifying them as sage, wormwood, mandrake, and belladonna. Crystals of various sizes sat by tarot decks in tidy piles. Nowhere, however, did Willow spot the Queen’s Box.

“It’s not here,” she told Cole.

She felt the heat of him as he leaned in from behind. “I don’t see it, either. But Willow, nothing here is what it seems. Remember that.”

A voice rang out from the recesses of the room. “Well, hello. Who is this lovely visitor who has found her way to me?”

A woman emerged from the shadows, middle-aged and graceful, with the posture of a ballerina. She wore dark lipstick and a musky perfume, and a gold coin flickered between her fingers, catching the light as it moved from knuckle to knuckle.

“Amira, this is Willow,” Cole said. “Willow, Amira.”

Amira dipped her head. “You’ve come a long way only to complain that I don’t have what you’re looking for.”

Willow swallowed. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“You’re disappointed. I understand. But you have no need to be.” She smiled. “It’s my job to grant wishes, some would say. The Box you’re seeking? I know all about it.”

Willow’s heart leaped. “Is it here? Can I buy it from you? I brought money!”

Amira laughed. In her slim fingers, the coin kept moving. “It’s not money I want.”

“Then what?”

“Would you steal in order to have it, if stealing was required?”

“What? No!”

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