Page 58 of The Queen's Box

“You’ve got that one to thank,” Ruby said, jerking her chin toward Cole.

“Why?” asked Willow.

Ruby chuckled. “Old Jed Wallace brought us three rabbits to thank our Cole here for cleanin’ out his sump pump yesterday. Nasty work.”

“Wait,” Willow said. She tried to remember what a sump pump was. Did she know what a sump pump was? Something nasty. Something for human waste. “That’s why you smelled so bad?”

Cole lifted an eyebrow.

She cringed. “You said ‘muddin’.’ I assumed . . .”

Cole leaned back in his chair. “Where to start? With what happens when you assume something or with what muddin’ is?”

“But you said—”

“Princess, I never said anything. That was all you.”

Willow set her spoon down. “Okay, I admit it. That was me being snobby.”

“Damn straight.”

“But your bootsreallystank.”

“That they did.”

Willow tried to hold it back but failed. She laughed and hid her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, peeking up at him.

He tilted his head and grinned, easy and generous. “You’re forgiven. But you owe me.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WILLOW AND COLE returned to Amira’s shop bright and early the next morning. Cole led the way, moving with the confident stride of someone who belonged, while Willow trailed half a step behind. She’d dreamed of Serrin during the night—perfect and achingly untouchable—but also of wings. Of something vast and green and waiting.

And now Amira was waiting, too. She looked up when they pushed through the door, her gaze sweeping over Willow. “Good. You’re ready.”

Was she? Willow wasn’t sure. Still, she allowed Amira to lead her to the corner of the room where the dried herbs hung overhead. The scrying bowl sat where it had before, already full.

Amira gestured to the stool. “Sit.”

Willow sat. She didn’t flinch when Amira took her hand and pricked her finger with the needle.

A bead of blood welled up—dark red and shiny—and Amira moved Willow’s hand over the bowl. The droplet fell, breaking the water’s surface like ink unfurling through silk. The ripples spread. The water darkened.

“Eryth,” Amira murmured. “Eryth, Eryth.”

Eryth? The word took up residence in Willow’s mind, pressing against something she almost—almost—remembered. Before she could grasp it, her thoughts unspooled, and she was falling, tumbling, flying to somewhereother.

Eryth. Of course!

Around her, the air was golden and soft. Moss spread soft as velvet, and trees stretched high. A river cut through the landscape, its surface covered with petals, as if some unseen hand had strewn them into the water as an offering.

The sky was shifting and endless, threaded through with veins of silver light. Willow breathed in and smelled rain and soil. She brushed the leaves of a low-hanging vine. They curled in pleasure at her touch.

“Look for a duskwyrm,” a voice commanded. Amira. “Do you see any duskwyrms?”

Willow heard her as if through a fog, and then, as if Amira had summoned it, an actual fog appeared, shifting and twining for several moments before settling into a solid form: a serpent as slender as a ribbon that moved like poured silk, its body leaving faint trails of gold dust in its wake. A duskwyrm? Was that what this living jewel was called?

From the forest, more duskwyrms emerged, slipping through the undergrowth like twists of emeralds, sapphires, and garnets. They wove between roots and low ferns, their bodies scattering color like shattered glass.

---