Page 69 of The Queen's Box

Cole found her hand, interlocking his fingers with hers. With a reassuring squeeze, he led her toward the stone steps that curved upward in a spiral.

“Ladies first,” he said when the passageway grew too narrow for the two of them to remain side by side.

Willow smirked. “How gallant.”

“I’m your guard,” he replied seriously. “‘Gallant’ is only the beginning.”

Willow wanted to thank him, the rough and sometimes rude man with such gentle eyes. He hadn’t asked to be the guarder of the Box. The guarder ofher. But when the question had beenissued, Cole had risen to the challenge like a true Arthurian knight.

Willow’s throat thickened. She couldn’t speak, not now. She placed her hand on his cheek and gave him a soft smile. Then, wearily, she turned and began the long climb back up into the light.

“What now?” Willow asked when they broke into daylight. The sun’s glare struck her in a thousand white-hot fists, searing her vision until it danced with afterimages. She raised a hand to shield her face.

Cole stood beside her, his silhouette crisp against the bleached sky. He swept his gaze over the desolate landscape of World’s End and said, “Now? Now we enjoy the day.”

She squinted at the crooked buildings, the tangled mess of tin and wood and smoke. Goats wandered freely between the houses, gnawing on laundry lines and knocking over rusted buckets. A few chickens scratched in the dirt beneath a sign that read “NO SOLICITORS. NOT EVEN YOU, JESUS.”

On a gatepost, someone had mounted a sun-bleached goat skull. It reminded Willow of the goat girl back in Lost Souls, the one with the flat, unblinking stare.

“How do you suggest we go about that?” she asked, her voice low.

“We start by finding something to eat.”

They made their way downhill, feet skidding on loose gravel. Cole led her through a maze of leaning porches, past oil drums and cracked windows stuffed with quilts. A kid sat on a stoop cleaning a rifle. He nodded as they passed.

Willow’s stomach grumbled, which was a good sign. She was still hungry. Still herself. She was a better version of herself than she’d been in a long time, actually.

Sure, she was wandering with a bunch of goats through a town called World’s End—but she wasliving. Not sulking inAtlanta. Not fixating on the unfairness of life or berating herself for believing Mr. Chapman’s pretty lies. Not scrubbing herself raw or cataloging every mistake she’d made.

Maybe she’d been a fool—but Mr. Chapman had been a predator. Predators preyed. But Willow, shewasn’tprey anymore, not his nor anyone else’s. She didn’t have to keep punishing herself for having been young and naive.

She also didn’t have to turn herself to stone to make sure she never got hurt again. Call it foolishness, call it faith, but even now, she clung to her belief in magic, in goodness, in the sharp, bright ache of hope. NotbecauseMr. Chapman had hurt her. Not as a means of escaping reality.

No, Willow clung to those beliefsdespitewhat Mr. Chapman had done to her. Her faith in Serrin—and her steadfast belief that she would succeed in journeying to Eryth and finding him—was a universe-sized “fuck you” to Mr. Chapman. And now it was time to let that asshole go.

Fuck you and goodbye. Willow was on to better things.

They came to a shadowed alley between two trailers. A faded Budweiser sign swung overhead, half the letters burned out. At the end of the alley was a bar of some sort. From within came the low thrum of banjos and country music.

Cole grinned and lifted his eyebrows. She shook her head in disbelief, and then she grinned back. Why not?

Mismatched tables crowded the dark room, some made of plywood laid over sawhorses. In the center of each table, a glass Coke bottle held wildflowers—daisies, goldenrod, a sprig of mint.

They seated themselves, and a woman approached their table—barefoot, with long brown braids. Her eyes flicked between them with interest.

“Y’all want the board?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” Cole said. “And two Cheerwines, if you’ve got them.”

The woman looked insulted. “Sweetheart. Do you even have to ask?”

“What’s ‘the board’?” Willow asked. “And what’s Cheerwine?”

“‘Ordering the board’ means getting a little bit of everything,” Cole said. “And Cheerwine? You haven’t heard of Cheerwine?”

Willow did her best imitation of their waitress’s indignant expression. “Sweetheart. Do you even have to ask?”

He laughed. “Cherry Coke but better. You’ll see.”

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