Page 9 of The Queen's Box

“Shut up!” Willow cried. “I don’t—” She shook her head. “Just shut up!”

“Let me guess,” Ash said. “Only you can see him because you’respecial. Classic superiority complex.”

“If anyone has a superiority complex, it’s you,” Willow shot back. “If something’s not up to your standards, you dismiss it. If you can’t control it? Same thing. You say it’s not good enough, and out it goes.”

“You think I control things?” Ash’s eyebrows flew up. “No, I plan. I think. I prepare. You talk big, Willow. And you dream big, sure. But you never actuallydoanything.”

“You saw Mom’s face the day she found us with the rattle. She knew something was up. She knew I’d seen something.”

“She saw the same thing I did—a seven-year-old playing pretend.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, Willow,youare. To yourself, so you can keep playing Little Lost Girl and never face reality.”

A creak made Willow turn. Ash must have heard it, too, because Willow heard her inhale. Together, they looked at the oil painting on the wall—once straight but now tilted, its frame rasping as it swung back and forth before settling askew.

For a second, Ash’s lips parted, and Willow could have sworn that uncertainty flashed in her eyes.

Then she reset her stance, squaring her shoulders like a challenge.

“Go on, then. Do your thing and hide.” Ash flicked her hand toward the library. “It’s what you’re best at, after all.”

CHAPTER THREE

WILLOW SLIPPED INTO the library and closed the door behind her, exhaling into the silence. The room should have been a relief—cool, quiet, untouched by the party—but tonight, it felt like a gilded cage.

With a growl, Willow kicked the velvet sofa. She kicked it again, harder.

“Magicisreal,” she muttered. “I don’t care what Ash says.”

A chuckle cut through the dark. Willow jumped, her heart leaping into her throat. From the sofa—the one she’d just attacked—Miriam Candler pushed herself upright, stretching her arms with deliberate ease.

“Is violence against furniture customary for young ladies these days?” she asked.

Willow stumbled backward, slapping at the wall until she found the light switch. A golden glow flooded the room, illuminating Miriam, who looked amused.

“How long have you been here?” Willow demanded. “Have you been sitting here the whole time?”

Miriam patted the cushion beside her. “I have. Won’t you join me?”

Willow crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re that folklorist lady who wanted to see my mom’s journals.”

Miriam’s gaze sharpened. “So she did keep journals. Can you show me where they are?”

“What? No! And... no again.” This lady was crazy if she thought Willow was going to go around pulling out all the family skeletons. “Yousaid she kept journals. Not me.”

Miriam gave a light shrug, the sort that said,Oh well, worth a try.

“Why are you still here?” Willow said.

Miriam regarded Willow thoughtfully. “I was hoping to talk to you, actually.”

“Me? No.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

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