Page 90 of The Queen's Box

This time, her hands slipped easily into the pond. Her fingers groped, stretching and seeking, before closing around something warm and furred, heavier than a bird by far.

She positioned her hands beneath it as if scooping a child from sleep. It shifted, heavier than she’d expected.

She pulled it free—a goat just like the one on the leash made of string. Maybe exactly the one on the leash made of string. Its rough fur clung to its emaciated frame, every rib jutting. Its legs dangled, limp and awkward, and its sodden ears drooped.

Goats were meant to be stubborn, scrappy things, all hooves and fight. This one simply sagged, limp as a rag.

“Beautiful,” Severine murmured, stepping closer. Her voice was reverent. “Very few mortals could have done that. But you are not like most mortals, are you?”

She reached for the goat, but Willow twisted sideways.

“I’ll give it to you,” she said, her voice only slightly wobbly, “but only if you tell me when the Mating Ceremony is.”

The warmth in Severine’s smile thinned. “It is tiresome, Willow, this lack of trust.”

“I want to know the exact date,” Willow said. “Not ‘soon.’ Not ‘when the time is right.’ If it’s a ceremony, then it requires planning, doesn’t it? Preparation? You know when it will be, so tell me.”

Severine’s gaze drifted to the goat.

“You said he needs me,” Willow pressed.

“He does.”

“I need him, too,” she said. “And if I can’t have him yet, then give me something. Please. To hold onto.”

Severine steepled her hands beneath her chin. “If you must know, the Mating Ceremony is in one week.”

Willow’s heart jumped.

“I do wish you had trusted me,” Severine went on, her voice touched with the sorrow of a hostess robbed of her surprise. “There is joy in anticipation. In faith.” She held out her arms. “Well, give me the goat.”

Willow smoothed her giddy joy into something more composed, something worthy of a future queen, and passed the goat into Severine’s waiting arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

FOR THE NEXT three days, Willow drew a living creature from the pond each morning—once a possum, once a dog, and once another goat. All of the animals were from Lost Souls, she was certain of it, though how that worked, she didn’t know. Perhaps the pond pulled from wherever she had been most recently. Perhaps it pulled from her heart.

Willow tried not to think about Lost Souls. Not the clean green scent of the forest. Not Brooxie’s full-bodied laugh nor the fond smile Ruby saved for Cole alone. And certainly not Cole himself, with his maddening smirks and sweet determination to protect her, as if she were incapable of taking care of herself.

Willow also refused to think about the animals once she handed them over. She didn’t want to know how they were killed or cooked or served. Blood no longer held her fascination the way it once had.

And so, for a time, her life unfolded like a delicious dream. Willow woke to the scent of fruit and toasted tipaninnies, the morning light spilling into her chamber through panes of colored glass. Each day brought a new garment folded at the foot of her bed, a new ribbon braided into her hair, a new meal arranged like art on a plate of hammered silver. She moved through the palace like a beloved guest in a storybook—expected but not imposed upon, smiled at by all.

Poppy fussed over her endlessly. Her favorite hobby was experimenting with Willow’s hair, twisting it into ever more elaborate shapes and anchoring it with beaded combs and—once, disastrously—tiny silver bells. They had chimed with every movement, and Willow had yanked them free.

“Sorry, Poppy,” Willow had said. “They’re just not for me.”

In the evenings, Jace appeared with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. She never stayed long—just enough to lean against the doorframe and exchange a few wry observations about court politics or the latest spectacle in the plaza.

“Did you see the goose parade this morning?” she asked one evening. “Eight geese in formal waistcoats. I’m worried they’re becoming more fashionable than I am.”

“Wouldn’t take much,” Willow observed.

Jace snorted and lobbed a tasseled pillow at her head.

One evening, Willow caught sight of Jace with Maeve in the hallway. They stood close together, whispering. Jace was tapping her spoon against her palm, nodding intently, and Maeve’s eyes shone with something that looked almost like hope. The moment they saw Willow, they straightened.

“Miss, this is Maeve,” Jace said, shoving her spoon back behind her ear. “Maeve, this is...” Jace bit her lip uncertainly, as if unsure whether she was allowed to speak Willow’s name.

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