Page 103 of The Queen's Box

“Then you really do mean it? You’ll build it for me—and you’ll carve it from the Stillwood Tree?”

Orrin’s brow furrowed. “No other tree will do? The Stillwood Tree... you know what people say.”

Wrenna’s eyes flooded with tears, and her chin wobbled in a way that Willow recognized. Wrenna was an actress, too. A good one.

“Those old rumors?” Wrenna said vehemently, twisting away from him. “If you don’t want to, just say so. And anyway, I don’t care what people say! Why should I? They don’t care about me!”

Orrin’s face went ashen. “Wrenna, don’t cry. Wrenna, please.” He fumbled for her. She pulled away.

“I thought you loved me. I really did!”

“Idolove you. More than the world. And little Lark? I love her like she’s my own.” He managed to turn Wrenna around, and once he did, he took her chin between his thumb and fingers and tilted her face upward. She was more lovely in her tearstained state than anyone had the right to be.

Orrin wasn’t handsome, but he was true and steady, and he was head over heels for Wrenna. Any fool could see that.

“I’ll make the box—”

“The hope chest,” Wrenna corrected, widening her eyes.

“Yes, my love.” His expression strengthened with resolve. “I’ll make it out of whatever tree you want, and I’ll carve all thepretty drawings, just like you described. I’ll make it exactly how you want it.”

Wrenna made a sound of joy and flung her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, kissing the top of her head again and again. In his expression, Willow saw wonder and wild happiness at the miracle that Wrenna, so full of passion and fire, wanted to be his wife.

Willow slipped sideways, and the world flew by. She saw Orrin—not the pastor but Orrin—with an axe slung over his back. The Stillwood Tree loomed over him, majestic and eternal. Sacred. Its roots pushed up through the ground like ribs. Its branches brushed the sky.

No,Willow cried soundlessly.

Orrin raised his axe. “For her.”

The first crack rang like thunder.

The second deepened the cut, and bark went flying.

The third brought with it a low, long moan, like the tree, too, wanted more for Orrin than this. When it finally gave way, the crash was catastrophic, something sacred cleaved in two.

Now Orrin was in a workshop, sleeves rolled up, his face damp with sweat. He bent over great slabs of wood that were as smooth and pale as bone and carved Wrenna’s designs into the grain. Spirals and keys and eyes frozen wide. A pomegranate tree lush with fruit. A serpent twining round and round its massive trunk.

Orrin bled three times while carving. Shallow nicks on the fingers, a scrape across the back of the hand. The wood drank it all.

The final scene came fast. Wrenna stood in her cabin, dressed in white. Her hair was unbound. Her eyes were feverishly bright. In front of her sat the Box. She’d been there allalong.Shewas the one pulling the strings, not the bastard of a pastor and certainly not lovesick Orrin.

Orrin ran his hand over the lid. “Do you like it, then?”

“Orrin, my love, it’s perfect,” said Wrenna.

He smiled bashfully. “It’s yours.”

“I want you to try it,” she said. “Oh, would you?”

He blinked. “Try it?”

“Lie inside it, just for a moment.”

Orrin laughed uneasily. “I don’t much like the sound of that. It would feel like climbing into a coffin.”

Her smile didn’t falter.

He laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck.

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