Page 13 of The Queen's Box

“Deadman’s Hollow?”

“A place in the forest where Blue and Evie used to meet. There was a river there once, good for swimming, but it dried up after Blue crossed from our world to her own. Some say it was Evie’s grief that did it. That the river flowed and flowed, like Evie’s tears, and that when Evie died, the river died, too. Others—and this is more of a scholarly opinion, I should say—suggest that it was Blue’s crossing that changed the land. That a rift like that, born of such sorrow, will always leave a mark.”

Willow pressed her lips together. She wasn’t interested in rifts born of sorrow, rifts that insisted on leaving their mark.

“Folks now—they say it’s cursed,” Miriam said. “Deadman’s Hollow. But Wrenna didn’t believe them, or maybe she just didn’t care. Maybe she thought the curse didn’t apply to her, and maybe she was right. At any rate, she’d gather the ingredients she needed and bring them back to her little house in town, where she’d mix them, crush them, whisper over them... no one really knows.”

“Because she didn’t tell them,” Willow said. “I wouldn’t, either.”

“The thing is,” Miriam said slowly, “Wrenna’s potions worked.”

“Um, that’s a good thing.”

“You think so? I do, too. But it gave the people of Hemridge all the more reason to shun her. They branded her as ‘different.’ They warned their children to stay far away. That same old tired story.”

Miriam sank into the sofa. “It’s a vicious cycle, isn’t it? Love can heal most anything. But someone who grows up without love...” She studied Willow. She really, really took her in, or at least that was how it felt. “Hurt people hurt people.”

Willow rolled her eyes. Some people turned their pain into a weapon, sure. But not everyone. Some people, after being hurt, just... shut down. Retreated. Wore jingle bell skirts to try and reclaim themselves, only to duck into the library and hide while the rest of the world spun on without them.

She curled her toes against the soles of her sandals. Serrin.Serrin.

He was out there.

She. Would. Find him.

“The people of Hemridge rejected Wrenna, so Wrenna rejected them in return,” Miriam said.

Willow dragged herself back to the present. “How so?”

“The usual ways. She was short with them, even haughty. The townspeople called her ‘uppity’ because she didn’t lower her eyes and say ‘yes, ma’am,’ ‘no ma’am,’ ‘whatever you say, ma’am.’”

“Good for her,” Willow said.

Miriam lifted her eyebrows.

Willow’s cheeks grew warm, but she held Miriam’s gaze and lifted her own brows in return.

Miriam looked away first. “I suppose that’s why no one wanted to listen when she told them what happened.”

Willow’s heart beat faster in a way she didn’t like, and a cold, sick feeling spread through her stomach. “Which was?”

“She was walking home from Deadman’s Hollow after spending the day gathering herbs. She was hot, sweaty, tired.” Miriam’s lips twisted wryly. “The pastor of the church pulled up and offered her a ride—and she said yes. She climbed into his car.”

Stars popped and fizzled at the edge of Willow’s vision.

“The pastor took Wrenna back into Deadman’s Hollow, where the Stillwood Tree grew tall and strong.” Miriam’s gaze went distant, and her voice took on an eerie, singsong quality. “Sometimes it hummed, the Stillwood Tree. Sometimesit whispered. ‘Leave,’ it said. ‘You are not welcome here.’” She rocked where she sat, a gentle back and forth, and her eyes seemed to fill with fog. “‘Leave now, before the shadows grow teeth. Leave, or the forest will claim you for its own.’”

Willow’s queasiness grew, and she felt herself begin to drift away from the world. It was as if her body’s atoms let go of one another all at once. They stretched and strained and separated, and Willow wondered if she, like Miriam, was filled with fog. Or maybe she was the fog?

Miriam slapped her palms against her thighs, and the pop of sound snapped Willow back into herself. She glanced down and was surprised by the fact of her flesh and bones. She plucked at her skirt, pinching the fabric and releasing it. A tiny silver bell chimed a tiny silver chime.

“As for Wrenna...” Miriam said grimly. “Well, you know already. It’s written plain as day across your face. She fought the pastor. She kicked him and clawed at him and screamed till her throat was raw. But there was no one to hear her out there in thosehauntedwoods.” The emphasis she gave the word was bitter and resigned.

“Just as the pastor planned it,” Willow said hollowly.

“Just as the pastor planned it,” Miriam said. Her eyes were hard now. The fog had dispersed. “Wrenna stumbled back into town with her clothes torn and her face streaked with dirt and tears, but no one wanted to believe her when she told them what had happened. ‘Not the pastor,’ they said. ‘He’s a good man. He would never.’”

Not Mr. Chapman. He’s a good man. Oh, Willow, perhaps you misread the situation?

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