Page 27 of The Queen's Box

“By which I mean that it’s not a place you enter lightly.”

The pull of the forest cinched more tightly around Willow’s ribs. “I’m not enteringlightly. But I am entering. And I don’t need a chaperone.”

“Suit yourself,” Jefferson muttered, but Willow was already hastening away.

Branches crisscrossed above her, throwing shifting shadows, and the soft forest floor absorbed her footfalls. Everything felt hushed and expectant, and the farther she walked, the more the world she’d left behind—Atlanta, and even Hemridge—faded into a history lesson half-forgotten.

The trees thickened, then thinned and grew sparse as Willow stepped at last into a clearing. At its center stood a stump, smooth as polished bone. Her chest ached. She went to it and knelt, laying her hand atop it.

A shock ran through her like roots burrowing into her skin. Her vision wavered—here we go again—and then a flurry of images came at her hard and fast.

A ribcage swallowed by gnarled roots.

A tree stretching skyward.

A skull cradled in its branches.

These images came to her from a great distance, rushing forward like a tidal wave. They crashed over her and pulled her under.

And then—stillness.

She was elsewhere now, balanced on a trembling membrane between two worlds. One world was solid, busy, known. The other shimmered just beneath: the fae realm she recognized from dreams.

Before her was a box, the one from Wrenna’s story. The one that had swallowed the pastor whole.

Willow pressed her hands against it, and it shuddered. For a moment, nothing happened. Then came a gasp, soft and wet.

The lid began to creak open.

Panic surged. Willow tried to pull away, but her hands wouldn’t lift. She and the box had fused. Wood to flesh. Purpose to bone.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Where was Serrin? Why wasn’t he here? She wanted the boy she’d dreamed of to magically appear and assure her that all would be well. She wanted a world where kindness won—where any monsters were easily named and even more easily tamed.

“Shh,” said a voice.

Not Serrin. Not Wrenna. But the woman who’d appeared when Willow had been seven and touched the baby rattle. The woman who’d beckoned to her at the party, wordlessly asking:Will you stay, then? Stuck in this world forever?

The world of Atlanta, she’d meant—and Hemridge, too. The world where mortals lived rather than impossible beings like her.

She stepped into view, the woman, gowned in gossamer and crowned in silver thorns. Her black hair hung straight to her waist. She was regal, calm, inevitable.

“You’re here for my son, yes?” she said gently. She stroked Willow’s cheek, then circled behind her, lifting and playing with Willow’s blonde waves. “Serrin dreams of you. Every night.”

Willow’s panic slackened. Her breath eased. “He... does?” she whispered.

The woman’s fingers threaded through Willow’s hair. She began to braid, then unbraid. Her nails grazed Willow’s scalp, sending shivers down her spine.

“Where is he?” Willow asked. There was something desperate in her voice, something childlike.

“Shh.” The woman combed and stroked, stroked and combed. Willow’s thoughts stretched thin like warm taffy.

“Are you fae?” she blurted. “You are, aren’t you?”

“I am,” said the woman.

Willow tried to look back. “Are you... a queen?”

The woman pressed gently on her shoulders, keeping her facing forward. “I am Severine, Queen of Eryth.”

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