Page 96 of The Queen's Box

Willow read it as confirmation of all her fears. “What if she changes her mind? What if she decides I’m not suited for Serrin after all?”

“It’s not her decision, though, is it?”

“But the ceremony. The ritual. What if I’ve ruined everything?”

“The queen doesn’t choose. No one does.”

“No?”

Poppy shook her head. “That’s not how the ritual works.”

“Then how does it work? No one’s ever told me—not really.”

“It’s old magic,” Poppy said, her tone reverent. “Serrin will stand above the scrying basin—a great big thing, carved out of moonrock, deep as a well and always full. He’ll offer a drop of his blood, freely given, and the basin will show him his match. It’s as straightforward as that.”

“And he does this in front of everyone?” Willow asked. “There’s no one whispering in his ear, trying to convince him to speak another name?”

“Impossible,” Poppy said. “Everyone will be there: every noble, every diplomat, every steward and scribe. Me and Jace, too. We’ll all gather as witnesses. It’s the realm’s future, after all!”

“Oh,” Willow said. “That’s good, then.”

“Not one bad thing about it,” Poppy agreed.

Willow stared into her mug and imagined her face smiling up at Serrin from the scrying basin. Would she appear radiant and calm, her hair just so? Or would a great big smile break across her face? She imagined Serrin—the real Serrin, in the flesh—looking up from the basin and finding Willow in the crowd. Going to her. Reaching for her hand with awe on his face because fate had declared that she was for him and he for her.

And yet . . .

She finished her drink and set down the mug. “I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

Poppy frowned. “Oh no, you don’t, miss. Not through the mud again.”

“No, not through the mud,” Willow replied. “Just a stroll along the halls. I won’t be gone long.”

She stepped into the corridor and let the door ease shut behind her. Candles flickered low in their sconces. Tapestries rustled slightly with unseen drafts. She walked slowly, trailing her fingers along the carved stone walls.

Was this her home now? Was she meant to belong here?

She turned a corner and drew up short. She heard voices—two of them, low and urgent. She tiptoed forward and saw Jace speaking urgently to Maeve.

Willow froze. Her first instinct was to turn back, to give them privacy. But their serious expressions made her pause. She remembered the story Jace had told of how she’d stepped in when a lecherous guest had tried to force himself on Maeve.If I didn’t help her, who would?Jace had said.

Whatever they were discussing now—what if Willow could help?

To help, she’d have to know what they were up against, what they were discussing. But they’d shut down the second they saw her—she knew they would. Just like they had the last time she’d seen them sharing a private chat.

So . . . if she really wanted to help . . .

She pressed her palm to the wall and closed her eyes, remembering the first time she’d experienced the Fade. It had happened in Hemridge when she’d been desperate to escape those creepy deacons. She pulled up the memory as best she could. The shift. That subtle loosening at the edges of her body, like fabric soaking in water and becoming something else. The world tilting—not with force but an invitation.

This time, it wasn’t fear that opened the hinge. It was longing—not to escape but to witness.

A breath curled behind her ribs. Her fingers tingled. Then came the shimmer—not a visual thing exactly, but something behind her eyelids, like moonlight turned to thread. She reached for it, and the seams of the hall fell open.

She was in. The air around her softened, turned syrup-thick, and her breath no longer made a sound. She wasthere, and yet she wasn’t. A girl in a story, slipping between the pages. A breath caught between two verses of a hymn.

Ahead, in the shadowed alcove, Maeve shifted her weight. Jace ran a hand through her short curls and leaned in.

Willow crept forward, weightless as a dream.

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