Page 15

The town thinned out, houses giving way to stretches of trees.

The pavement faded into packed dirt, the road narrowing and twisting as if drawn by some ancient, forgotten hand.

Ahead, stark against the encroaching wilderness, stood a weathered sign carved with deep, splintered letters: “Deadman’s Hollow. ”

Willow’s breath quickened, and a pull thrummed in her chest, steady and insistent. The forest wanted her.

“You sure you want to do this?” Jefferson said. His voice was just this side of skittish, though he tried to hide it, jamming his hands into his back pockets and hitting her with a folksy smile when she glanced his way.

“I’m sure,” she said.

“All right. Sure.” He caught her arm. “Just, this forest... it’s not like other forests.”

She yanked free. “Good.”

“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 entering lightly . 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.”

Willow blinked. “Then Serrin . . . he’s a prince.”

“ The prince,” Severine corrected, her fingers withdrawing from Willow’s hair. Immediately, Willow felt bereft.

“The prince,” Willow echoed. “Of course. Please forgive me, your...”—she gulped—“your highness.”

The stroking resumed. “There now. How dear you are, Willow. How special. Do you know that?”

A flicker crossed Willow’s mind—someone else had said that once. Mr. Chapman, murmuring praise like promises. But—no. Willow refused to let him taint everything.

Severine’s fingers brushed Willow’s temple, and Willow nodded. “Yes. Like Serrin.” She drew her eyebrows together. “Usually it’s him I see. Where is he?”

“He’s ill.”

“No!” cried Willow.

“Twelve years he’s been waiting for you. And twelve years is a long time... especially for a fae prince.”

“He’s sick because of me?”

“We don’t tolerate delay well, dear one. My Serrin is... languishing.”

Severine stepped around the box and moved to the other side of the dais. Her smile was soft enough to break hearts.

“Will you come to him soon?” she asked.

“Yes! Of course!” Willow tried to stand, but her hands were still stuck to the box, and the box refused to relinquish her. “Please—can’t I please come with you now?”

“But how?” Severine asked. “You haven’t found the Box.”

“The Box?” Willow looked down. Oh. This box.

“You cannot come to Serrin until you find the Box. I thought you understood.”

Willow’s face crumpled. “I do. I—I will. I’m sorry.”

Severine’s eyes held hers. She reached out and touched Willow’s heart. “Remember here.” Then she touched Willow’s forehead. “Forget here.”

Then Severine lifted both arms and began to stretch. Her spine arched. Her limbs grew long and skeletal. The trees fell away beneath her. Her voice echoed from above:

“Find the Box, dear girl.”

The wood beneath Willow’s palms grew hot, the carvings biting at her flesh. She cried out and wrenched herself away. The vision burst. The clearing returned.

She hit the ground hard. Pine needles jabbed her palms, and a dull ache radiated upward from her tailbone. The memory of what she’d experienced broke apart and fragmented, but small pieces remained.

“Serrin,” she whispered. She shifted, rocking forward onto her knees and plunging both hands into the ground. “Find the Queen’s Box. Find Serrin.” She pushed the words in like seeds, turning the missive into a vow.