Page 1 of Queen of Nothing

a little life

I remember the holiday on the French Riviera for a few reasons.

It was the last coven trip of the summer before I was to start at The Academy of Bluestone for the Education of Exceptional and Elite Society.

Mr Ström arrived with his daughters, but not his wife, who went off to visit her family in Aspen instead.

And Mr Barlow was in a sour mood the whole time because we—the Cravens, as well as the Sinclairs—chose not to stay at the Barlow’s estate of sprawling vineyards, but rather at a five-star hotel in the heart of Nice.

It was only a three-night trip, but I remember the day at the private beach best.

The memory is as clear as freshly cleaned glass, even after all this time.

The beach was a glaze of cream-hued parasols and loungers and deckchairs, all the way along the shore of pebbles and sand, up to the exclusive Mediterranean restaurant.

Mr Barlow spent the day by the bar, and that was great news for me, because he was out of the way. Landon was always more fun with his father out of the way.

And he sure was a lot of fun that day.

Together, we ran in and out of the waters, chasing the waves, running from them, kicking the sea at each other, and stacking pebbles into pyramids and walls.

But Mother called me back to her on the daybed so many times, over and over, that by the time I returned to play, he had already moved on with the others.

Every two hours, Mother applied sunscreen to me. She never let anyone else do it, not even the female servants, not even her dresser.

Under the shade of the canopy, Mother dragged the sunscreen over my arms and shoulders and down my back, so distractedly and harshly that I swayed with her movements.

Her attention was on Amelia, sprawled out on the daybed with her.

Amelia gestured to the private beach, where only the coven’s children ran. “Who in their right mind would choose poverty over wealth, confinement over experience, a small, little life over this?”

Mother’s handling of me was harsh. But unintentionally so. Amelia’s curt words held her attention, and so as she turned me around to face the sea, and started running sunscreen down my back, I bobbed with each forceful swipe.

I watched Oliver tackle Dray into a sandpit they’d spent all morning digging.

Amelia tutted, and the sharp sound wasn’t unlike her glacier eyes that she lifted to Mother over her sunglasses. “She brings the Ströms too close to disgrace with these antics of hers.”

“Well, Lana does come from gentry,” Mother whispered, and it furrowed my face under my sunhat because Mother came from gentry, too. But then she added, “She must be under some delusion that separate living is an option in aristos society.”

The discussion of Mrs Ström’s absence was juicy enough that I didn’t whine for Mother to hurry up.

Amelia scoffed a single, curt sound, a bitter almost-laugh, and it was lovely, it was silk, like the pearly coverup she wore. “She forgets herself and her place. To reject our traditions and our time together in favour of her family on another continent? So much ignorance in one act of disrespect.”

“It is her own fault. She chose terribly.” Mother tapped me on the head, like she wanted me to hear this next part, really hear it. “A woman should only ever marry a man who loves her more than she loves him.”

It invited me into the conversation. The gossip.

I turned to face them and, slowly, cautiously, climbed onto the edge of the daybed.

I wasn’t kicked off.

Amelia’s smile was slick around her words, “Lana heard ‘the founding family of Monaco’ and tripped over her rags to get there.”

Mother’s laugh was a bell caught in her throat. She tightened her mouth shut on it and slapped some sunscreen onto my face.

I squinted against the cold smears.

Amelia added, just as a waiter appeared and lowered fresh cocktails onto the side table, “No one told her the Ströms are broke.”