Page 104 of Queen of Nothing

Still, it looks like him. The glasses, the sullenness, the acne scars, the crooked nose, the overall mousiness.

I pass him without a word, then stalk by Mr Younge and the redheaded man.

Mr Younge looks up as I pass, and his eyes narrow.

I make a face right back at him.

Then I march straight for Oliver.

He’s closer to Father now, but they don’t talk.

Oliver’s eyes are shut, and Father has his elbow propped up on the spine of the couch, his head fallen back, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Lashes shut, he doesn’t sleep, but he is resting.

I have a gut-wrenching realisation that this could be the first time in years that he can rest properly. Not thinking about me anymore, out there on the run, causing scandals for the family that they have to patch up with an illusioned, well-married Asta.

I snub Father and nudge Oliver on the leg with my dirty, worn sneakers.

He opens his forest eyes.

And he lets a small smile ghost over his lips.

I blink, and it’s gone.

A crack in the mask.

Oliver slips off the couch with a grace I wish my body remembered. Since they found me, I’ve felt like a bull around them, a stumbling, fumbling krum.

That feeling is magnified as Oliver swipes a hand down the front of his shirt, smoothing out the creases, and he makes to speak—

But I shake my head and silence him.

I don’t want to disturb Father.

Not for his own wellbeing, but for mine.

If he opens his eyes right now and sees me standing here, it might unleash years of anger—and all I want to do in this moment is hide.

I fix a pleading look up at Oliver.

And before I can say anything, his mouth curves into a smile, like he knows exactly what I’m doing, which manipulation tactic I’m dusting off.

I mouth the word, ‘Bed.’

He nods once, then slips by me.

I follow him back down to the armchairs.

The soft lights above warm his chestnut hair. It was properly groomed back at the loft, combed into place. But now it looks as though he’s ran his fingers through it too many times, and it’s a little dishevelled.

He takes me to the back of the plane, passing Dray who doesn’t look up from his phone as he types texts or emails.

The door opens to a small lobby of a few doors.

All blackwood and lacquered.

Oliver leads the way through the one across the lobby, and into a bedroom that’s larger than the loft I left behind.