Page 106 of Queen of Nothing

And I nod.

Oliver lets my hand go.

He digs into his trouser pocket and lures out a small phial, no bigger than my pinkie nail.

He hands it to me, then leaves.

17

The attendant wakes me less than an hour before landing. I change back into my clothes, wipe myself with a hot towel, brush my teeth in the bathroom, and down a coffee.

Two Rolls-Royces are waiting for us on the tarmac.

I’m ushered into the car—and, like the jet, the old has been pushed out for the new.

The rear of the car is still four creamy leather seats opposite one another, surrounded by privacy screens and tinted windows, but there isn’t a scuff on any part of the leather.

Like the previous Royces, it’s probably custom made.

Oliver and Father take the seats backed against the privacy screen. They settle and buckle in.

Father doesn’t look at me, and I’m starting to wonder if he can’t bring himself to.

That leaves the chair beside me open.

Dray takes it.

I guess the henchmen take the other car.

I settle in for the afternoon drive.

I’m still a little tired but the brew worked a charm; it gave me a solid sleep without any tossing and turning.

So, I feel at least rested as the Royce comes off the highway, and the sky is starting to darken into twilight.

I glance at Dray’s watch as we’re driving past Stonehenge, and being almost eight o’clock, I’m not surprised my stomach is rumbling.

After my sleep on the plane, my mind is tricked into thinking it’s time for breakfast. But it’s way past dinnertime in England. If anything, it’s suppertime—that light meal before bed.

The sky is only just now turning into the pinks and purples of twilight. Summer in England means the sun sets late, between 9PM and 10PM, and so I’m hoping I’ll be given some supper before…

Before what?

Father might banish me straight to my room and lock me away and toss the key into the Thames.

Mother might take one look at me, decide I’m too fat and immediately impose the strictest diet on me possible.

I have no idea what to expect at Elcott Abbey.

No clue of what I’m walking into.

Mother might hate me, now.

She might ignore me, banish me, disown me.

What if she accepts me home, but never looks at me again—and Father?

He hasn’t looked at me, not since the carpark behind the loft.