Page 115 of Queen of Nothing

Never thought of all the people in my life that it would be Grandmother Ethel I missed.

I guess I missed home so much that I started feeling wistful about everyone.

I can’t explain it. I just know it to be true as I withstand her hollow bottle-green stare.

Her mouth purses and she looks me over. Then she just hums a curt response.

“Inside, girl, before the soup gets cold.”

18

Normally for dinner, I would change into more appropriate attire.

It’s an old habit that only rings through me now, a habit that has been dormant for years. But the reminder clangs in my bones as I’m escorted through the foyer by Mother and Amelia.

Amelia, in her silk dress that is far too much for this reunion, and more suited to a dinner on the sandy beaches of the Amalfi Coast.

Mother is little better, with a fitted black dress, cotton I think, and I wonder if I missed a scorcher of day in England but that it’s cooler now that it’s night.

But still, I am wearing jeans and a sweater that’s too small on me, and shows too much of my midriff.

Grandmother leads the way to the lacquered doors, held open by suited footmen, and I feel even more underdressed.

Her simple black ensemble—shirt and slacks and dress shoes—are all Chanel. She keeps it sleek and simple. Elegant. Plain to the untrained eye, and lightly decorated with a pearl necklace and a gold watch.

The brands come back to me, so effortlessly identifiable just with a look.

And I am suddenly hot with shame, my bargain bin clothes scratching and crinkling too loudly as I follow grandmother to the dining hall.

Asta doesn’t walk with us.

She hangs back at the foot of the staircase, her eyes on me.

There’s nothing to that stare, no hatred, nothing warm or cold.

She’s just watching me.

Like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do, if anything.

But it’s not like I’m going to rush at her and resume that fight from the academy.

It was years ago, first of all.

Secondly, she mopped the floor with me.

I don’t plan on getting knocked around again.

And she’s pregnant.

So pregnant she could apparently not fit into anything other than the horrendous, floral print stretchy dress that clings to her—and makes her look so much bigger around the belly.

Asta forgets me the moment footsteps come into the foyer from the courtyard.

The slightest relaxation softens the stiffness in her slender shoulders, like a ribbon pulled taut but it releases just an inch of tension.

I pause at the dining room entrance, and look back as the others come in.

Father and Dray move for us.