Page 126 of Queen of Nothing

Guess she didn’t get the chance.

It’s meant to be worn as a representation of the Cravens on my wedding day. My groom would wear his family crest on his cufflinks.

But there’s no groom, no wedding day, and no tiara to admire—and honestly, I’m not so sure Grandmother Ethel was ever going to hand it over.

I might have to pry it out of her strong, spidery hands if the time comes.

If.

One giant if.

I’m not exactly in the courting pool anymore. I don’t see my wedding day on the horizon.

I’ve been gone too long.

I’m a spinster now, even though I’m only twenty-six. All my peers will be married. The soon-to-be graduates will already have their offers and contracts locked in. And that leaves me to the widowers.

So I’m the spinster sister who will live at Elcott Abbey—unless Father’s disappointment reaches so deep into his festering soul that he discards me to live with Nonna or Grandmother Ethel.

I feel a slight wedge of disappointment.

“Miss Olivia.”

Startled, I fling my gaze to the door.

Abigail has lifted a pin to my bubble of daydreaming, and popped it. Dressed in plain servant breeches and a waistcoat, her scarlet hair pulled into a bun, she stands patiently in the doorway.

I blink at her, like I’m only remembering her entire existence right now in this very moment, and it’s an odd mess in my head to have it all rushing back to me.

She looks much the same as I last saw her.

Time hasn’t been as kind to me.

I don’t need to look at myself in the gold framed mirror on the wall to know that.

My greeting isn’t formal—or kind.

I look her up and down then, with a scoff, turn my cheek to her.

Abigail keeps her gaze downcast, her hands clasped properly at her midsection.

I haven’t forgotten. It’s all rushing back to me now, her betrayal.

She handed over the deadblood book to Mr Younge. My father was furious, cut me out of the New Year celebrations, and my mother even struck me.

The anger that’s stirring in me at the sight of her feels ancient and ugly.

I turn my cheek to her. “Run me a bath.” My tone is curt and sharp, and rife with old resentment. “And the room is cold.”

The imps should have been up in my room to light the fire in the hearth before I got in.

I don’t see her bow, but there’s a pause before her bootsteps leave the walk-in. A few moments pass before I hear the familiar rush of bathwater.

I pick out the only pieces that I think will fit me. Loose bed shorts, a cotton strappy top that is stretchable enough, and a pair of thick socks.

I follow the sound of the running bathwater into the ensuite and walk into a room of steam.

I don’t like the fan on while I’m in the tub. It brings a draught in. And just because Abigail remembers that doesn’t mean I’ll warm to her.