Page 148 of Queen of Nothing

Oliver draws away from the mantel and, coming around the edge of the chaise, drops onto the coffee table.

Facing me, he takes my hands in his, careful with the bandaged one.

“Whatever you think you understand,” he tells me, soft, gentle, “I promise you, you don’t. This goes so much farther than your deadblood—”

I shove forward, my teeth baring around the words, “It isn’t dead. It isn’t magic at all. It is krum.”

“No.” Father breathes the word with so much despair that I blink at him, at the harrowed expression slacking his face. “You are no krum, Olivia.”

I falter at his sincerity. The truth I see in his pained, glistening eyes. Like he’s on the verge of crying—for me.

Oliver’s hands tighten around mine.

I wince, and his apology is a murmur before his grip softens.

My breath trembles with the ache spreading in my chest, “What is going on?”

His mouth twists, and for a long moment, he can’t bring himself to look at me.

“I saw the blood myself. I saw it.”

But I see no lie in the way Oliver looks at me, tired, exhausted, but hurt, too.

He exhales, his mouth puffing, then he drops his forehead to my hands.

Father turns his face away, hiding it in his hand, elbow now planted on the arm of the chair—but I see what he’s hiding.

His tears.

Father weeps.

Dread spills deep and heavy in my gut.

I squirm against it, an unwelcome intrusion, and unpeel my basketed legs. I flatten my feet on the rug.

I echo, “What is going on?”

“You are not a krum.” Oliver’s murmur is muffled by our connected hands—and it is reluctant. “You were born a witch. We both were.”

I shake my head, cheeks wet, and a loose strand of hair sticks to the tears.

Father whooshes out another breath, then runs his hand down his jaw. “The firstborn of twins is often the strongest of the pair. That is the case with you and your brother.”

I nod, mute, because I know.

Oliver was born first.

I always thought he ate up my magic in the womb. Or at least I wondered.

Oliver kisses my hands, then straightens his spine—and his wet forest eyes meet mine.

His throat bobs, a swallow so thick that I hear it.

But I almost don’t hear his words—words that echo around me.

“You were born first, Olivia. You were born strongest.”

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