Page 30 of Queen of Nothing

I trace her stare all the way to—a log.

No, not a log. The tyres roll over dirt, and we get closer to the random, out-of-place sprouting of a tree trunk.

Just one.

And, even more strange, the stump is rich with healthy, green moss growing over it.

A derisive, tired smile snakes over my lips. “She lives in the stump?”

Serena rolls her eyes back for a moment. “We drive around it once—and when we do, we say ‘refuge’, ok?”

Apparently a little humour isn’t welcome.

My tongue lolls around the insides of my cheeks. I don’t answer, but when we do drive around the stump, I say it with her.

We come back to the tyre tracks and look ahead as a mirage starts to glimmer on the horizon.

But this mirage turns out to be very real when it takes the shape of a wooden house—and Serena starts driving towards it.

The house is poorly made. The wood is pale, it’s three stories tall, and I worry about it collapsing just by looking at it.

More love went into the creation of the fenced-off gardens circling the house than the actual house.

I keep that thought to myself. Serena’s been a right pain so far, and I don’t think criticising the property is going to thaw her.

I bite down on my tongue—even as I spot her, the witch standing at the front of the house.

Isabella’s cousin?

She could pass as her sister.

That long dark hair sits over her shoulder in a frazzled plait that should be messy but is actually charming, especially with the smile that beams at us from her pretty, angular face.

And like Isabella, she has those curves. The kind of silhouette that snatched Desmond, an aristos bachelor from the Coven of Europe, with one hell of a print, when he should have married better.

But the difference between Sofía and Isabella is more than a husband. It’s vibes, too.

Sofía’s smile is warmer. Truer. Even if it makes me think of a Cheshire cat.

In slacks and a top, a linen set, and barefoot, Sofía stands a mirror of Isabella if Isabella was more in touch with the earth and less in touch with Dior.

That smile alone should welcome me—or at least make me feel more comfortable.

But there’s a weight spreading in my gut, like liquid metal, and I feel pinned to the seat as the car stops at the front porch.

Serena rams the stick into park, then gets out of the car.

With the metallic dread ribboning through me, I move slower, but I force myself to follow her lead.

The air has that dry heat I suffer whenever we visit Dubai, that stagnant heat with no relief, and it’s hard to breathe.

It’s a desert here, too.

My sneakers flatten on the earth, and it’s so dehydrated that cracks are splintering off in every direction.

Sofía flattens her hand above her eyes like a visor. “Come on in, before we cook out here.”

On the other side of the car, Serena moves for the door to the backseats, then tugs out the bags.