Chapter 8

For the first time in her life, Q felt the weight of how others saw her.

It wasn't like her to care about appearances. She'd always prided herself on not letting people's opinions bother her—those who cared about her wouldn't judge, and those who judged weren't worth caring about. But here, in this glittering room, surrounded by girls who looked like they had stepped out of a fairytale, she felt painfully out of place.

Maddy's expression burned into her memory, a mixture of shame and horror. The way her eyes had lingered on Q's patched skirt, her scuffed boots, the mud stains under her nails—it was as if she couldn't bear to look at her.

Q swallowed hard, her throat tightening as she glanced down at herself.

Her apron was wrinkled and stained from the road, its frayed edges hanging awkwardly against her hips. Her nails were filthy, still caked with the remnants of farm work. Her boots, splattered with mud, had left a trail of brown smudges across the pristine white floor.

The girls around her were whispering now, their voices low but sharp enough to pierce through her spinning thoughts.

"Who is she?"

"Did she come from the stables?"

"Look at the floor!"

Q's hands trembled as she clenched the fabric of her skirt, her eyes darting around the room. Every face she saw was painted and perfect, framed by curls and jewels and silk. She didn't belong here. She shouldn't have come.

She looked back at Maddy, her heart aching for some sign of comfort, some flicker of the friend she knew. But Maddy didn't meet her gaze. She stood stiff and motionless, her face pale, her lips pressed into a thin line.

And then Maddy sighed.

It wasn't loud, barely more than a breath, but it was enough to shatter the last bit of strength Q had left.

Q bit her lip hard to keep from sobbing, her chest heaving as she turned and bolted toward the door. She didn't know where she was going, she just needed to get away. Q ran, her boots slipping slightly on the polished floor as tears streamed down her face. She didn't care how loud she was anymore, didn't care about the mess she was leaving behind.

All she wanted was to disappear.

Behind her, she could hear Professor Ligarius' voice. "I apologize for the interruption. Please, continue your lesson."

Q stumbled into the hallway, her breath hitching as she tried to hold back the sobs that threatened to escape. The walls around her blurred as her tears filled her vision, and she pressed a hand against her chest, trying to steady the painful thudding of her heart.

Why had she come here? Why had she thought this would work?

She hadn't belonged at the farm, but she didn't belong here either.

Her legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, clutching her knees to her chest. Her sobs were muffled against her arms, but they echoed faintly in the empty corridor.

"Miss Q."

The voice was calm and measured, but it startled her nonetheless. She looked up to see Ligarius standing a few feet away, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Professor Ligarius sighed, stepping closer. He crouched down so he was at her level, his expression unusually soft. 

"Running is rarely the solution."

Q sniffled, wiping her face with her sleeve. 

"You don't understand," she muttered. "I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere."

"Don't you?" Professor Ligarius asked, tilting his head. "You made it this far, didn't you?"

Q opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. Instead, a fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks.

Professor Ligarius didn't scold her or offer empty reassurances. He simply waited, his sharp gaze fixed on her as though he were studying her very soul.

The tears came slower now, her chest no longer heaving with sobs but hitching occasionally as she sniffled. Q kept her gaze down, her fingers absently tugging at the frayed laces of her boots. Professor Ligarius was still crouching a few feet away, his posture relaxed but upright, his hands folded neatly in front of him. The silence stretched between them, but he made no move to leave or rush her.

Q stole a glance at him through her damp lashes. His wide-brimmed hat cast a faint shadow over his face, softening the sharpness of his features. Despite his composed demeanor, there was an air of patience about him that surprised her. He didn't look annoyed, or frustrated, or eager to leave. 

He simply waited, calm and steady, like an old tree rooted deeply in the earth.

Q wasn't used to that. People either scolded her or ignored her tears entirely. 

But Professor Ligarius stayed.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered if this was what it felt like to have a grandfather. She didn't have one, of course—not one she remembered, anyway—but something about Professor Ligarius's quiet presence felt… safe.

She sniffled again, her fingers twisting the laces into knots. 

"Sorry."

"There's no need for that."

Q hiccupped, her cheeks burning. She didn't know why she felt so embarrassed. Normally, she didn't care what people thought of her. But here, in front of Professor Ligarius, she felt raw and exposed, as though crying had peeled away the layers she used to protect herself.

After a moment, she spoke again, her voice soft and hesitant. "My name… it's Queenie."

Professor Ligarius tilted his head, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. "Queenie?"

Q nodded, her fingers tightening around her laces. 

"Yeah. Queenie Weston." She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "But I hate it. The name, I mean."

Professor Ligarius raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"It's just… it doesn't fit," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "I'm not a Queen. I'm not anything close to that. I'm just a farm girl who trips over her own feet and spills pig food everywhere. People used to tease me about it all the time, calling me 'Queen of the Pigs' or 'Queenie the Clutz.'" 

Q swallowed hard, her hands balling into fists. 

"Even the people who didn't say it out loud… you could tell they were thinking it." Her shoulders slumped, her gaze fixed on the floor. "So I started telling people to just call me Q. It's easier. It doesn't sound like… like I'm pretending to be something I'm not."

Q braced herself for Professor Ligarius to laugh, or scoff, or tell her that names didn't matter and she should stop being so sensitive.

But he didn't.

"Names are a curious thing," he said after a moment. "They can shape how we see ourselves, or how others see us. But a name, no matter how grand or simple, does not define who you are."

Q blinked, surprised by his response.

"Queenie, Q—it doesn't matter," Professor Ligarius continued, his lips curling into a faint smile. "What matters is who you choose to be. The rest is just words."

Q stared at him, her throat tightening. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting him to say, but it certainly wasn't that.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt like she could trust someone older.