Chapter 3

The days after Maddy's departure were an endless blur of dirt, sweat, and silence.

The Carlton estate was no longer a sanctuary for Queenie Weston. 

She had no reason to visit its perfectly manicured gardens, no excuse to linger under the shade of the old willow tree where she and Maddy used to whisper their dreams. The gates stood closed to her now, a quiet reminder that Maddy had stepped into a world where Q couldn't follow.

The farm, once a place where she could laugh and daydream about silly things like rare beetles or the perfect climbing tree, now felt suffocating.

"Queenie!" her mother bellowed, her voice sharp enough to cut through the morning mist. "Stop daydreaming and get the firewood stacked!"

Q winced as the sound carried over the empty fields. The logs she had been hauling slipped from her grasp, tumbling into the dirt with a dull thud. Her thin arms ached from the weight, the muscles straining against work that felt impossible for her slight frame.

Her father's shadow loomed over her a moment later. He didn't say a word—he didn't need to. The disapproval etched into the lines of his face said enough.

"You're slower than molasses, girl," he muttered, shaking his head. "If you can't stack a few logs, what good are you?"

Q bit her lip, swallowing the retort that burned at the back of her throat. Arguing never helped. It only made the punishments worse. She bent down and gathered the logs again, her fingers trembling as she heaved the stack against her chest.

By the time the sun had climbed to its zenith, Q was dripping with sweat, her hands blistered and raw. She dropped the last log onto the pile with a gasp, collapsing onto the nearest patch of grass to catch her breath.

"That's all you've done?"

She glanced up to see an old woman, the baker's wife, standing by the road with a basket of bread under one arm. The older woman peered at her over a pair of small, round spectacles, her expression somewhere between pity and disdain.

"I'm working as fast as I can-"

"You always were a slow one, weren't you? I'm not surprised Miss Carlton left. It was only a matter of time, wasn't it? A girl like her has no business staying friends with the likes of you."

Q lowered her head, hoping the old woman would move along, but she wasn't finished.

"Don't look so pitiful," she said with a cluck of her tongue. "This is how the world works, girl. Madeline Carlton's off to become someone important, and you're still here, doing what you're good for."

With that, the old woman continued on her way, leaving Q alone with her raw hands and a fresh knot of anger and hurt twisting in her chest.

The town's youth were even crueler.

They cornered her by the market that afternoon, where she had gone to fetch feed for the chickens. A group of them, all her age or a little younger, stood between her and the feed sack she had just dragged out of the miller's shop.

"Well, if it isn't Queenie," one of the boys sneered, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with your best friend up at that fancy Princess school?"

"She wouldn't belong there," another chimed in, his voice mockingly high-pitched. "She's too busy rolling in the mud with her pigs!"

Q flushed, gripping the sack tighter. "Leave me alone."

"What's the matter, Your Highness?" a girl in the group taunted. "Upset because you don't have your little Princess here to protect you?"

They closed in, their laughter ringing out like the cawing of crows.

"She's named Queenie," one of the boys said with a grin. "But she's no Queen. She's just a dirty little farm girl."

"More like a pig!"

She hated her name. It felt like a cruel joke, a reminder of what she wasn't and would never be. She hated the way it sounded on the lips of her parents, her neighbors, those awful kids in the village. It didn't feel like hers, never did. She was just Q. Simple. Small. Unassuming. A name that didn't come with expectations or sneers.

Q didn't realize she was crying until the tears dripped off her chin, leaving dark spots on the dirt beneath her feet. She bit her lip hard enough to hurt, willing herself not to sob. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

"Say something, piggy!"

But she didn't. She hoisted the sack of feed over her shoulder and shoved her way past them, her thin arms shaking with the effort. The group's jeers followed her all the way home, sinking into her skin like thorns.

That night, as Q sat in the barn nursing her bruises—emotional and otherwise—she stared at the letters she had written for Maddy. They were crumpled now, the neat folds worn from being opened and closed so many times.

She pulled one out and unfolded it, the ink smudged from her tears.

"Dear Maddy," she read softly, her voice breaking. "You're the only one who doesn't make me feel like I don't belong. You're the only one who—"

She stopped, her throat closing around the words. 

What was the point? Maddy was gone. The letters were pointless.

Her gaze flicked to the stack of papers, then to the small jar of beetles she had collected weeks ago. Everything felt so childish now. So meaningless.

Q grabbed the letter and stuffed it back into the pile, tying the stack shut with shaking hands. Then, she curled up in the corner of the barn, clutching the letters to her chest. The tears came again, quiet and unstoppable, soaking into the paper. She didn't bother wiping them away.

Tomorrow, she would find a way to leave this place. She didn't know how or where she would go, but she couldn't stay here. Not when every corner of the farm whispered Maddy's absence, and every face reminded her of what she wasn't.

Tomorrow, she would figure it out. But tonight, all she could do was cry.