Page 13 of The Thirteenth Count

It was wrong.

Fern turned to Cassius, who looked just as shaken. Their eyes met across a wash of white-blue light; his breath hitched, and then he frowned—concern? She couldn’t tell.

High Blackwell pushed past Fern and Cassius, facing the crowd. “SILENCE!” he bellowed, and the crowd shrank back, mute. “In light of our most recent elevation, it appears we’ve forgotten ourselves.” He motioned to the guards whose runic swords now gleamed at the ready. “Laws exist for a reason. Should they be broken, I will not hesitate to exact swift and proper judgment.”

Cassius flinched, moving toward the crowd as if to intervene before stopping himself.

High Blackwell’s hand landed on Fern’s shoulder—heavy, possessive. She stiffened. “What’s your name, dear?”

“I—” Fern turned toward him, still reeling.

“Your name?”

“Fern Grovekeeper,” her father answered from behind her.

“Right then.” High Blackwell clasped his hands behind his back and stood as straight as a rod. “Ms. Grovekeeper… I suggest you return home quickly. We’ll be in touch.”

They didn’t walk home—they ran.

Rootfolk old and young crowded them, demanding Fern’s attention. Everyone wanted to know what the white smoke meant, how it felt to stand before it. Some whispered that she’d been touched by the Mother herself. Fern doubted it—but she couldn’t be certain. She was as lost as they were.

By the time they closed the front door behind them, Fern’s lungs burned.

The cushioned bench sighed as her parents sat. Her mother picked stray threads on her veil while her father caught his breath. Fern couldn’t stay still. Sprout zipped down the stairs and perched on the volute, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Fern paced around the low table, heat building in her chest. Neither of her parents said a word.

“Well?” she asked finally. “Are one of you going to tell me what the white smoke means?”

Silence.

“I’ve never known either one of you to be rude. But ignoring me now?” Her voice cracked with disbelief.

Her father cleared his throat. “We couldn’t possibly⁠—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” Fern snapped. “You couldn’t know? Truly?” She scoffed. “Please, you knew enough to force me to drink some Highblood brew. All to hide who I am. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know what’s happening.”

“That’s no way to speak to your father,” her mother chided. “I assure you, neither one of us knows why the smoke was white. Perhaps it was some defect within the thurible that caused it.”

“You know what Mother? I don’t believe you.”

Her mother rose then, something simmering within her grey eyes. “Well, you should.” Her fists clenched at her sides. “Your father and I are far from perfect, but how would it be helpful to lie to you now when you already know about your blood? Fern, we’ve never seen smoke like that, and we’ve participated in four Counts.”

“Right, of course.” Fern inched closer to her mother. “I’m sure you also know nothing about what people are whispering about.”

“Of course we don’t, Fern.”

“Liar!”

“Fern!” Her father hissed. “There are certain things that bring attention. People have been put to the gallows for less.”

Fern froze. The gallows? Hangings came once or twice a season—usually for crimes against Stembloods or Highbloods. She hated them. But Keepers and their families were required to witness every sentence carried out.

“Father, I’ve seen many of our own die to the rope and every time their crimes are read. The things being whispered of now are never mentioned.”

“Stop talking about it!” Her mother gripped the armrest.

Her father ran a hand down his face. “Your mother is right. There are offenses so forbidden that even speaking them aloud is punishable. That is the Highblood way.”