Page 14 of The Thirteenth Count

“How would you know of their wrongdoing?” Fern asked. Sprout chirped as if in agreement. “You forget yourself, Father—you’re also Rootfolk. Not a Stemblood, certainly not a Highblood. Why would they tell you anything?”

Her mother gasped. “Fern!”

“It’s alright, Mira.” He rested his forearms against his legs, head hanging between them. “They wouldn’t tell me anything, Fern. But their families? They tell me everything. I’m a Keeper. Who would you trust, if not the person closest to the Mother?”

“They get to know and I don’t?” Fern paced again. “But of course they get to know. You’ve both done nothing except keep me shrouded. Your daughter—your only daughter. I have every right to know how Thornvale truly works. Yet here I am, living my life blind.”

“By the Mother, Fern—they only know because they lived it!” Her mother jumped to her feet, breathing heavily, eyes limned with tears. “Being a Keeper’s daughter doesn’t mean you deserve to know their stories. They confide in your father, seek solace. That is one of his roles, amongst his other duties. Blood ties don’t entitle you to their secrets, their sorrows.”

Fern narrowed her eyes. “And being a Keeper’s Bonded does? Funny how that works.”

“To your room,” her mother snapped. “Before you wrinkle that dress with this behavior.”

Hollow laughter slipped past Fern’s lips. “Yes. Concern about the dress instead of telling your daughter anything that apparently regards her. How lovely.”

“Do as your mother says, Fern.”

Fern didn’t spare them another glance before she stormed up the stairs to her room, Sprout following behind her.

“Frustrating,” she mumbled under her breath as the door closed behind her. “This whole situation is frustrating, Sprout.” She hung up her dress before rummaging through her wardrobe to find something new to wear. “I don’t understand why they’re like this. Why not just tell me? I understand their fear, but I do deserve to know, don’t I?”

Sprout mewled softly and pressed his paws over the edge of a drawer, nose buried in the fabric.

“This one?” Fern pulled the thick beige dress free—her mother had sewn it last White Season. “Fine. It’ll do.” She shoved her feet into her worn hide ankle boots and sat on her bed. “What now?”

Sprout curled into himself on her lap as she took in her room—one place that was truly hers. Bundles of drying herbs hung above her vanity, their scent sweetening the air. Across from her stood the old wardrobe that had once been her parents, its carved doors scratched but lovely still.

But the right wall was her favorite. The dark beams framed a panel of pale plaster, softened with age. She’d spent months washing that plaster with color—thin layers of nettle green brushed on again and again until it held a muted, mossy glow. When it finally looked the way she wanted, she painted roses across it in madder and soot, using the coarse rabbit-fur brushes she’d tied to willow twigs. The strokes were uneven, the pigments imperfect, but Fern loved them. It wasn’t Stemblood work. It was hers.

And soon, it wouldn’t be.

Fern swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Would her parents keep her room the way it was now when she left for the second tier? Or would it become another place for storage? She scrubbed a tear away, furious she’d let herself cry. She was still so mad at her parents, but reality was there, staring her in the face: she would be leaving. And the weight of that sadness was more than she wanted to bear.

“I thought this would always be home,” she whispered as she rested her head against her pillow. “Thought my parents would always be near.” Sprout’s fur was soft beneath her palm. “How am I supposed to leave everything behind?”

Muffled voices sounded beneath her. A door opening, more talking, a door closing. Fern sat up and moved the curtain to peer outside. Elise was walking toward the gate.

Fern rushed down the stairs and pivoted toward the sitting room. Her mother was organizing documents. She had no idea where her father had gone off to.

“Why didn’t you tell me Elise was at the door?” Fern asked breathlessly.

“Is now really the time to go wandering off?”

Fern glared at her. “Yes. Now especially, knowing that I may never be able to see her again.”

Her mother waved her away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Fern didn’t deign a response and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” Her mother called after her. “We’ll be having supper soon!”

“Eat without me!”

“Fern!”

A rush of Red Autumn air cut across her as the front door swung shut behind her. Sprout clung to her shoulder as she jogged down the path toward the gate. If I hurry…

“Elise!” Fern called out to her friend whose auburn locks danced in the wind. “Wait for me!”