Page 17 of The Thirteenth Count

The white smoke.

The crowd’s terror.

Her parents’ silence.

Elise’s whispered warnings in the thicket.

A cold knot formed beneath her ribs. What does it mean?

Sprout yawned in protest as Fern rolled onto her back. He climbed up and settled on her stomach, where she absently combed her fingers through his soft fur.

The house was unusually quiet. On any other morning, there would be laughter and the familiar clatter of dishes as her parents readied for the day—sounds she’d never realized she cherished until that moment. But today was anything but ordinary.

Only hushed voices carried through the walls, taut and trembling with tension.

Fern’s pulse fluttered. Her parents hadn’t slept any better than she had; she could feel it in the air, thick and waiting. The draught hadn’t worked. They knew it. She knew it. All of Ashford Cross knew it. And by now, half of Thornvale would too. Whatever faint hope they’d carried into the Count had shattered the moment the smoke turned white.

She sighed and scratched Sprout’s head. “Ready for breakfast, little love?”

He popped one eye open and promptly shut it, lifting his chin in the air.

Laughter bubbled up from her chest. Such a sassy little thing. “Come now. How about some elderberries?”

The mosswing’s eyes snapped open, his tufted ears perking high.

“A treat for the sweetest little mosswing. What do you say?”

He took flight at once, circling above her before nudging her elbow, not-so-subtly urging her from the bed.

She grinned. “That’s what I thought. Let me get dressed, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

As soon as Fern opened the door to let him out, he bolted down the hall, wings fluttering with excitement.

She changed into a simple white dress and headed down.

As she rounded the corner to the kitchen, her mother and father were bent close together, whispering in tight, urgent tones. Sprout was already on his perch, gobbling his berries as if he had never eaten a day in his life.

When her parents finally heard her footsteps, they tried to compose themselves, but the worry lines around their eyes gave them away. Fear tightened their features. Her father’s usually neat copper hair was rumpled and thinning at the crown, his hazel eyes bloodshot. Her mother looked just as shaken—her pale blonde braid half-fallen, grey eyes swollen from crying.

I hate this.

“Morning,” Fern said flatly.

Her mother slid a plate toward her—bread, butter, sliced apples. Her hands trembled. “Kettle’s almost ready.”

“Do we have any honey cakes?” Fern asked. Her voice wavered. “I… could use something sweet.”

Her father’s throat bobbed. “Yes. We—of course. We’ll bring some out.”

“I’ll see what I can find.” Her mother moved toward the cupboard, but her motions were too careful, as if each gesture risked shattering.

“Please,” Fern murmured, “if this is too much⁠—”

“Nonsense,” her father cut in. “We deserve something sweet today.”

“Your father is right.” She gave Fern two cakes and placed the rest on the table. “I should have considered it might have been nice to have them today.”

“Hear, hear,” her father chimed in, but his heart wasn’t in it.