Page 18 of The Thirteenth Count

Fern shook her head, taking a bite that tasted like ash. “Why are we pretending like yesterday didn’t happen?”

The kettle’s rising whistle drowned the silence that followed. Her mother worried an apple slice to pieces while her father went for the kettle. Fern scooped tea into her cup and waited.

“Well?” Fern pressed, watching her father’s hands shake as he poured. He set the kettle down too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim.

Her throat tightened. She’d danced around it long enough.

“Just tell me,” Fern whispered. “Is today the day they come for me?”

Her mother’s breath hitched. Her father finally looked at her, really looked at her, eyes red-rimmed and hollow.

“We don’t know when,” he said quietly. “Only that… they will.” His gaze drifted to the window, to the unseen tiers above. “After what happened at the Count, High Blackwell won’t delay.”

Fern had figured as much and was surprised they hadn’t taken her yesterday, right after the Count.

Sprout left his perch and curled protectively in Fern’s lap. She scratched the back of his neck.

Fern swallowed. They’re terrified.

No one spoke. The stagnant air was broken only by the clink of her father’s spoon against his cup. Finally, her mother stood, pushing in her chair a little too forcefully. Her rough, garden-worn hands twisted in the fabric of her apron, making the blonde wisps around her face tremble.

“There’s quite a bit to do today,” she said, voice too brisk. “Herbs need tending; we could gather birch phloem for parchment—we’re running low. Socks need darning. I could use your help, Fern.”

Fern laughed once, hollow. “Right. We’ll keep busy and pretend my blood didn’t turn the whole square upside down.” She downed her tea and got up from the table. “Suddenly I’m not so hungry.”

Before exiting the kitchen, she looked over her shoulder at her mother. “I’ll gather things for the garden. Don’t worry. I know what to do.”

When Fern returned from the shed with her supplies, she found her father slumped over service notes. She tied a gardening apron around her waist, craning her neck to see what he was doing. He flipped through page after page, scribbling here and there with furrowed brows. He’s given this service a million times. Why is he concentrating so hard?

Fern sighed and gathered her tools. Whatever was troubling her parents, they clearly wouldn’t share it with her. At least outside, she could think without feeling their worries bearing down upon her.

The morning air was crisp as she stepped into their small yard, where three birch trees grew near the garden plot. Sprout flitted overhead, chasing Red Autumn leaves that drifted down. She’d barely started working when she noticed the first passerby slow their pace.

Then another.

By the time she’d peeled her first phloem strip, a small cluster of neighbors had found reasons to walk past their modest home. Her grip tightened on the bark knife. I’m nothing more than an attraction to them.

Fern deliberately pricked her finger, trying to ignore their stares. Blood flowed through the carved markings on the handle until it glowed red and Oathblight stained her fingertips. This is worth the price, she thought as she easily peeled back sheets of phloem. Without blood tools, this would take hours of tedious work.

The bark knife’s glow was already fading when Mrs. Tanner called her name from the other side of the wrought iron fence.

“Oh, hi Mrs. Tanner!” Fern brushed her hands on her apron and walked over to the older woman. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Will you be at today’s service?”

Her wrinkled mouth curved into a grin. “After yesterday’s Count, I wouldn’t miss it.” She reached for Fern’s hand, squeezing gently. “I know you’ve heard the whispers…”

“Hard not to.” Fern looked at the ground. “They’re calling it a sign.”

Her parents wouldn’t tell her. Elise only had scraps. If no one would speak plainly, she’d have to force the words out herself.

She sucked in a sharp breath before meeting Mrs. Tanner head on. May as well just ask. “Do you know what they’re talking about?”

“I don’t rightly know, but people love their legends when something unusual happens.” She looked up as if she could see through the red fog. “My grandmother used to say nothing good comes of blood that draws too much attention.”

Elise’s voice flickered through Fern’s mind—something happened before Aurelius, the current High, took over from his father.

“Way back when, there was another founding family,” the old woman murmured. “Strong magic. Too much attention.”

Fern’s blood went cold. “What happened?”