Page 19 of The Thirteenth Count

Mrs. Tanner glanced up and down the lane, then lowered her voice. “One season they were here. Next season… gone. No trials. No notices. Folks just stopped saying their name.” She wet her lips. “Some say the Blackwells had a hand in it. Some say worse. But talk like that doesn’t end well for Rootfolk.”

She squeezed Fern’s fingers. “I don’t know the details—wasn’t something decent folk spoke of, if you catch my meaning. But I do know this: being special in Thornvale is dangerous, child. Especially when it makes the powerful feel uneasy.” She took a step back. “Give my regards to your parents. And be careful, dear.” Her wrinkled face held both pride and worry. “Not every elevation ends well.”

Fern watched Mrs. Tanner hobble away, her mind spinning with fragments of stories and muttered warnings about “old blood.” Did any of it actually mean something, or were they just the ramblings of frightened, hopeful people?

She turned back to her work, but the relatively peaceful morning was gone. Seven more people stopped to congratulate her, and that was all she could take. She gathered her things and stomped back to her home.

She burst through the door, Sprout fluttering anxiously behind her. “Mother, I’m sorry, but this is all I could gather,” she said, placing the basket only half full of phloem on the table with more force than necessary. “They won’t stop congratulating me. And Mother… the staring. If they stared any harder, I might go up in flames!”

Her mother nodded. “It’s awful. We had to close the curtains! But it’s almost time for the service, so never mind them. Why don’t you go put on something nice and I’ll do your hair.”

“Of course. I’ll be down soon.”

Fern chose her sage green dress with golden floral embellishments. It was her father’s favorite, said it complemented her skin tone. Mother will be pleased, too. Her parents hated it when she didn’t dress the part, the part of a Keeper’s daughter. And with tensions so high, this was the least she could do.

Fern found her parents in the sitting room. Her mother was darning socks while her father still pored over his notes.

“Well, what do you think?” Fern curtsied—poorly. “Is this good enough?”

“I was hoping you’d choose that one. You’re lovely.” Her mother rummaged through a box of hairpins, holding up a gold leaf with one solitary emerald resting on the stem. “This one is perfect.”

Fern sat patiently while her mother fussed with her hair. She twisted curls into place, tucked strands behind her ear, and made sure no flyaways could be seen. At least ten minutes passed, and her mother still wasn’t done. The attention to detail is unnerving.

“Mother, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” She helped Fern up from her seat. “It’s time we headed to the Grove. Your father will want you to help him prepare.”

The Grove was more crowded than Fern had ever seen it. People who hadn’t attended a service in years had suddenly found their faith. Some Rootfolk approached her with nervous congratulations. Others avoided eye contact entirely as she made her way to the center of the Grove to help her father.

By the time she made it to the ceremonial platform, he had already lit the brazier above and was shuffling his notes on the stone lectern.

“Would you mind arranging the herbs?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Meticulously, she organized thistle, juniper berries, rosemary, and sage around the base of the brazier. She tried emulating her father, whom she had seen do this exact thing a hundred times before.

As she finished, the congregation began settling onto the birch benches with their twisted branch backs. They chattered away excitedly, almost as if they expected today’s service to be some momentous experience. She grimaced, crushing a sprig of rosemary. Damn The Thirteenth Count. Damn it all.

“It’s time, Fern.” Her father placed a hand on her back, his palm slightly damp with nervousness. “Go take your seat with your mother.”

The walk to the front bench where her mother waited was draining. Dozens of eyes tracked her movements, followed by another slew of hushed whispers.

Please make it stop.

Her father took his place in front of the lectern, nodding to a few people before wiping sweat from his brow. He took a deep breath and began.

“The Mother teaches us that change comes like the seasons—sometimes gently, sometimes with great force.” His voice shook, making Fern’s heart ache. “Today… today we speak of accepting what we cannot control.”

Not once, but twice, her mother glanced at her before taking Fern’s hand.

Fern tried to focus on her father’s words, but she could feel everyone’s gaze in the Grove. Her jaw clenched.

Her father continued, his voice growing steadier. “Every soul has value in the Mother’s eyes. The Rootfolk who tend the earth, even those who have lost their way—all are her children.”

He’s talking about the Deadwood again.

Fern remembered their midnight burial, how her father had insisted on dignity for the forgotten. Now she wondered if he was trying to tell her something more.