Page 25 of The Thirteenth Count

“Hail,” Fern’s guard said, fumbling for a sheet of parchment which he handed to one of the watchers. “Miss Silverbell is to be staying.”

The Watcher skimmed the document, gaze sliding to Fern. Instinctively, she drew herself in, as if the look alone could press her smaller.

“Let them through,” he called.

From a guard tower, another Watcher sliced his palm and pressed it to a stone plate. The iron bars glowed red before gears clicked and the wrought-iron frame started to move.

Fern wanted to run, but the gates opened all the same.

Blackwell Keep’s imposing double doors towered over Fern, carved from dark wood and smothered in twisting roses—thorns so sharp she nearly feared touching them. At their center, framed by fallen petals, were the words: Power Preserved, Order Maintained.

She committed the phrase to memory. Never forget who they are. Never forget the iron fist they rule with.

The guard approached a hand-shaped receptacle on the left, similar to the one inside the blood carriage. He pressed his palm against it. A hiss answered, followed by the clank of gears and a slow exhale of steam. Fern marveled. She’d never seen anything like it.

The guard stepped back.

Then slowly—so slowly—the doors opened.

“Miss Silverbell,” he said, stepping to the side, extending his hand toward the widening gap. “After you.”

Sprout shifted anxiously on her shoulder, claws tightening against the fabric of her dress. Fern drew a careful breath.

“I know,” she whispered to Sprout, offering him a comforting scratch under his chin.

And then she stepped inside.

The entry hall was on fire.

Floors of black and white checkered marble reflected amber light from dozens of wardcandles that were meticulously affixed to the walls. Black marble columns rose two stories, and between them hung portraits of the Oldblood family; stern-faced with pale hair, cobalt eyes, their gazes sharp enough to gut her. From the second-floor balustrade, trailing ivy spilled downward, reaching for columns and brushing the polished floor. She didn’t have the faintest idea how they grew without soil.

“May I assist you?” a woman called from atop the grand staircase.

Fern looked up. There stood a stern woman wearing an elegant black dress. Her greying red hair was pulled back so tightly it dragged her eyebrows upward. Severe in every possible way.

“Mrs. Cordelia, a pleasure.” The guard bowed at the waist and handed her a scroll of parchment. “I’m to deliver Miss Silverbell.”

Mrs. Cordelia’s pale eyes skimmed the document before lifting to appraise Fern. Then she spotted Sprout and narrowed her gaze. Fern stepped back, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“You may take your leave, Harmen,” she said to the guard who bowed once more before exiting through the open doors. She cleared her throat. “According to this, you are to be staying with us for the foreseeable future.”

She clapped her hands, and not more than a minute later, three servants stood behind her clad in Blackwell blue uniforms. They followed her down the stairs.

“This is an honor—one you should be grateful for.” Her voice cooled. “However…” She flicked her fingers, summoning one of the servants forward. “That creature will need to be dealt with immediately. We cannot have wild animals roaming the Keep.”

“He’s not a wild animal,” Fern spat, feeling her face grow hot. “He’s my familiar.”

“Familiar or not, pets belong in the stables.” Mrs. Cordelia jerked her head toward the servant closing in. “Thomas, get the beast. There is a small cage in the East Wing storage closet.”

“A cage?” Not while I draw breath. Fern moved her hand protectively toward Sprout. “Absolutely not.”

The servants exchanged glances. Mrs. Cordelia’s mouth pursed into a thin line.

“Miss Silverbell,” she seethed, “you may have been elevated, but you are still new to proper society. Familiars are working animals, not pets to be coddled. They belong with the other livestock.”

Sprout hissed, his tiny wings flaring as he sensed the threat. The sound echoed off the marble walls, and the servants took a collective step backward.

“He stays with me,” Fern said firmly, her heart pounding. “I don’t care what your protocols are.”