Page 26 of The Thirteenth Count

“Cedric? Contain the creature.”

Cedric rushed toward Fern, grabbing Sprout with wide hands to contain his wings. Sprout screeched, struggling to free himself. Fern lunged for Sprout, but Thomas blocked her.

A voice cracked through the hall like a whip.

“Cordelia.”

Everything froze.

Mrs. Cordelia went rigid. The servants stilled. Even Sprout fell silent.

High Blackwell stood at the top of the staircase. His son, Cassius Blackwell, stood one step behind him, shoulders straight, face carved from stone.

The hall seemed to drop ten degrees.

Mrs. Cordelia turned slowly, color draining from her face.

“High Blackwell,” she whispered.

High Blackwell descended the stairs at an unhurried pace, each footfall soft, controlled. More frightening than any shout.

“Remind me,” he murmured, stopping beside her. “How long you’ve served this household.”

“Th-thirty six years, High Blackwell.”

“A commendable tenure.” His piercing eyes slid toward Fern—assessing, dissecting—before returning to Cordelia. “In that time, has my father ever brought an elevated individual into this Keep? Have I?”

“N-no, High Blackwell.”

“And yet here she stands.” He spread his arms out, gesturing toward Fern. “Which means she is here by my invitation.”

Cordelia trembled. “Yes, High Blackwell.”

“In that case,” he said, “you may consider her afforded certain… allowances.” For one brief moment he looked at Fern; she held her breath. “For now.”

He lifted a single finger toward Cedric. The servant released Sprout instantly, stumbling back. The other two followed, retreating like vermin.

“You are all dismissed,” High Blackwell said to the servants who scrambled toward the door.

Mrs. Cordelia remained frozen in place, her face deathly pale.

“That includes you, Cordelia.” His voice was calm, almost like he was speaking with a small child, which somehow made it worse. “We’ll discuss your… enthusiasm… later.”

She curtsied stiffly and fled with as much dignity as she could manage. Fern almost felt bad for her. Almost.

High Blackwell finally faced Fern.

“Miss Silverbell,” he said, inclining his head just enough to mock the gesture, “welcome to Blackwell Keep.”

“High Blackwell.” Fern attempted to bow as the servants had, only to dip too shallow and nearly lose her balance. “Thank you… for allowing Sprout to stay.”

“I am not known to be a generous man, nor a good one.” He adjusted his cufflink as though the matter bored him. “But considering the circumstances, compromise appears necessary. I trust you will prove worth the—” He glanced at Sprout, “indulgence.”

Fern looked between High Blackwell and Cassius, who now stood beside his father on the marble floor, silent and unreadable. Her muscles itched to move. She didn’t belong here—she belonged down in Ashford Cross, picking flowers, gathering herbs, helping her father with his services. But there was nowhere to run.

“I—uh, about that…” She twisted her hands together, grasping for words. “W-why am I here?”

High Blackwell did not answer. He merely clasped his hands behind his back and regarded her in silence.