Page 30 of The Thirteenth Count

“Are you… hungry?” Lina asked. “By the Mother. Of course you are. The tenth bell has already tolled.” She turned Fern around by the shoulders and steered her back into the sitting room. “Do you remember where the kitchens are? I’ll tidy up in here, but you must eat. I’ll not have you dying of starvation on my time.”

Fern swayed. Wine on an empty stomach was making her vision swim. She glanced at Sprout, who had taken up residence on the mantel.

“Don’t worry about…” Lina scratched the familiar’s chin. “What’s his name?”

“Sprout.”

“Ah! Adorable.” Lina grinned. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll look after the little man.”

“I don’t know…”

Sprout chirped and nuzzled into Lina’s palm.

“I promise it’ll be fine,” Lina said. “Now really, you must go get some food. It’s late, anyway. It’ll be mostly empty down there.” She turned fully to face Fern. “Remember though, don’t go farther into the East Wing.” She dropped her gaze. “It’s heavily guarded, and they are not nice.”

Fern’s stomach grumbled again.

Don’t go farther into the East Wing.

She nodded. “I’ll eat if I must.”

Sprout lifted his head as she crossed the room. “I won’t be long,” Fern said, more to him than to Lina.

Then she slipped out of the blue suite and into the hall, the door closing softly behind her.

It didn’t take long to reach the entry hall, but she lingered there, the door built into the staircase catching her eye. Her fingers itched to find out where it went. A few servants passed, casting wary glances. Another time.

Outside the kitchens, Fern tapped her fingers against her thigh. She’d already made it this far; why was it so difficult to step inside? Cassius Blackwell had made it abundantly clear where she could and couldn’t go. The kitchens and the dining room were permitted. And the library, at least.

The door opened and a man in a neatly pressed servant’s uniform stepped out holding a plate of food. He stopped mid-step, brown hair slipping loose over his shoulder, and looked at Fern with curious green eyes.

“Are you new?” he asked, taking in her attire. “Must be. We haven’t met yet.” He held out his free hand. “Willem. Pleasure to meet you…”

“Fern.” She shook his hand, his palm surprisingly soft. “Could you… could you help me? Show me what to do?”

Willem grinned, faint lines creasing his eyes. “I’d be glad to.” He held open the door and stepped aside. “After you.”

Fern eased past him, glancing back once as she crossed the threshold. I should have brought a knife. She nearly snorted at herself. As if that would help.

The kitchen staff didn’t so much as glance at her. There were at least six people bustling around, cleaning dishes, wiping down workstations, prepping ingredients. Herbs hung to dry on the wall; they reminded her of home. A home that felt very far away. A large rectangular table stood in the center of the room, holding an impressive amount of food. Cutlery sat at one end with clean dishes on a shelf beneath.

“Don’t just stand there,” a gruff man said as he set down a new bowl of sweetcorn and wiped his hands on his heavily stained apron. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to stare?”

“Come now, Silas,” Willem said as he added a scoop of beans to his already full plate. “That’s no way to treat a lady. Besides, she’s new.”

Silas shrugged his meaty shoulders. “What do I care? They’re here until they’re not. That’s the way of it.” He shoved a bowl into a small woman’s hands. “Like Sasha here. You’ve been here since when, Green Spring?”

Fern looked down at her sage dress. Simple, next to what the Highbloods wore, but still quite beautiful. She didn’t think she looked like the help. Though being the help may be the better position.

Sasha cradled the bowl, head dipped. “Yes.” Silas narrowed his eyes, and Sasha added, “Sir.”

“Come on, girl. Get your food,” Silas said.

Fern said nothing and quickly added a little bit of everything to her plate.

“Ever think it’s because of how you treat them?” Willem asked, watching Sasha scurry back to her station. “You could stand to be a bit nicer.”

“I don’t make the rules.” Silas thrust a wooden spoon at Willem. “You know High Blackwell wants it to be so.”