Page 33 of The Thirteenth Count

Lina’s eyes widened. She glanced at the door. “Then you’ll need to be very, very careful. The walls have ears here, Miss Silverbell. Remember that.”

She adjusted the floral arrangement and moved toward the door. “I’ve laid out a sleeping gown on the bed for you. Try to get some rest.”

After Lina left, Fern changed. The gown was impossibly soft, the fabric sliding against her skin like water. She hated how good it felt.

She climbed into the bed—large enough for three people, with pillows so plush they could have been clouds. Sprout nestled against her shoulder.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the locked door.

I’ll find out what’s behind it. Preferably without dying for it.

The Keep settled around her, creaks and groans working through stone that had stood longer than anyone living in it. Fern stared at the ceiling and listened until the last footsteps in the corridor faded, until the building went completely silent. Even then, her dreams were of home.

The prickle started at the base of Fern’s neck, pulling her up out of a sweet dream she wished she could remember. Someone was in the room. She rolled over, blinking against the grit in her eyes, and the air in her lungs seized.

Cassius Blackwell stood beside her bed, picking imaginary lint from his shoulder.

She jolted upright, a jagged gasp tearing from her throat. “What⁠—”

“You overslept.”

His voice was a splash of cold water. He stood perfectly still, dressed in immaculate black and silver, his hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting a regiment rather than waking a girl his family had kidnapped. Not a hair on his head was out of place, and it looked as though he’d been awake for hours. Meanwhile, Fern felt like she’d been dragged backward through a hedge and left to dry on a tanning rack.

“I…” Fern rubbed her face. “What time is it?”

“The eighth bell tolled about thirty minutes ago.” Cassius pulled something that glinted silver from his pocket. He clicked it open, checked it, then snapped it shut. “Lessons begin at the eighth bell.”

Fern stared at him, the fog of sleep slowly clearing. “I didn’t hear a bell.”

“Hard to hear the bell while you’re drooling.” He regarded her with an expression that wasn’t quite disdain, but it certainly wasn’t patience. It was the look one gave a tool that had rusted. I think he’d like the tool a bit more.

“Here’s a bit of information for you: the Keep’s bells are not for your convenience,” he continued. “They mark the guard changes. Luckily for you, the guard shift changes when lessons start. However, you are expected to manage your own time. If you require a timepiece, one can be provided. But do not expect the world to wake you.” His gaze moved to the door and back. “And a lesson you may have for free: your door was unbolted. I walked in. The next person who does may not be a tutor.” He turned on his heel and added, “Five minutes. Dress and present yourself in the sitting room. If you’re late, you forfeit your morning meal.”

The door clicked softly behind him.

Fern sat there for a heartbeat, her hands gripping the silk sheets until her knuckles turned grey. Manage your own time. She scoffed. As if she hadn’t spent her entire life waking before all of Ashford Cross could even say ‘fatback bacon’ to tend a garden that helped put food on the table. As if she were some lazy Highblood who slept till midday because the wine and company were too good the night before.

She threw off the covers, startling Sprout. The mosswing let out a disgruntled squeak and fluttered to the top of the headboard.

“Sorry, little love,” Fern muttered, feet hitting the cold stone. “Five minutes. He’s serious. He’s actually serious. What a twit.”

She tore open the wardrobe. Rows of dresses stared back at her—silks, velvets, stiff brocades in shades of blue and silver and emerald and sapphire; garments that belonged to a stranger. Or a doll. A very fancy doll. She grabbed the simplest one, a grey wool that looked stifling but serviceable. She cursed under her breath as her fingers fumbled with the buttons.

Why were there so many buttons? And why were they so small? Fern ground out a snarl. It’s like the dress itself doesn’t want to be worn!

She didn’t dare look in the looking glass, twisting her riotous curls into a braid she was sure was more frizz than plait, splashed shockingly cold water on her face from the basin, and practically ran into the sitting room.

Cassius was standing by the window, calm, poised, perfect, staring into the crimson fog beyond the glass.

“Four minutes and forty-two seconds,” he said, still looking out the window. “I suppose that’ll do.”

Finally, he turned. His blue eyes swept over her, taking in the grey wool, the messy braid, the flushed cheeks. He paused at her hair, his gaze lingering on a loose curl that had already escaped.

He said nothing. Why would he? She knew what she looked like, how a Highblood would see her.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the small round table near the hearth where the fire had burned low.