Page 36 of The Thirteenth Count

Fern scowled and went back to her book.

When the midday bell finally tolled deep in the Keep’s belly, shaking the floorboards, Cassius closed his book with a snap.

“Time. We will pause for the midday meal.”

Fern slumped in her chair, rubbing her aching temples. “Did I… was that okay?”

Cassius stood, gathering his things. “You read for three hours without setting anything on fire. It was adequate.”

He looked at her notes—the scribbled questions, the angry doodles in the margins.

“Your handwriting is atrocious,” he said. “We will add penmanship to your etiquette lessons.”

“My handwriting gets the job done,” Fern snapped, defensive. “Not everything has to be pretty.”

“In this court,” Cassius said, meeting her eyes before letting his gaze drift to her hair, “everything must be pretty. Especially the things that are dangerous.”

He turned and walked away. “Go to your room. Your meal will be brought to you. Be ready at the second bell.”

Fern sat in the silence he left behind. Adequate. Atrocious. Dangerous.

She looked at her hand, where the ink had stained her fingers, mingling with her blight. She rubbed at it, but it didn’t smear. It just sat there, dark and permanent.

The silence of Blackwell Keep wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t the quiet of a forest or the hush of a snow-covered field. It was heavy, a physical thing, like water pressing against the eardrums at the bottom of a deep lake. Three days in the Keep had taught Fern that much. Silence was the rule; noise was the exception. And Lord Blackwell built that silence stone by stone.

He sat across from her in the library, the sprawling oak table between them covered in scrolls of parchment and leather-bound tomes that smelled of vinegar, dust, and time. The perpetual dusk beyond the high windows remained unchanged, but the wardcandles lining the pillars had dimmed, marking the end of their midday session.

“Again,” Lord Blackwell said. He didn’t look up from his own reading. His quill scratched against the parchment—scritch, scritch, pause—a rhythm she now lived by.

Fern gritted her teeth, staring at the open book before her. The text swam in front of her tired eyes. “The fundamental axiom of Sanguine Mechanics states that output variance is inversely proportional to the stability of the practitioner’s emotional core.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning… meaning if I get angry, I blow things up.”

The scratching stopped. Lord Blackwell slowly lowered his quill. He looked up, bored disappointment marring his otherwise flawless features. “If you refer to the volatile discharge of force as ‘blowing things up’ in front of the High, you will find yourself scrubbing the scullery floors before the first course is served. Try again. Precision, Miss Silverbell. This is the most important law of Sanguine Mechanics and it has taken three days for you to reach this point. Embarrassing, really.”

Fern gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles were ashen. “It means,” she corrected, forcing her voice to remain steady, “that without emotional regulation, the channels of magic widen uncontrollably, resulting in a loss of focus and an increase in destructiveness. Like… like water bursting through a channel.”

“Acceptable analogy. And the House of Sterling?”

“What does that have to do with Sanguine Mechanics?”

“Everything connects,” he said coldly, returning to his writing. “The House of Sterling holds dominion over the river trade routes of the Silverflow. Their focus is water. Their magic requires fluidity, adaptability. If a Sterling loses his temper, he summons a flood and drowns his own barge. Control is not just a theory; it is a survival strategy. Now, their sigil?”

“The Silver Serpent.”

“And their allegiance?”

Fern glanced at her notes. “Nominally to the High, but historically independent due to their control of the southern locks.”

“Acceptable.” He finally raised his eyes, cobalt and giving nothing away. “But you hesitated on the sigil. Hesitation implies uncertainty. In the court, uncertainty is a weakness that will be exploited before you can draw your next breath.”

Fern slammed the book shut, making dust motes dance in the gloom. “I don’t care about the Silver Serpent. I don’t care about trade routes or output variance. I don’t care about any of this!”

Lord Blackwell slowly closed his own book. “You are not here to care, Miss Silverbell. You are here to learn.”

“I have learned,” she snapped, the frustration of the last few days boiling over. The lessons were endless, the isolation absolute. She had seen no one but him and Lina, who brought her meals and turned down her bed. “I have memorized your lineages. I have practiced your etiquette until my back aches. I have recited your theories until my throat is raw. Now I want something in return.”