Page 37 of The Thirteenth Count

Lord Blackwell leaned back in his high-backed chair, lacing his fingers together. He looked at her with the detached curiosity of a collector appraising a rare piece. “You’re in no position to make demands.”

“I am a guest, aren’t I? You keep saying I have been ‘elevated.’ Elevated people are allowed to write letters, are they not?” She placed her hands flat on the table to stop them from shaking. She needed this. She needed to know they were real, that she hadn’t just imagined the life she had left behind. “If I can’t see my parents, I want to send a message to them. I want to tell them I’m safe.”

The hairs on Fern’s arms stood on end as Lord Blackwell rose. He walked to the window, looking out at the barren grounds where the red fog clung to the twisted iron gates.

“That is not possible.”

“Why?” Fern demanded, standing as well. She circled the table, forcing him to acknowledge her. “Are there no couriers on the third tier? Is the ink too expensive? I’ll carry it down the mountain myself if I have to!”

“Communication with Ashford Cross has been restricted,” Lord Blackwell said, his voice void of inflection. “By order of the High. The region is currently… unstable. No messages in or out until the readjustment is complete.”

“Unstable? Readjustment?” Her heart constricted. “You said they were safe. You said they were under surveillance.”

“And they are,” he replied. “Silence is part of their protection.” He turned to face her, his silhouette cut sharp against the dimmed wardlight. “As I’ve said before, your focus must remain here. Thoughts of home are a distraction. A liability. You cannot help them, Miss Silverbell. You can only help yourself by mastering what I’m trying to teach you.”

“They are my parents,” she whispered, the coldness of his logic stealing her breath. “You treat them like they’re just… pieces on a board. Like they’re tokens.”

“Everyone is a piece on a board,” he replied, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He took a step toward her, looming. “Even you. Even me. Sentiment is a noose, Miss Silverbell. If you send a letter, you create a trail. You create leverage. If someone were to intercept that letter, they would know exactly where to strike to hurt you. Do you want to paint a target on their backs?”

Fern recoiled. Target. “Who would want to hurt me?”

“I told you,” he said, turning back to the table and flipping his book open again. “Everyone. Dismissed. Dinner is at the seventh bell. Do not be late.”

Fern fled the library before she could scream.

She walked blindly through the corridors, her footsteps echoing on the stone like a heartbeat. She didn’t know where she was going; she just needed to be away from him. Away from the smell of old parchment and the weight of his gaze.

Sentiment is a noose.

She hated him. She hated how cold he was, his refusal to see her as human. But more than that, she hated the terrified flutter in her chest that suggested he might be right.

She quickly turned a corner, then another, then through a door on her left. The polished black marble of the main wing gave way to rough grey stone. The wardlights here were spaced further apart, leaving pools of shadow that stretched across her path.

Voices.

They drifted from around the bend ahead—heavy boots, the clink of mail.

“High’s looking for the leakage in the accounts,” a deep voice grumbled.

“Let him look,” another answered, a low rasp. “As long as he doesn’t look in the cellar.”

Fern pressed herself into a shallow alcove behind a tapestry and froze, the wool rough against her cheek. Stemblood guards. She held her breath, squeezing her eyes shut as they passed. They were so close she could smell the oil on their armor and the sour tang of their sweat.

“Cellar’s full enough as it is,” the first one laughed. It was an ugly sound.

She waited until their footsteps faded before she dared to move. She was lost. She had taken a wrong turn without realizing it.

She stumbled down a narrow staircase, the air growing cooler, smelling of roasted garlic and damp earth. This wasn’t the library wing. This wasn’t the guest quarters.

She found herself in a long, narrow service hallway. A discarded crate sat against one wall. She leaned against it, her legs suddenly turning to pudding, and slid down until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her knees, fighting back the hot sting of tears.

“You’ll catch a chill sitting on the stone like that.”

Fern’s head snapped up.

Willem stood at the end of the hall, a basket of apples resting on his hip. He looked different than he had in the kitchens—wary, his eyes darting to the shadows, his shoulders hunched.

“I don’t care,” Fern muttered, though she wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her hand.