Page 39 of The Thirteenth Count

Click.

Fern drew a steady breath. She may not have slipped into the darkness, but she knew now there was another way through the Keep.

And knowing was enough.

Week one at Blackwell Keep didn’t pass so much as it evaporated, boiled away by Cassius Blackwell and the curriculum he stoked. Fern had thought she knew exhaustion. She had worked harvest seasons that stretched through the endless, unchanging twilight, marked not by a rising sun like the stories told, but by the tolling of the village bells and the sag of spent daylilies. She knew the ache of muscles torn by physical labor, the bone-deep weariness of a body used as a tool.

This was different. This was an exhaustion of the spirit, worse than anything the body alone could suffer.

And it all started with the bell.

The eighth bell. It rang with a punctuality that Fern was beginning to suspect was a deliberate attack on her comfort. The moment she settled into the silken sheets of the massive bed, it rang again, forcing her to rise and face the heir’s schedule.

“Up,” a voice would say. Sometimes it was Lina, gentle but firm, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains. There was no brightening sky to greet them—only the constant, suffocating dusk of the valley, a heavy crimson gloom that pressed against the glass. Sometimes, terrifyingly, it was Cassius himself, already dressed in his severe black coat—never the Blackwell blue his father favored. Has he ever worn his family’s colors? she wondered, rubbing sleep from her eyes. He looked at her as if her very existence in a horizontal state was an affront to efficiency.

Today, it was Lina.

“Porridge with honey and nuts,” Lina announced, setting a tray on the small table by the hearth. “And tea. Strong tea. You’ll need it.”

Fern groaned, burying her face in the pillow. “Tell him I died. Tell him… tell him I succumbed to the vapors. That sounds like something a Highblood would do, right?”

“It does,” Lina agreed cheerfully, moving to the wardrobe. “But Lord Blackwell is immune to tragic excuses. And he mentioned something about ‘The Economy of Fluids’ today, so you’ll want to be awake.”

Fern dragged herself upright. Her hair was a riot of tangles, grit burned in her eyes, and a permanent ink stain marked her middle finger despite every attempt to scrub it away.

“Fluids,” Fern muttered, sliding out of bed and shivering as her feet hit the cold floor. “Of course. Because we haven’t discussed soil and steam enough.”

The Keep was cold, the draft seeping through the stone despite the fires. Outside, the last of the crimson leaves clung stubbornly to the trees in the courtyard, rattling against the glass in the wind. The world beyond was a study in shadows, the trees like skeletal figures lost in the eternal dusk. She dressed quickly, fumbling with the buttons of the grey wool gown Lina had laid out. It was scratchy, stiff, and entirely devoid of joy, but at least it was warm.

“He’s in a mood,” Lina warned as she helped with the back lacings. “High Blackwell summoned him for breakfast. Alone.”

Fern froze. “Is he… is he in trouble?”

“With the High?” Lina tightened the laces, perhaps a bit harder than necessary. “Everyone is always in trouble, Miss Silverbell. It’s just a matter of degree.”

Fern frowned at her reflection. What does that mean? Does manner of trouble differentiate between a slap on the wrist and a knife in the back?

The walk to the library was quiet.

Fern had learned to navigate the corridors, and the layout was simple enough once she stopped letting the atmosphere intimidate her. But the portraits of dead Blackwells still followed her with eyes painted from crushed lapis and judgment. The suits of armor standing sentinel in the alcoves loomed like iron ghosts.

She passed servants who kept their heads down, their movements quick and silent. They were ghosts too. Present but unseen. Essential but unacknowledged.

When she pushed open the heavy oak doors of the library, Cassius was already there.

He stood by the massive fireplace, reading a letter. He looked up as she entered, his eyes sweeping over her—the grey wool dress, the tangled hair—with a cool, unreadable appraisal. Then, he turned back to the flames, crumpled the parchment in his hand, and tossed it into the fire.

“You’re late,” he said.

“The bell just stopped ringing,” Fern countered, moving to her usual seat at the long table.

“To be on time is to be late,” Cassius recited, finally turning to face her. “Sit.”

He looked tired. The lines around his eyes were deeper today, and there was a tension in his jaw that spoke of words swallowed rather than spoken. Fern thought of Lina’s warning. Breakfast with the High.

“Today,” Cassius said, walking over to the table and placing a heavy, leather-bound book in front of her, “we discuss the reality of Blackwell power. Since you seem intent on questioning the morality of it, you should understand the mechanics.”

Fern eyed the book. It was black, stained with age, and smelled of copper and old dust. “I thought the source of your power was intimidation and really well-tailored coats.”