Page 4 of The Thirteenth Count

Her father lifted the regalia, easing the gate open. It creaked shut behind them with a clang, echoing in the silence consuming Ashford Cross. He winced. It was late. They’d missed the timing bells, but Fern wagered it was well into the dead of night. What would the people say if they caught Father, a Keeper, outside at this hour covered in dirt and mud?

As they made their way down the cobbled path, their modest two-story home came into view through overgrown bushes and trees. Black ivy climbed up the brick’s east side, creeping onto the roof’s clay tiles. They swayed restlessly; their sleep interrupted by the lone wardcandle hovering in the sitting room window.

Fern swallowed. “Mother is awake.”

“Unsurprising. She knew where we were headed.” He sighed, scrubbing his face with dirty palms. “And now with The Thirteenth Count upon us…”

Fern’s mother opened the door, standing there with one hand on her hip as she took in the two of them. Grey, anxious eyes roved over their disheveled appearance. Even at this hour, her blonde hair was pinned back neatly, though a few curly wisps escaped suggesting she’d been busy. Her spine was straight, chin lifted, but worry was scratched in thin lines across her pale face.

“Come along now.” She ushered them inside, muted brown frock swishing around her ankles. “Keep to the rugs. Don’t want you to dirty anything.”

“By the Mother,” Fern breathed, looking around her home as the door closed softly behind them. Her father didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at the scene.

Apparently, her mother had been cleaning. Frantically, by the looks of the place. What was normally covered in spools of thread, bundles of yarn, herbs and roots and seeds, and various imbued tools for crafting, was now spotless. Dark oak gleamed in the wardcandle’s light. And there wasn’t even a speck of dust on the black-stained wainscoting that usually housed a fine layer. Even the ancient tapestry hanging above the hearth had been beaten and pressed.

Was she worried we were gone for so long and needed to busy herself?

Before Fern could dwell on it further, a blur of black fur and wings zipped down from the rafters as Sprout sensed their return. The little mosswing circled her head once before settling on her shoulder, his warm purr vibrating against her neck. She reached up, scratching behind his wing where he liked it most. “Miss me?”

Her mother watched this reunion with tired eyes before moving toward the hearth. “You two look awful. Positively awful.”

Fern’s hand stilled on Sprout. Well, we did haul a body across the valley.

Her mother lined up ingredients along the tea table, adjusting each jar and sprig until they sat perfectly aligned, then set a pot to boil on the fire.

“While you’ve been gone, I’ve prepared everything.” She gave her Bonded a sharp nod. “Corvus, it’s time.”

“Time for what…?” Fern’s voice trailed off, eyes growing wide as she took in the high-end herbs.

Without hesitation, he moved to the bookshelf, fingers finding a tiny, rusted key tucked behind the corner of a painted portrait of their family. On the top shelf, the lock on the small wooden box clicked softly as he turned it.

With shaky hands, Corvus reached in and passed her mother a fully intact bloodleaf.

Fern’s gaze darted between her parents. What are they doing with that? Bloodleaf was a Highblood ingredient. Not meant for the likes of them, the Rootfolk. Bloodleaf was nearly impossible to come by, even for a Highblood. But she’d heard once that it could be cultivated using high-level tools and magic-conditioned soil—resources only available to those on the upper tiers. So how did they get it if they’re stuck on the ground tier?

“Be swift,” he said, his hand finding the back of Mira’s neck, giving a gentle squeeze. “Washing tubs ready?”

Her mother nodded, tucking loose blonde strands behind her ear before grinding the leaf with a pestle. “Both. You’re upstairs, Fern down here.”

“Thank you for all you do, my heart,” her father said before leaving Fern alone with her mother, who stood with squared shoulders over the brewing pot.

“Mother…” Fern played with the hem of her shirt. “Where did you two get the bloodleaf?”

“Never you mind.” She waved her off. “The bathing water is nice and hot. You shouldn’t waste it.”

Fern took a half-step toward the washroom, then stopped. She couldn’t bring herself to leave, not when handling something so forbidden. So dangerous. This is wrong.

Her mother dumped the crushed bloodleaf into the pot. It sizzled and sputtered, a puff of black smoke rising from the concoction. Quickly, she sliced her palm with a ritual dagger, letting the blood flow into the runes of the stirring rod before placing it into the pot. Fern wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of soil and spoiled milk.

Then, the Oathblight spread.

With mounting horror, she watched as delicate black vines curled up her mother’s arm with each turn of the wooden rod.

Fern stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. “Mother… this isn’t normal blight.”

It kept spreading. Past the elbow, up the back of her arm, across the shoulder, up the neck.

“Only temporary.” Her mother didn’t stray from her task. “Go wash up before the water gets cold.”