Page 41 of The Thirteenth Count

“It is reality,” Cassius said. He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers. “And if you want to survive here—if you want to protect anyone—you need to understand the math. You are currently a deficit, Miss Silverbell. You consume food, heat, protection. You consume my time. And your output is zero.”

“I didn’t ask to be here!”

“The ledger does not care what you asked for,” he hissed. “It cares about the balance. And right now, you are an expensive pet. And my father… my father does not keep pets.”

Fern recoiled. “Is that what I am to you? A pet?”

“You are a variable,” Cassius said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “An anomaly. And anomalies are either integrated into the system, or they are purged.”

He slid a stack of parchment toward her. “Copy the Sterling accounts. Calculate the variance. Prove that you can be useful. Because if you cannot master simple math, you will never master the magic that requires it.”

“And if I refuse?” Fern challenged, her chin lifting.

Cassius looked at her. Really looked at her. And for the first time, she saw the fear behind the ice.

“Then you become an entry in the other column,” he said. “The fuel.”

Fern wrote until her hand cramped.

Outside, the gloom simply deepened, the grey light fading into true black as the valley’s long night settled in. The only light in the library came from the flickering wardcandles and the dying embers of the hearth.

Sterling, A.—12 drams.

Sterling, A.—14 drams.

Sterling, A.—8 drams.

Numbers. Just numbers. But every time she wrote one, she saw a face. A neighbor from Ashford Cross. The baker who gave her extra rolls. The old woman who knit scarves.

One dram. Two drams. A phial. A cup.

She felt sick.

The library door creaked open.

“You’re still here.”

It was Willem. He carried a small tray with a covered plate and a fresh pot of tea.

Fern dropped her quill. Her fingers were stained black with ink. “I’m not finished. I have to find the variance.”

Willem set the tray down on the table, pushing aside a stack of dusty tomes. “The variance can wait. Starvation, however, is a pressing matter.”

He lifted the cover. Roast chicken, potatoes, and a single, perfect apple.

“Did you steal this?” Fern asked, eyeing the apple.

“Liberated it,” Willem corrected with a wink. “The kitchen staff was distracted by Silas yelling about a missing ladle. I saw an opportunity.”

He sat on the edge of the table, swinging his leg. “How was the lesson? You look… grim.”

“Grim doesn’t cover it,” Fern muttered. She picked up the apple, turning it over in her hand. “Did you know? About the… the cost?”

Willem’s smile faded. “The blood? Yes. We all know, Fern. It’s not exactly a secret in the servants’ quarters.”

“But they use it for… for nothing,” Fern said, gesturing at the ledger. “For vanity. For parties. For lights.”

“They use it because it’s theirs,” Willem said simply. “Or so they believe.”