Page 43 of The Thirteenth Count

He stood by the window, not looking at her, watching the courtyard below with his hands clasped behind his back.

Fern glared at the small pile of silver dust on the table. Her task was supposedly simple. All she had to do was lift the dust, form a sphere, hold it.

It sounded easy, but it was agonizing.

Fern pricked her thumb with the lancet. A warm bead of blood slowly pooled. On the table, the resonance crystal hummed as her pulse spiked. She focused, pushing her will into the droplet which fell onto dust. It shivered. Then, it rose, swirling into a chaotic cloud.

“Control, Miss Silverbell,” Cassius said, still not looking. “You’re forcing it. You’re trying to grab the dust. Don’t grab. Invite.”

“I am inviting it,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s declining the invitation.”

Cassius turned then. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Fern thought she was seeing things, but no, it was really there. “Then be a better host. The dust responds to intent, not demand. You are shouting when you should be whispering.”

He approached the table like Sprout stalking a ripe berry beneath the cupboard. Fern frowned. Today, he didn’t look like her keeper. Today, he looked… tired. Dark circles smudged the skin beneath his cobalt eyes. He looked about as rested as she felt.

“Watch,” he said, pressing his thumb to the Blackwell family ring on his forefinger. A small bead of blood welled against pale skin.

He raised a hand and the silver dust calmed instantly. It coalesced, swirling not into Fern’s jagged cloud, but a clean, rotating ring. Then another inside it. Then a third. A nested ring of silver light, spinning in perfect silence.

“It isn’t about strength,” he said softly. “It is about convincing the valley that this shape is the only one that makes sense.”

Fern watched the spinning rings, mesmerized. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s mechanics,” he corrected, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He let the dust settle. “Try again. Whisper.”

Fern took a breath and closed her eyes. She didn’t think about grabbing the dust. She thought about the roots of the trees in the Grove. How they didn’t force their way through the ground but found spaces in between.

Rise, she thought.

When she opened her eyes, she found the dust floating. Nothing nebulous, more like a soft, undulating wave. It wasn’t as neat as Cassius’ rings, but it was controlled. And even more important, it was hers.

“Better,” Cassius said. He leaned against the table, close enough that she could smell his soap. “Much better. You have a natural affinity for⁠—”

The library doors slammed open. Fern flinched as the sound punched the air from her lungs.

Her silver wave collapsed instantly, scattering across the table. Cassius straightened, his face reverting to stone.

High Blackwell stood in the doorway.

He wasn’t alone—two guards flanked him but remained at the door. He entered, his boots clicking on the parquet floor.

“Father,” Cassius said. His bow was shallow, but respectful.

Fern scrambled to her feet, dropping into the curtsy she’d practiced until her knees ached. “High Blackwell.”

High Blackwell ignored her. He walked to the table, running a gloved finger through the scattered silver dust.

“Progress report,” he said without looking at his son. Instead, he focused on the dust.

“Miss Silverbell is advancing ahead of schedule,” Cassius said. The fatigue and subtle warmth in his voice were gone. “Her grasp of theory is rudimentary, but her practical application constitutes a… unique potential.”

“Unique.” High Blackwell turned the word over like a crown he suspected was counterfeit. He finally looked at Fern. His eyes were the same blue as Cassius’, but where Cassius’ were ice, his father’s were the unending void.

“Show me,” High Blackwell commanded.

Fern’s pulse pounded against her eardrums. “Show you… what, High Blackwell?”

“Power,” he said softly. “I am told you are an anomaly. A flaw in the design. Show me why I shouldn’t simply have you scrubbed from the history books.”